by Zelda French
Hang on. I’ve got to stop him here.
“What people?”
He scoffs. “You really have no idea the effect you have on people, do you?”
I try not to look too disgusted as he takes another large swig of his drink, then decides he’s not sweet enough, and starts pouring extra sugar in it.
“I seem to piss everyone off. Like you. I pissed you off, didn’t I?”
He sighs. “Yes.”
“We used to be friendly, remember? Then Michael arrived.”
“Yes, Michael arrived.” François seems satisfied with his drink now.
He meets my eyes. Here we are, then. Let’s get to the bottom of this.
“I’m sorry Michael likes me better than you, if that can console you.”
François raises a hand to his chest. “You think I’m mad at you because you’re screwing Michael?”
I wish he’d stop saying that. I mean, first, WRONG! Second, none of your business! “So you don’t mind that?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Is is because of the coming out thing then?
“No!” François rolls his eyes to the sky. “You don’t even remember what happened at New Year’s Eve party?”
I shift in my seat. “What did I do this time?”
François’s expression turns to one of astonishment. “You convinced me to change the music, remember?”
“Yes. I gave you a joint.” The memory gives me pause. “And you didn’t hate me then! I clearly remember us talking. You let me change the music.”
A proud smile twitched the corner of my lip. François wipes if off with a withering glare.
“So, you don’t remember us snogging in the bathroom?”
My body turns limp with shock. A bucket of icy water poured over my head would have had less effect.
“We what?”
François grimaces, like the memory is painful to him. “You came into the toilet when I was in there. You said you were sorry. I said it was okay. You asked if I liked the joint. I said I liked you better. You giggled like a schoolgirl. I kissed you. And you let me.”
My throat is suddenly very dry.
“I would have remembered.”
“How so? You were extremely drunk again. You drank shot after shot after shot. I have a great theory why, but that’s not the point. Look, I have my part of shame; I knew you were drunk, I took advantage. But you kissed me back, you kissed me back so well, and...”
There was a compliment in there. What? He said it.
“And?”
“Then you snort in my face and tell me it’s all very well and funny, but you’re not gay at all, and you leave me, you spend the rest of the night all over Lucie while Tony is holding the candle. Fair enough, I decided, I kept my mouth shut, berated myself for kissing you when you were so drunk, making you do something you weren’t into. But for a straight guy, you really seem into kissing boys. And then arrives Michael.”
I know that one. “I stole him from you.”
“You what?” François looks even more astounded. “You are so stupid.” He shakes his head at my outraged expression. “You didn’t steal Michael from me. Michael stole you from me!”
So, apparently earthquakes are not reserved for, as you might have suspected it, Earth, but can also happen within the human body, as demonstrated by the rip I felt upon hearing, well, this.
“I don’t hate you, Louis, I fancy you!” François makes a move for my hand, but stops himself at the last moment. “You told me you’re not gay, but from the moment you met, you two have been circling each other and it’s not fair! I was only waiting for you to remember I was there first!”
I lean back from the table, to take a moment. This is all way to confusing. His attitude toward me… toward Michael?
“But I thought you loved Michael?!”
François drink another swig of sugar and tilts his head. “Look, don’t get me wrong, I like Michael, he’s great. And he’s hot, yes, but he’s not really my type.”
“Not really your type?” I can’t help snorting. “I’m pretty certain even an Australian Wallaby would find Michael to be his type.”
“I prefer blondes,” François says, shrugging. “And Sacha called dibs. Our friendship’s stronger than this, you know.”
“But you were always staring at him.”
“I can stare at someone and it doesn’t mean I want to sleep with them! I barely even look at you and—”
“Right! I get it!”
I stare at François amused expression. I didn’t see this coming. I just didn’t.
“But you’re always so mean to me…”
He shakes his finger in my face. “No. Well, yes, maybe that time at the Shakespeare, when I was trying to make you admit that you were gay, that you remembered kissing me, that I was first. But that didn’t work. I didn’t plan on you having a real case of amnesia.”
“You barred me from Sacha’s party.”
He grimaces. “That one is true. Sacha wanted him for herself. When I saw what was going on between you and Michael, the looks, I... I figured I would keep you separated.”
“It didn’t work.”
“Well,” François says, his fingers tightening around his cup. “When Michael wants something, he gets it, I guess.”
Poor François. And I called him goat-like. Oh, well.
“François…” I wait until he reluctantly meets my gaze. “I’m really sorry. I’d like us to be friends.”
François lets out a dignified sigh. “Don’t worry, I know. You and I, it’s not going to happen. I’ve decided to drop it when I realise I was turning into a proper psychopath, that time I chased you into the toilets.”
Yeah, I can recall.
“You were trying to separate us again, didn’t you?”
“Huh?” He looks at me, surprised. “No, I was panicking! Tony just said you were moving to London. I thought you were moving away together, and I almost confessed I had a crush on you right there. That’s when I realise I had to stop.”
François glances down at his watch, and rises up.
“I must get back to work.”
I get up as well, unsure what to do. Should I hug him? Or pat him awkwardly on the shoulder? Should I just leave?
