I Want to Kiss You in Public Page 5

  And here’s the really annoying thing. Michael likes everyone. He’s more popular in his first week than I’ve been since I set foot at Colette’s, since I was given a makeover and gifted my infamous sunglasses. The Golden Fork doesn’t let him out of their sight, but teachers and students alike seem to think he’s the coolest guy on earth.

  Lucie caught me staring at him through squinted eyes on more than one occasion and says I should forget about it, that he’ll get around it eventually and I’ll be able to submit my essay. They have never spoken again since Monday, but like everybody else, she thinks he’s sweet and amazing and talks like she knows him. Perhaps he’s a wizard too, and he has bewitched everyone and Tony and I are the only ones who can see clearly.

  Because yes, Tony’s the only one who remains unmoved by the cool sweet, bouncy curls persona, still begrudging him his lack of music eduction. A part of me is simply pissed off at the sight of him. I can’t explain it, but I hate that no one can resist him, not even Paquin, and I also hate the dignified response he got to my stupid bullying attitude on our first meeting.

  Why should he be so cool about what I said? Didn’t it even matter to him? He acts like nothing can touch him, but he refused to even acknowledge my presence. Aren’t we supposed to work together? How am I supposed to hand my essay if he won’t even look at me?

  What’s so special about him, anyway… I don’t get it. Everybody seems to adore him. I spent years working on my style, my hair, the careful juxtapositions of accessories, aloofness, and taste and repartee, and this toilet stranger comes in and sweeps them all away. What does he have that I don’t? And why, why won’t he talk to me?

  He thinks he’s so much better than me because he reads books and I’m just a slacker and a stoner. But he knows nothing about me. I’ve got skills, you know. Somewhere. I’ll show him one day. I’ll show him he’s wrong about me.

  On Monday, feeling harassed by a full weekend pulled between my nagging father and my high-maintenance hot girlfriend, and after two-hours of English Lit glaring at a stubbornly silent Michael from the corner of my eye, I decide this is enough. I simply cannot take it anymore. I decide to open my heart to Tony and explain everything.

  “So basically, you are fucked,” Tony says cheerfully, after hearing me seethe about Michael’s attitude the past two hours.

  “Ok, just don’t… look so happy about it, thank you!”

  Scowling, I flatten myself against the wall to let a group of giggling girls pass. Lucie has abandoned us, fled to the girl’s toilets. I only notice now that Tony’s wearing a skirt over his black jeans, but I know better than to ask. It’s probably an act of rebellion.

  Tony unwraps an enormous lollipop and sticks it into his mouth. “What are you going to do?”

  “I guess I have to find a way to make him do the project with me, you know.”

  “The serial-killer kid?”

  The lollipop is very distracting, and gets on my nerves.

  “Let’s drop that one. He really doesn’t look like a serial killer.”

  “Neither did Ted Bundy, Lou.”

  I make a face that makes him laugh. He slaps me across the back.

  “Don’t worry. Many serial killers are great with books. I saw it in this documentary. He might even write a brilliant essay, you know.”

  “But I just told you. Since he heard me, he—”

  Tony gives a huge eye-roll. “Who cares? He’s one of the Golden Fork by now. Probably forgot all about it.”

  “Then why would he hate me, then?”

  The annoying lollipop makes a disturbing popping sound when Tony pulls it out of his mouth. “You know what,” Tony says, waving the lollipop under my nose, François probably told him you were a giant asshole.”

  This actually makes me snigger. “François doesn’t think I’m a giant asshole.”

  “Yes, he does, actually.”

  I look at him in disbelief. “Excuse-me, what?”

  François? Hating me? I thought he thought nothing of me, just as I thought nothing of him. How dare he? There’s nothing worse than finding out somebody hates your guts for no reason. Even if you personally thinks he’s a massive dildo.

  “Why the long face?” Tony laughs at my expression. “François is the worst kind of bland, watery dish you can find in a typical affluent high-school.”

  “All right, enough, enough.”

