I Want to Kiss You in Public Read online

  “Funny!” My voice sounds a little squeaky. “We ran into each other on the way.”

  Michael politely salutes them, but immediately leaves us to join Yasmine, Sacha —who looks completely flustered when he kisses her cheek— and François, who’s glaring at me for no good reason.

  “So,” Tony says, as Lucie grabs my face and crushes my lips against hers, “what happened last night?”

  I wipe my mouth across my sleeve. “What? What do you mean?”

  “Did you get him to do the essay for you?”

  “Close enough. I’m gonna work on it too. Tonight. But—”

  “We were supposed to meet tonight. Play CS together.”

  I had totally forgotten. “Look, I’ve got to do this thing, or my dad will ground me until the end of the exams.”

  Tony turns to Lucie, who’s fixing her lipstick. “I’ll hang out with you instead, then.” She nods and smacks her lips.

  I toss an inconspicuous look over my shoulder. Michael is laughing at whatever Sacha’s is blabbing about. She expertly shakes her mane of shiny light brown hair.

  I wonder if an old lady has ever offered her shampoo.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WHAT DO DORIAN, SHAKESPEARE AND FRANCOIS HAVE IN COMMON?

  TUCKED AWAY NEAR Notre-Dame, The Shakespeare and Co is for avid book readers almost as famous as the cathedral. Michael’s joy is already palpable when he first spots the green facade, and I get to feel a little proud of myself. Not that I particularly care about Michael’s opinion, but I want him to know me I am perfectly able to find the coolest places in the capital.

  Casually twirling my sunglasses between my fingers, I watch him pick up volumes from the heavy wooden crates with sparkling eyes. To top it all, the sun’s still out, bathing everything and everyone with its warmth.

  “This is fantastic,” Michael says, caressing the spine of an old musty travel guide.

  I can’t help but laugh. I’ve never met anyone who enjoys anything the way he enjoys seeing books.

  “Wait until you go inside.”

  I thought this day would never end. Three hours of maths this afternoon did nothing to help pass the time. It’s not because I’m naturally good at something that I particularly enjoy it.

  There was little else in my head than meeting Michael after class. But it’s only because I was nervous to get away from Tony and Lucie before they insisted to accompany us here. Having Tony in a bookstore is synonym for disaster. Every title would mean something funny, or dirty to him. Then Michael could congratulate himself thinking we’re cavemen, and I can’t allow it.

  Once inside, and despite the swarm of tourists and locals haunting the tight spaces, Michael’s enthusiasm grows.

  “This place looks straight from Harry Potter.”

  With its crooked shelves and narrow aisles, its quirky decor and tiny reading nooks, the bookstore does have a magical aura and could perfectly have been found in Diagon Alley.

  “Harry Potter, huh?”

  I have read that one. Who’s illiterate now? And I enjoyed it too, not that anyone knows about it.

  “So.” I run my fingers along a set of nameless spines. “How do you like Paris so far?”

  Nice. Interested without being inquisitive. I should become a detective.

  The corner of Michael’s mouth curls up. “I’ve been there before, on holidays, but it’s not the same.”

  Non-commital answer. Perhaps he doesn’t want me to get to know him. I earned this, by insulting him on the first day. But all this aura of mystery only makes me want to prod until I get to the bottom of it.

  A book catches his attention; he flicks it open and stays silent for a while. Meanwhile I’m constantly asked to move aside by impatient customers who are, for some mysterious reason, all interested in the Greek Mythology section behind me. When I finally get some peace, I try another angle.

  “I see you’ve made friends already.”

  Michael’s green eyes appear from the top of the book, an eyebrow quirked.

  “Hm?”

  “You’ve got friends, already. Like Sacha.”

  “Yes.” Sacha’s name brings a smile to his face. “They’re nice.”

  I’m getting a little warm in here. Not big on tight places. I start fanning myself with a battered copy of Bel-Ami tossed on top of an overflowing crate.

