The next two hours occur without incident, but my cheeks are still tingling from Paquin’s harassment, the memory of so many laughing faces, and New Guy’s pity-filled gaze.

I spend most of the lesson staring at Tony’s and Lucie’s backs and hating everything about the way they laugh at each other’s jokes or whatever they’re writing or drawing in the margin of Lucie’s binder. My heart hammering in my ribcage, I long for the end of the day. And it’s only the first class of this term.

Michael’s really into Paquin’s analysis of Dorian Gray. After he asked me to borrow my copy, I could only oblige. I slid the book his way without a backward glance, and he hasn’t looked up from it since. He’s so into it that he’s almost leaning flat on the table, his nose inches from the page, and from time to time, he smiles at the mention of so-and-so, just as though the characters on the page are his mates and they just said something funny.

I get it, he’s a total nerd, and I should have never been paired with him. Since I met him, my partner has always been Tony; I should be sitting with him right now. I hate myself for having misbehaved so much in the past term. If I hadn’t been punished, none of this would have happened. Now I’m stuck with chatty toilet guy.

Michael.

When I catch him turning the pages of my cheap paperback as though it’s the first edition of the Gutenberg Bible, I decide to break the spell, because it’s just embarrassing.

“So…” He startles at the sound of my voice. Great. I frightened him now. “…You like books.”

His eyes don’t look up from the page. “Everyone likes books.”

This makes me snort quite loudly, earning me a silent warning from Paquin. Not everybody likes books, bro. I can’t remember the last time I read one I actually enjoyed.  I used to have books, though. Tony saw them the first time he came to my place, his hands full of CDs, and chastised me for having them. I lied, pretended they belonged to my little cousin, or that my mother owned them, I don’t recall.

“From now on,” he’d said, kneeling before me, “I’ll be in charge of your education.” The next day, I put them in a cardboard box and stuck them under my bed.

I stifle a yawn. “That’s going to be handy, you being a fan of books and all.”

He abandons his precious reading to slip me a glance. “What? Why?”

“For the essay.”

“I guess.” He dips his nose back into the book.

Out of boredom, I start listing all the ways this guy and I are completely different, and how there’s no way on earth we could be friends. From his freshly shampooed dark curls to the fancy boots he’s wearing, we are utterly different. Oddly enough, he smells like fresh apples. I don’t even own a bottle of perfume or aftershave. His hands are clean, his fingers long. My own hands are inexplicably smeared with ink and all I did was write the name of the book on a blank piece of paper. For a guy, his eyes are quite large, and his eyelashes long and dark. His clothes are nothing like mine; he probably dresses like his father. And the way he treats a battered copy of a book, like it’s precious… Spoiler alert: I don’t even bother opening them. After watching him closely for half an hour, I’m convinced this essay’s going to be more of a chore than anything I’ve done before.

The bell rings, delivering me from this nightmare. I spring to my feet, ready to GTFO, but Tony’s at our table in seconds, followed by Lucie readjusting her hair. Don’t think I missed it.

“So,” Tony says, twirling my pen like a baton and dropping it. “That was humiliating.”

“Yes, thank you, Tony.”

Michael appears between us, holding my pen. I snatch it and toss it into my bag, eager to leave quickly and put as much distance between him and me as possible. But Tony turns to Michael, eyes brimming with interest.

“So, Michael, is that right? British, right?”

“Guilty on both counts.”

Lucie flashes him one of her best smiles. But he’s already said that at the beginning of class. Not very original, is he? Especially for somebody who loves to speak to strangers in toilets.

“What brings you to Colette?” Tony asks.

Lucie gives Michael a thorough look that makes me think she wouldn’t mind spending time locked in the toilet with him.

Michael puts his hands in his pockets. “My mother has gotten a job in Paris for the next few months. I thought it’d be a great experience to join her.” It’s as though he can feel Lucie’s eyes on him, because he starts shuffling his feet nervously and points at her polar bear backpack. “Cute.”

She beams, but Tony doesn’t look so convinced yet. Bless his magnificent long face.

“You left your school and your friends in the middle of the year to come here?”

“I guess I like to live dangerously.” Michael glances at the door on the other side of the room.

“Cool. That’s cool.” Tony has never found anybody cool except for Lucie and me. I watch him extend his hand, bewildered. “I’m Tony.”

“I’m Lucie,” my girlfriend adds, a bit too pink for my liking.

Michael finally cracks a smile, which slips at the sight of my scrunched-up face. Tony slides in front of me, obscuring me from him.

“So, Michael. What kind of music do you listen to?” Oh, nice one, Tony. Tricky question. The make or break of any infant of a relationship with him. And therefore, with myself, of course. Michael doesn’t know that; he’s staring at us as though he finds the question a little odd.

“I don’t really listen to music, actually.”

Lucie gasps audibly in the empty classroom. “You don’t listen to music?”

Tony’s eyes narrow. “Everyone listens to music.” Tony believes that what you listen to says a lot about who you are, like listening to French variety makes you a loser, by default; listening to R&B or pop makes you a trend follower, and listening to classical music makes you a career politician. Avoid these people at all costs, Tony would say. Tony’s intense.

“I just don’t,” Michael insists.

There’s a silence during which we all exchange stares that are way too uncomfortable in my opinion. Michael’s statement is hanging in the air like a murder confession. With that, all my worries vanish. There’s no way Tony will let him into our little group, and I’ll never have to deal with his annoying curls.

Eventually, even Michael has gotten the gist, because he gestures toward the door. “I should go. I have no idea of the layout of this place. I don’t want to get lost again.” Before we can protest — not that I ever intended to, personally — Michael clears his side of the table by sweeping the contents into his backpack with one hand and hurries out of the classroom.

Lucie stares after him. “We could have been nicer, really…” She worries at her bottom lip. “We scared him away.”

“Good,” Tony says, stretching his long arms. “What kind of person doesn’t listen to music? Serial killers, I think.” Tony, as always, is right.

“I don’t think so.” I close my bag and start moving toward the door. “That would be too interesting.”

“Oh, you’re right. Can’t have more than one serial killer per school. And we already have Madame Paquin.”

Outside, the corridor is packed, and I have to wrap an arm around Lucie’s shoulders to shield her from taller brutes.

“Who has Paquin ever killed?” she asks. “Allegedly, of course.”

Tony ruffles my hair. “Our dear Lou-Lou, repeatedly, for the past two hours.”

“Arsehole.” I punch him in the shoulder while he laughs uncontrollably.