At the end of the week, it’s clear Michael has forgotten all about my existence, or worse, that he’d rather not think of me. Not a single glance or a word from him since he heard me call him a nerd. Talk about holding a grudge.
And here’s the really annoying thing: Michael likes everyone, and everyone likes him. He’s more popular in his first week than I’ve been since I set foot at Colette, 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 over it eventually, and I’ll be able to submit my essay. They’ve 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 education.
A part of me is simply pissed off at the sight of him. I can’t fully explain it, but I resent that no one can resist him, not even Paquin, just as I resent his dignified response to my stupid 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 refuses to even acknowledge my presence. Aren’t we supposed to work together? How am I supposed to hand in my essay if he won’t even look at me?
What’s so special about him, anyway? I don’t get it. 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 after 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 that’s enough. I simply can’t take it anymore. I have no choice but to open my heart to Tony.
“So basically, you’re fucked,” Tony says, cheerful, when I’m done explaining everything.
“Okay, 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 girls’ 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 and 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?”
The annoying lollipop makes a disturbing popping sound when Tony pulls it out of his mouth. “You know what?” he says, waving it under my nose, “François probably told him you were a giant asshole.”
That makes me snigger. “François doesn’t think I’m a giant arsehole.”
“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 think 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’s nothing to me. Thank goodness he’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 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 arsehole? It seems it will make things 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 party 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 time 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 eyes. “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’s 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’d say she’s 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 backpack annoys me. The tweed on its back annoys me even more. And Sacha’s request is unbelievably 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 depths of my brain, sipping tiny Margaritas from tiny cups with tiny umbrellas in them.
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 Nurofen 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 on the back and a wink from Tony, I set off a short way behind Michael, my pulse racing. I’ve never stalked anyone before. I could have seen myself stalking Tony during the burgeoning first days of our friendship, but thankfully, I never had to. Surprisingly enough, Tony was as interested in me as I was in him. If anything, he was the one who followed me around and barged into my flat uninvited.
Anyway, the feeling’s just awful. There’s no way I’m not going to make a complete turnip 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 helps me steel myself.
Ahead of me, Michael’s on his way towards 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 pockets so she wouldn’t think I had an awful skin condition. Picking up the pace, I push my sunglasses up my nose, this time it’s not in the spirit of concealment but to look a little bit more intimidating.
Michael’s 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 for 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.
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