  “Excuse-me.”

  Another patron makes heavy eye contact with me. I edge closer to Michael.

  “Sacha seems to like you a lot.”

  Michael puts the book down. “Does she?”

  Men. All the same. Am I right?

  “Yeah, that’s obvious.”

  “That’s nice to hear.”

  Is that it? He’s good at keeping his true feelings out of sight, I’ll grant him that. A group of giggling teenagers too large for the narrow space forces its way with substantial use of their elbows and shoulders. Michael and I find ourselves slammed against Best selling Fantasy.

  “It’s getting real tight in here.”

  He doesn’t answer, turns around at the first opportunity, leaving me gasping for air.

  “You don’t like to talk, do you?”

  Michael shrugs. “I like to talk. I just don’t have anyone to talk to.”

  Another bombshell. If he’s looking for a career, may I suggest the Royal Air Force?

  I guess I had it coming; I asked. But who tells the truth without so much as a warning? I would never bare myself like this, confess that I have no friends. His neutral expression suggests he’s not doing it to get sympathy.

  I know a little about loneliness, and I don’t wish it on anyone. If Michael wanted to talk to me, I think I’d let him.

  “You can talk to me, if you like.”

  My tone was the perfect balance of kindness and camaraderie. Nothing improper. By the look Michael throws me over his shoulder, he’s understood my meaning.

  “Thank, Louis.”

  A thumping sound catches my attention. I’ve dropped my sunglasses. I retrieve them and put them back on. When I rise up, I’m alone in the chattering crowd.

  I find Michael again after two wrong turns in this labyrinth, laughing quietly in sheer, childish joy. I start following him around the shop. He points to me his favourite novels as he sees them. Sometimes he stops, eyes glinting, in front of a rare edition of a volume he loves. His father, he tells me, teaches philosophy at a London College.

  “Books are practically my best friends,” he says, with an affectionate sigh at the sight of the first French Edition of Pride and Prejudice

  He looks at me, cheeks pink, as though he just confessed being into hardcore porn or something. I pretend I was looking elsewhere.

  “I know Jane Austen.” I make a show of being absorbed by the letters on the cover of the manuscript. “My mum used to watch period dramas on TV, and I watched with her.”

  “Did you?”He says. I can tell he’s amused, but there’s no mockery in his face. “I still watch them, you know?”

  I can’t help laughing. That says a lot about him, Tony would say. But Tony’s not here. And that’s fine.

  We move on to another shelf, then, another. After a while, it occurs to me that I’m having fun. It’s strange, I didn’t expect any of it. Some books, I recognise, and let him know all about it.

  It seems that Michael knows every book and every movie adaptation of it. Every time we pass a volume he loves, his eyes catch fire. He’s not an ugly guy, I can concede that. Nothing wrong about admitting it.

  “I’ve never met anyone who knew so many books.”

  Michael seems embarrassed. “Well, I don’t have many things to do. I guess, so books are my thing.”

  What is my thing? Video games and weed? Kaiser Chiefs? Lucie? His passions are just as good as mine, and I’m sorry I made fun of him, but I don’t know how to say it.

  “You know, I could use picking up a book once in a while.”

  Did he get it? I don’t know. He turns his face away.
r />   “And I could use a night out once in a while, you know.”

  Perhaps he did get it, then.

  “I can help you with that.”

  Crap. I spoke a little too fast. Michael, hanging out with Tony and Lucie and I? Neither Tony or Michael would ever forgive me. A familiar heat warms my cheeks. Michael acts like he hasn’t noticed, and plunges deeper into the aisle.

  We carry on walking from shelf to shelf for several more minutes in silence, then Michael stops in an unusually quiet, cosy-looking nook, to admire a collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets. I slump against the shelf next to him. This is the sort of place where sneaky lovers steal a kiss beneath the beams. Michael idly turns the pages of his new find, while I pretend to read the titles on the nearest volumes.

  He breaks the silence first. “What’s the story behind the sunglasses?”