  Tony’s right. After all, François is nothing to me. Thank goodness Tony’s always here to remind me to keep my cool. I get so worked up over nothing, sometimes.

  “But how does that help me?” I manoeuvre back toward our conversation. “I’m even more double fucked now. Michael won’t want to help me.”

  “On the contrary.” With a great flourish, Tony brandishes the lollipop and almost strikes me on the nose. “Michael was assigned by Paquin to help you. So after school, go and tell him you’re fine to just have him do the assignment alone, and you’ll just copy it.”

  “How will that make him think I’m not an asshole? It seems it will make it even worse.”

  “It won’t make him like you,” Tony says with a pointed look. He gives my shoulder a paternal squeeze. “But you’ll get the assignment done with no effort and you’ll be able to go to London after graduation.”

  Something doesn’t feel right about what he just said.

  “I thought you didn’t want me to go.”

  Tony gives me a blank look. “I want you to do whatever you want, Lou. Achieve your dreams.” He scratches his cheek thoughtfully. “London is a great city. Home to some of the best music in the world. You’ll find the best hangouts in Camden, probably hang out with long haired hippies named Duncan, and you’ll have a blast. What do I have waiting for me here? Joining the plebes at some random university and getting some one-on-one quality times with fucking Kiki.”

  “You love Kiki.”

  “Everyone loves Kiki. That’s not the point.”

  There’s a brief silence, during which I try to meet his eye. “You could come to London with me, you know.”

  We’re interrupted by Lucie storming out of the bathroom. She swings her backpack over her shoulder; it’s a mouse wearing a tweed coat. I do not know what this one means, and I suspect no one does.

  Lucie plops a kiss on my cheek as Tony sticks the lollipop back into his mouth.

  “Sacha’s in there. She is head over heels for the new guy.”

  “Really?” Tony looks astonished. “I simply don’t get it. What’s so special about him?”

  “I don’t know.” She’s not as expert a liar as I am. Her glowing cheeks will betray her anytime. “He’s kind of handsome, I think.”

  You think. I say she has given the matter some serious thought. I find it suspicious, that anyone should spend so much time obsessing over one person. I’m just saying.

  Lucie pokes me in the shoulder. “Anyway, she asked me to ask you to ask him--” She has to catch her breath here “—if he’s interested in her.”

  I can’t help snorting loudly. “You know Sacha likes anything that moves, right?”

  Tony guffaws, in a beautiful demonstration of cavemanship. “Oh, Lou, my beautiful Lou. Are you still upset that Sacha broke up with you when you were thirteen?”

  Hang on, here. Sacha and I do have a bit of history. We used to hold hands in kindergarten, and I was the first guy to French kiss her, during that fateful night at Deborah Ramage’s birthday party, when we were, in fact:

  “Twelve, not thirteen.” I shoot him a resentful glare. “And we were never together!”

  Tony stares at my scrunched-up face with laughing eyes. “You’re so sensitive, Lou.”

  “Just get your facts right.”

  I’m so annoyed, I don’t know why. Tony annoys me. His lollipop annoys me. Lucie’s mousy back pack annoys me. The tweed on his back annoys me even more. And Sacha’s request in unbelievable rude and entitled.

  My stomach starts churning unpleasantly, in a classic attempt by my anxiety to
remind me it’s still comfortably nestled in the depth of my guts, sipping tiny Margaritas from tiny cups with tiny umbrellas in it.

  Lucie gives me a look, and I give her a look, and I can see from the way her face turns sour that she assumes I’m thinking of Sacha’s lips, while in fact, I’m just wondering if she’s packing Advil in that mouse of hers.

  As a result, she’s moody the whole rest of the day, but I don’t really worry about it. I’ve got a lot on my mind, today, wondering especially what I’m going to tell Michael when I get my hands on him.

  At the end of the day and with a good luck pat in the back and a wink from Tony, I set off a short way behind Michael, my pulse racing.

  I have never stalked anyone before. I can see myself stalking Tony during the burgeoning first days of our friendship, but thankfully, I never had to. Surprisingly enough, Tony was interested in me as I was of him. If anything, he’s the one who followed me around and barged into my flat uninvited.