“Thanks, François.” I jam my hands in my pocket, to be safe. “It feels nice to tell the truth, for once.”
François’s eyes brighten. “It’s funny. You said the exact same thing in the bathroom that time, right before I kissed you.”
My hands shoot out of my pockets and fly to act as shield between François and I.
“Please, don’t kiss me.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod fervently. “I’m in deep enough shit already.”
François laughs.
I can’t believe I’m saying this, but François is kind of nice.
My phone rings again as I walk away from the coffee place. Unknown caller again. Could it possibly be… It wouldn’t be the first time she uses a weird number. I stop a little away from an Irish pub and pick up, half-hoping, half-dreading to hear my mother’s voice.
“Yes?”
The person on the other side hangs up immediately.
God Damn telemarketers, probably. A complete waste of time.
Tony would go on a proper rant, if he knew. I could… I only have to turn around, walk over to his place, tell him what just happened. If he knew François had a crush on me, he would be so entertained.
But of course, I can’t tell him without telling him the rest. I know exactly how he’ll react when he finds out I cheated on Lucie.
“Louis?”
Surprise to hear my name, I turn around, expecting François to have to profess his undying love. It’S not François, however, but Simon, Tony’s brother, accompanied by Gretchen, his tall girlfriend.
“Are you coming to the pub with us?” Simon asks after shaking my hand.
“Us?”
Simon points to the pub. “Tony just
texted us to join him. He said he’s in there with a friend.”
A friend? But I’m his friend. Who else could it be?
A feeling of dread descends at my stomach and twists it in knots. When Simon pushes the door open and reveals Tony and Lucie seated closely together, laughing at something on Tony’s phone, my anguish turns to bitterness, turns to anger.
“Look who I found!” Simon says, pushing me forward.
Lucie and Tony both look up at the same time. Their smile vanish when they see me standing behind Simon, my hands balled into fists.
I have no intention of staying here and wait for explanations. I spin around and tear out of the place, my teeth clamping so hard on my lips that I can taste blood.
Tony’s calls out my name in the middle of the street. I keep moving without a look back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
WHAT ELSE DID I MISS?
MONDAYS SUCK. WHATEVER you do, however hard you try to not think about how they’re about to sneak up on you, they still happen every week, whether you like it or not. For many, it brings the horror of having to get back to a dissatisfying job.
For me, it means having to face Tony and Lucie.
Needless to say, I have a hard time finding the motivation to get out of bed this morning. Tony has sent me a dozen texts, Lucie half of that. All requests to call them back. I have replied to none, and kept myself busy the rest of the weekend. As a result, our essay on Wuthering Heights is done. In an interesting twist, I ended up filling the role Michael was once supposed to fill for me: Write the essay on his own because his assignment partner is a blockhead.
In the kitchen, my father asks me again what I’d like for my birthday. That’s right. I’m still turning eighteen, I’m still crashing head first into a wall and there’s nothing I can do to stop it… I don’t know yet, I tell my dad, and he doesn’t insist.
I have turned and turned the problem in my head, and I can’t see another solution. I can’t have them all, and I must sacrifice one. I’ll talk to Lucie. Today.
My phone rings as I put on my shoes to go to school. The same unknown number again. Cursing under my breath, I stick the phone back into my pocket. It has to be some kind of telemarketer, a poor sod from Bouygues Telecom who wants to know how happy I am with their relentless customer service. Because harassing your clientele is guaranteed to earn you popularity points.
Dragging my feet to school, late as usual, without any hope of encountering Michael, I’m all chocked up. My conversation with François is still fresh in my head. The New Year’s Eve party is getting less and less blurry as well, and as for my decision to get so drunk that I let François kiss me, well, it can all be traced back to that one little moment.
“Rockstars don’t let anybody let them down,” Tony once said to me.
I laughed in his face when he said that, but I knew more than him about being let down.
“And they should respect their mentor!” Tony added, and pretended to strangle me.
What if your mentor is the one letting you down? Tony is full of lessons but he’s as treacherous as most.
“Louis, for heaven’s sake!” Some shrill voice calls behind me. “Are you deaf AND blind?”
Whipping around, wondering who could possibly speak to me in this way, I’m surprised to see François, looking impeccable in his Burberry trench. He clutches my arm for support as he catches his breath.
“I was screaming your name!”
“Didn’t hear you.” I point at my earphones. “I always play music when I’m alone.”
“I saw you from the bus,” he says, wheezing. “I got off and ran after you.”
I look at him, startled. “But why?”
Enlightening conversion around coffee aside, François and I have never been close enough to even walk to the cafeteria together.
He tosses me a look. “You looked miserable.”
“You know, I’m starting to believe it’s just my face.”
That has to be the reason why everybody always says that to me.
I break free when I notice Francois’s still clutching my arm with an iron grip. “I hope you’re not thinking we’re part of some gay club now, and that we have to stick together or some bullshit.”
“How nice of you, Louis.” He gives a forced smile. “I forgot how much of a prick you can be. But I forgive you, because at least you’re not trying to pretend you’re straight anymore.”