  “The story?”

  “They never leave you. Even when it’s dark,” he adds, his tone teasing.

  I remove them to better admire them, and realise I’m still holding Bel-Ami. “They’re important to me. They were a gift.”

  “Who gifted them to you? Your girlfriend?”

  I laughed quietly. “Lucie wouldn’t know which model to pick from. She’d get me really crazy or girly ones, you know.” Michael doesn’t answer, turns around to peruse more books on the shelves. “Tony bought them for me. He found them at a flea market. Why? Do they bother you?”

  “I never said that.”A moment of silence while he scratches the back of his neck. “Tony is your friend, right? With the dark hair?”

  “Yes.”

  I’m surprised he doesn’t remember Tony. Everyone does. Tony leaves a strong impression, whether you like him or not. Usually the latter.

  “You know, I think we’re in the right spot.” I say, with a nod toward the crooked “English Classics” sign above Michael’s head.

  “How did you meet Tony, exactly?

  “Oh! This is a great story, actually.”

  I’m glad he asked. I really like talking about Tony. I think it’s the perfect opportunity, now that Michael is browsing the shelves, looking for his Dorian Gray.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Well…” I take a seat on the bench behind him. “It was when we started at Colette. History teacher organised a school trip. A visit of the Louvres. I had decided to show up really late, almost at the end—so I wouldn’t die of boredom. The teacher was confused, because he could swear I wasn’t here when the group started the visit, and he wanted to tell my father about it.”

  Michael turns around to flash me a smile. “You don’t like to play by the rules, don’t you?”

  That’s right! My face grows hotter.

  “You could say that. Anyway, I told the teacher I was here all along, he simply didn’t notice me. Tony appeared out of nowhere, covered for me. He was really impressed by my lie.”

  Michael nods thoughtfully. “Great story indeed…”

  I think he’s making fun of me. He is , isn’t he?

  “But that’s too bad you didn’t get to see the Louvres. It’s the first thing I did when I arrived.”

  I shrug. “Tony says rock stars don’t go to museum.”

  Michael slips me a curious glance.

  “Do you want to be a rockstar?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you want to be in a band, be a singer or a musician, play rock music and go on tours? That’s what I mean.”

  I wave my hand dismissively. “Our thing is more of an attitude, really. You don’t have to sing to be a rockstar, we don’t think. It’s a whole philosophy. About, you know, being different, being… free.”

  Michael smiles and says: “Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing.”

  Why does this sound familiar, and churns the gears of my stomach inside?

  “It’s from Dorian Gray.” Michael says.

  “Oh, right.”

  “Not far removed from your own philosophies, isn’t it?”

  Yes, sure. I’m baffled that he should pay so much attention to my stupid philosophy. He stares at me, expecting me to say something else, but I don’t feel like going into the details, especially without Tony around. He’s better at explaining it than I am. I feel I would just make a fool of myself.

  “My cousins are in a band”, Michael says. “They’re not half-bad. I think they could make it big one day.”

  What is that supposed to mean? That I won’t make it big? Or just simply that he likes artists?

  “Oh, got you!” He whips around, brandishing the Picture of Dorian Grey.

  I get up. He closes the distance between us in two strides.

  “This place is wonderful, Magical. It brings all sorts of wild ideas to my head.”

  He opens the book and starts reading a passage at random, seemingly unaware that we’re going to have to go through this crap many times as we work on the essay. His bent head, so close to my own, gives me a perfect view of his dark curls.

  I wonder what they feel like.

  The flashing thought rips through me, thunder-like. Then, it’s gone.

  “Don’t you think it’s stifling in here?” Raising Bel-Ami between us, I begin to fan myself frantically. The man’s face on the cover stares at me with disapproval.

  “Are you going to buy this?” Michael asks.

  It’s at this exact moment, and in this relatively awkward position, that golden child François glides out of nowhere, all pastel jumpers and toothy smiles.