  The feeling’s just awful, there’s no way I’m not going to make a complete turnip out of myself. While sober, my comfort zone comprises less than a dozen people. Anything more and I start fanning myself like a character from a Jane Austen novel. I unwrap a stick of gum. Chewing usually help steel myself.

  Ahead of me, Michael is on his way toward the Cardinal Lemoine metro station, unaware he’s being watched by some maniac. My palms are sweaty, reminding me of the first time I invited Lucie to my place and I had to hide them in my pocket so she wouldn’t think I had an awful skin condition. Picking up the pace, I push my sunglasses up my nose, this time not in the spirit of concealment but to look a little more intimidating.

  Michael is a stroller. He walks like a wandering tourist on a slow August afternoon, stopping often, smiling at everything.Why should he be so happy? I bet you he’s congratulating himself of not talking to me all week.

  Thankfully I know exactly what to do to rip that smile off his face.

  “Michael.”

  My throat is dryer than I thought and my voice comes out as a croak. Michael turns around. His expression betray his surprise.

  “Hey.”

  We both spoke at the same time. My pulse quickens as dozens of people hurtle by in a blur around us.

  I can do this. I can persuade some guy to do something for me. I’ve done it before. I don’t get why I should feel so breathless about it. It’s just that, I didn’t remember him being that tall. He’s got a good ten centimetres on me. This alone should be forbidden.

  Michaels seems tense, looks over his shoulder, doesn’t meet my eyes. Perhaps he’s afraid of me. Why should he be? I’m about as dangerous as a feather duster. Come on, you’ve rehearsed that, just say the line.

  When I open my mouth, my gum inexplicably decides to take a plunge down my throat to choke me. I start coughing uncontrollably.

  Two bright green eyes come into my blurry field of vision. “Are you all right?”

  The gum’s gone, swallowed, destined to inflict god knows what damages to my internal organs. Michael is staring at me like I might drop dead in the middle of the street and he doesn’t have time for that.

  “I was saying…” Forcing a smile, I straighten up. “Do you live nearby?”

  He does a strange thing. His eyes slowly dart left and right, like’s he’s pondering whether to bullshit me or not. That’s right. As I stand right in front of him.

  “Yes. Why? Do you?”

  “I do. Near Place Monge.”

  “So do I.”

  “That’s great!” That came out little too loudly. Better tone it down. He’s going to think I’m a hell of a phone. “We can walk together then.”

  Michael pulls at the straps from his backpack, his lips pinched.

  “Sure, whatever.” Pulling at the straps of his backpack, his lips pinched, Michael resumes his walk. I catch up with him in a few strides.

  This is not going the way I wanted it to go. He’s clearly not warming up to me. Perhaps I could talk about the book. After all, that’s the one thing I know he likes.

  “So, you know…”

  He slips me a curious glance. I have pick up the pace just to keep to a level with him.

  “The book.”

  He doesn’t say anything. All right, I will.

  “I was thinking, since you know all about it…”

  The corner of his mouth lifts into a half-smile. He slows down, then stops in the middle of the sidewalk.

  “You know I don’t even know your name, right?”.

  “What?” My eyes almost pop out of their sockets.

  First of all, this demonstrates once and for all the conservative nature of our presence log, when teachers only uses our surnames. Second, this means I’ve successfully evaded interrogations since the day we met, which is not small feat. Lastly, and I’m utterly bewildered about it, this means that however rude I was to Michael on his first day, he hasn’t told anybody. Or François would have delighted to tell him how much of a dick he thinks I am.

  Nobody knows of my shame but he, Tony, Lucie and I.

  A wave of relief washes over me. I immediately extend my hand.

  “I’m Louis. But everyone calls me Lou.”

  He takes my hand and gives it a vigorous shake. The intensity of his gaze forces my eyes down to our feet. My Vans are disgusting, compared to his boots.

  We set off again.