That weasel. A grunt is all he gets in response.
François cocks his head. “I don’t get it. You always act like you want to be different than all of us. Now you get to be different. So, be happy!”
“Shut up François!” I hiss. His shrill voice is even louder than the traffic and the wailing child in front of us. “Everyone can hear you.”
“You are so closeted.”
“I’m not.”
I am, it’s quite clear by now. But he doesn’t get to hear that.
“What is it then?”
“It’s simple. I don’t want to be known for being gay.” François tosses me a surprised look. “Don’t look at me like that. You know what I mean. I don’t want to be ‘the gay guy’, I don’t want it to define me.”
“Why should it define you?” François laughs with good humour. “You won’t silly. It just adds to your awesomeness, doesn’t it? Louis, the gay rockstar. Also, Michael is the second best looking guy in the whole school. You could be the hottest couple at Colette’s.”
Very aware of the compliment François just threw my way, I answer with a smile, and he seems satisfied with the results.
So now I’m best friends with François? This year is getting weirder and weirder.
We walk through the front gate together, in front of everyone, in front of Tony himself, whose jaw drops to his shoes.
“Just because of the look on his face,” François whispers in my ear, “I forgive you everything.”
François turns left to join Sacha, Yasmine, and a very stilted Michael, who clearly hasn’t missed my entrance with François. Let him think what he wants. Let him be consumed by jealousy. It will only make our reunion better. I’m already rubbing my hands at the thought.
I wave François good bye and make my way inside the building. Tony bolts after me, an anxious look on his face.
“Lou, wait!”
I slow down, and wait for him. I’m about to break up with Lucie. If there’s any chance for me to have Tony by my side in the aftermath, I’m not going to waste it.
“Lou, listen, I’m sorry, okay?” Tony begins, gesticulating. “I said some thing, you said some things, and—” he turns to look at the Golden Fork and Michael chatting by the gate. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry you came to see me and Lucie was there, she didn’t want to talk to you, and—”
“That’s okay, To—”
He grips me by the shoulders and give me a health shake. “I didn’t know what to do! But you don’t have to hang out with François, okay? You can stay with me. I didn’t mean it when I said I hated you.”
“You said you hated me?”
He screws his eyes shut. “Hum…”
His face looks so dumb that I can’t help laughing. “You think I replaced you with François after a couple of days?”
“Well…”
“The fact that you consider yourself so easily replaced hardly makes you a rockstar.”
Tony watches me through worried eyes, but upon seeing my smile, his whole face relaxes.
“Are we good, then?”
“Sure.” We enter the building, Tony bounding by my side. “Where is Lucie? I need to talk to her.”
Tony’s smile falters. “She’s sick.”
“What’s wrong with her?” She seemed awfully fine on Saturday, at the pub.
“I don’t know. Some kind of flu. She said she won’t be coming today.”
Is she really sick, or just avoiding me? As though he heard my thoughts, Tony adds:
“She was already sick this weekend, you kno
w. She sneezed in Gretchen’s hair. Gretchen freaked out, and we went home after that.”
My break-up with Lucie is inevitable but yet neither of us wants to draw first blood. She doesn’t make it easy. Now what? I can’t possibly go to her place and confess to cheating on her when she’s already feeling down. My friendship with Tony is too wobbly. Any delicate change of the wind could ruin us all.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Same odd number.
“Who’s that?” Tony asks.
“No clue, but they’re insistent.”
“Give it to me!” Tony attempts to pry the phone off my hands, but I’m able to shove it back into my pocket. “Please, Lou, I’ll pretend to be a Jehovah witness, and—”
“No. Let’s leave it.”
“All right, fine.” Tony gives my shoulder an old, familiar squeeze. “So, joint?”
This is the first time in a while that I’ve got Tony all to myself, for a whole week. Lucie is ill, and doesn’t make an appearance. Michael is busy with his father, and there isn’t a single opportunity all week to steal a kiss beneath the neon lights of the toilets.
Tony does not leave my side for a minute. It feels like old times, how we were when we met two and half years ago, and every minute had to be spent around each other. Too happy to ruin it all, I’m perhaps reverting too quickly into our old habits. All the while, my secrets are still nagging me, but Lucie really does have the flu, and doesn’t leave her room.
On Thursday, however, Tony confesses she’s afraid to see me, afraid of talking to me. In my cowardice, I say nothing. As long as no one speaks, our friendship still stands.
On Friday I’m positively shaking with anticipation. Michael’s father is leaving tonight. Will he come straight to me? And what if he does? Will I tell him the thoughts that have been simmering around in my head? Will I tell him the truth?
That I want to kiss him in public, hold his hand, plunge my fingers in the glory of his hair, watch the rising sun reflected in the green of his eyes, feel his breath against mine, his heart against mine, his hips against mine, the weight of his love through the soft pressure of his lips against mine.
I’m like the little girls plucking petals off a daisy, playing ‘he likes me, he likes me not’. Michael’s father is to leave in the afternoon. I might just run over there after class, and confess everything, and I’ll break up with Lucie. I will, I will.