  “Hello, there!”

  I have not missed his horrible French accent. François approaches, carrying his coat into his arm. There’s not a drop of sweat to him.

  Now sweating buckets and staring at his overjoyed goat-like face with a clenched jaw, I realise I never knew how much I disliked François until now.

  “François!” Michael shakes François’s hand with a look of delighted surprise, the kind of expression you reserve to people you haven’t seen in a long time and you really, really didn’t expect to meet at a bookstore, you know, not for fucking François whom he heard butcher Spanish not an hour ago. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just hanging out. I love books, you know.”

  “I love books too,” Michael says.

  Oh, come on. What the hell is this? It’s obvious, what he’s doing here. He’s stalking Michael. He’s a stalker. I’m seething.

  “I know, it’s crazy, right?” François throws his head back and laughs.

  This is stupid.

  “And what are you doing here?” François asks in the tremulous voice of the unskilled liar.

  That means he knew exactly where Michael would be at this hour.

  “Haven’t I told you this morning?”

  “Must have told someone else…” His face is as red as shame itself.

  Michael nods at me. “I thought I told you. Louis says he was taking me to the bookstore to get a copy of Dorian Gray.”

  François peers at me through squinted eyes. “Oh, Louis! I couldn’t see you in there, with all these books. I hope you’re not feeling too much like — how do you say — a fish out of water.”

  He pretends he’s happy to see me through a great deal of teeth-flashing. All that comes out of my mouth is a grunt.

  Michael is standing between us, a slightly frozen smile on his face, as though the meeting of his two best friends is, despite his deepest wishes, not exactly going as well as he hoped. François reaches for the books in his hand.

  “What do we have here… Oscar Wilde and William Shakespeare! I know them.”

  He butchered both of their names with his impossible accent, but I guess it’s not totally his fault. He’s lucky Tony isn’t here, that’s all.

  The implication that he knows them, however, is unacceptable. I’m by far the laziest student in my class and even I know who these two authors are.

  Michael attempts to take his books back b
ut François clutches them to his chest.

  “I love Shakespeare’s Sonnets!” He cries. “Did you know Shakespeare was gay?”

  I snort loudly enough for an old patron to glare at me in outrage.

  “Nonsense.”

  “He was.”

  “Wasn’t.”

  “Why not!”

  Michael’s eyes dart from François to I, wide and afraid.

  “Well,” I say, “he was married, for once…”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Michael says. “Lots of gay men married.”

  “Have you even read his sonnets?” François’s eyebrows threaten to disappear into his hairline.

  “Do I look like a guy who reads medieval poetry?”

  Michael looks away.

  “Well he wrote poems, to the man he loved. It’s all in here.” François waves the book in front of my face. I use my Bel-Ami to ward him off.

  “They were probably just friends.”

  Michael gives a little laugh. “Do you write poems to Tony?”

  “What? No. No!” I ball my fists when François slaps a hand over his mouth. “No one writes poems nowadays. People are lucky enough to receive a text.”

  François, smirking, turns to Michael.

  “Anyway, Shakespeare might not have been gay, but I am.” Gripping Michael’s arm with claw-like fingers, he erupts in laughter. Michael joins in a more mildly, as though François’s revelation is yesterday’s news.

  But is it?

  François is gay. Why does this surprise me? And yet I feel like I was supposed to know. Staring at François’s laughing face, I try to imagine a François who would be gay, and one who wouldn’t be. But all I can see is François’s stupid face, the way his fingers curl around Michael’s arm.

  “I’m gonna wait for you outside. I can’t breathe in here.”

  I don’t wait for their reaction. With little regard of other shoppers, my blood pounding in my hears, I retrace my steps toward the exit.

  Outside, the cold soothes my burning face. dig up a cigarette, light up, take a long drag. What am I doing? They’re going to think I’m some sort of homophobe.

  I cannot explain, even to myself. I’m the same way with people who act all cheesy when they’re in love. It annoys me to no end.