  “Why does everyone call you Lou?” Michael asks, avoiding with grace the rush of men and women streaming out of the Cardinal Lemoine station.

  I have to perform a ridiculous twirl to dodge a stout woman charging toward me. “Tony says Louis reminds him of the Sun King, and he was a prat. But Lou Reed, as opposite, is a rockstar.”

  I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, waiting for Michael to tell me how cool Tony is. He doesn’t. Instead, his brow furrows.

  “Can I call you Louis, then?”

  I’m that close to tell him he can call me Lucie if he promises to write this stupid essay with me. But I nod soberly instead.

  “And you can call me Michael.”

  I cock my head. “I could call you Mike.”

  “I prefer Michael.”

  Have I vexed him again? I glance at him, alarmed. But his face is relaxed, turned up toward the inky sky.

  We tread down the busy streets in silence for a while. The windows displays, still packed with Christmas decorations, glitter merrily as though the holidays are just around the corner. They are, after all, but in the past. I wonder if Michael likes them. And I wonder… Where will I be next year when they are put up again?

  Suddenly, Michael grabs my arm and brutally jerks me toward him. A cringeworthy squeal escape my lips. When I whip around to ask him what his problem is, Michael, unperturbed, points at a dark shape on the ground. Confused at first, I finally see it. A dog poo the size of India, in which I almost buried my foot.

  “You saved me…” I stare at him in awe.

  “You should probably lose the sunglasses.” He scratches the back of his neck. “It’s dark, I don’t know how you can see anything at all.”

  I don’t, I don’t see anything. These glasses are not meant to see with, but to be seen with. But he’s right, so I remove them with fumbling fingers. My face instantly feels naked, vulnerable. Even more so when Michael looks right at it.

  My mind races as I’m flicking through different appropriate subjects to engage in small talk. What do I know about him. British. Toilet. Curls. Lots of it. Mum. He said he’s got one, right?

  “So, hem, you said you moved in with your mum, is that right?”

  For the first time since I met him, a proper smile appears on his face, revealing a row of perfect teeth. So much for British stereotypes.

  “Yes, she’s a theatre actress. She’s starring in that new play over at the Paris Theatre.”

  “Theatre actress?”

  He nods. I never thought one could actually live off that. That has to be more interesting than selling cleaning products. I start patt
ing my jackets for my pack of cigarettes while searching for my next question. I offer the pack to Michael, but he shakes his head. As I light the cigarette, the next question comes quite naturally.

  “Where do you normally live?”

  “London.” He tilts his head. “Kensington, to be precise. Do you know it?”

  “No. I’ve never been to London.”

  I’d like to tell him I’d love to go, but he will think I’m trying too hard. I have to tread carefully with him.

  “But I’d love to travel out of here one day. See the world, meet other people.”

  Michael stays silent for a while. He thinks I’m an idiot, doesn’t he? I feel like an idiot. I was supposed to persuade him to do this essay, not bore him to death with details of my life.

  “You know—”

  “Anyway—”

  Shit. We spoke at the same time again.

  Michael hold out his hand. “Sorry, go ahead.”

  “No, you go ahead.”

  “No no, I insist.”

  “Anyway.” Why is this so difficult? My throat is turning to cement for no reason. “London has a great rock scene, and that’s all that matters to me.”

  “Right!” He points his finger at me. “You’re in a band, aren’t you?”

  Every time.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Oh, I thought you were.”

  A part of me is elated he thought so. The whole attire does give people this impression. But before I can auto-congratulate myself too much, we have arrived at Place Monge.

  “I’m going this way,” Michael says. “I’m on Pestalozzi.”

  “Nice, I’m on Larrey.”

  There’s a silence. Michael does this thing again. Looking left, and right, then at me, like he’s trying to make a decision. Then he blurts out:

  “Why did you decide to talk to me?”

  Huh, hello, what kind of question is that? What happened to the good old superficial small talk, heh? There are rules, Mister, rules to which we—

  “So?”

  And he insists.

  My throat is suddenly in need of much clearing. “I saw you and I walk in the same direction, so…”