We walk the way back in silence. Hidden behind my shades, sneaking side glances at the quiet Michael next to me, I can’t help thinking about gay François. I picture them both tucked away in the reading nook at the Shakespeare, having it out. It sure churns my stomach to imagine them together. I might be a homophobe. Damn it. There’s already so much wrong about me, now I’m a homophobe? Life’s not fair, really.

François is gay. That, in itself, doesn’t exactly come as a surprise. The fact that he’s stalking Michael doesn’t come as a surprise either. It’s not like the guy’s ugly; even as I speak, sunlight bounces off his curls in an attractive way. Now, the important question is: Is Michael gay? If he is, is he interested in François? But why should I care? I’m being ridiculous. Or am I?

After all, the first time I saw Michael, wasn’t he looking at me strangely? And in a public toilet!

I’m the one who took him to the best bookstore in Paris, by the way. And honestly, am I not better looking? Not that I would… But if Michael is gay, shouldn’t he be attracted to me? That’s it, I’m officially losing my mind. All because of François. I never thought I’d live to see the day.

Rewinding the last words we shared outside the Shakespeare, I start over-analysing everything. How they got out of the shop, laughing at some secret joke, and the way François kept leaning toward Michael conspiratorially.

“Didn’t buy anything, François?” I took an enormous drag of my cigarette.

“Not today.” He was smirking. “I come here all the time, though. The staff know me.”

I said nothing, but my leg started twitching. So what, if no one knows me? Michael doesn’t need any help to pick up a book, he’s not mentally disabled as far as I know! François rearranged his perfect strands while staring at my limp mop of hair, then point-blank asked Michael out, wanting to know if we would go to the cinema and watch a movie with him. “We,” he said, staring pointedly at Michael.

“We have to work on this Dorian Gray thing,” Michael said.

François made a face. “You can do it later. There’s time.”

Rich, coming from the teacher’s pet who never fails to submit all his work in advance. I shoved two sticks of gum into my mouth to keep myself quiet.

“I’d rather be done with it,” Michael responded.

Yes, he said that. I started fuming. Why not go around town wearing a sign that says ‘I was forced to work with this idiot, please send help’ while you’re at it? And all the while I thought he’d started to like me. François gave us a fake smile, frozen at the edges, and said his goodbyes. Michael and I have walked in silence since, occasionally exchanging looks, but for once I’m happy no one’s trying to break the silence.

When we reach Place Monge, Michael stops. “Where do you want to go?”

That’s a valid question. Not that I’m trying to impress this guy, but considering the state of my bedroom, or the fact that my father barely categorises as a life form, I’d rather keep my home life a very well-guarded secret. Besides, going to Michael’s seems like the perfect plan: if his bedroom walls are covered with posters of men, then I’ll know he’s gay, and I can move on.

“Can we go to your place? Mine is a proper mess.”

Michael leads the way, smiling. “If you’re lucky, you might even meet my mum.”

Okay, gay or not, that’s definitely a weird thing to say.

Michael’s flat looks like a model home, like it was decorated only to take pictures for a magazine, and it wasn’t really made to live in. Perhaps it’s because they just moved in, and their stuff isn’t there yet. Or perhaps they’re renting it as such. Save a few plants and generic books with nice pictures of boats on the covers, most shelves are bare. Everything’s maddeningly neat, and the cream linen sofa looks so perfect that I would never dare sit my arse on it.

The exception is the kitchen, where the breakfast table is still set, with half-empty plates and crumbs and pieces of fruit scattered everywhere. I can’t help staring at every item, every shape and texture, something that would scream ‘I’m gay!’ or ‘My son likes dicks and I’m totally okay with it,’ that sort of thing. Do I feel dirty and borderline homophobic doing that? Yes, you bet I do. I could just turn around and ask Michael if he’s gay, after all. But then he might get the wrong idea. Like I fancy him, and all. I just feel I should know if he is, since we’re doing the essay together. I wouldn’t want him to get his hopes up.

As I’m browsing for clues through what I hope are discreet glances, I eventually take notice of a woman with a heart-shaped face standing in front of the sink and staring right at me. Gulping, I straighten myself up as Michael runs to her and hugs her in the middle of the kitchen, and I turn my gaze away until they’re done patting each other’s backs.

“Mum,” Michael starts, as the woman looks at me from head to toes, “this is Louis. I told you I had to do this essay on Dorian Gray, didn’t I?”

Michael’s mum is definitely an old woman, perhaps even in her early fifties, but she has a handsome face. Behind her black glasses shine a pair of very bright green eyes. Her dark hair is cut short, in a boyish way, but one thing is certain: she doesn’t have Michael’s curls. Is his father home too? I begin craning my neck to look around the flat, just in case Michael’s father is hiding, curls and all, behind the sofa.

Michael’s mother introduces herself as Anne and extends a hand. I remove my sunglasses and shake it gingerly, hoping my face isn’t as red as it feels, or my hair as dirty.

“Nice to meet you, Madame.”

“You can call me Anne.”

“He’s French,” Michael says, inexplicably.

Mrs Anne laughs at his comment. “Indeed he is.”

What is that supposed to mean? Do I have a French face? François has a French face; I don’t want to look like François. But I don’t ask out loud, so she walks over to the kitchen table and shoves a handful of half-walnuts into her mouth. 

“Dorian Gray, you said?” She speaks with her mouth full. “Interesting stuff. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

Michael scratches his chin. “The teacher assigned us to do it together.”

Here we go again. You know, blaring from every rooftop that you were forced into this is not going to improve our chance to work together, but go ahead. Say it! I’m not your type, obviously.

Anne hasn’t taken her eyes off me. It’s the hair, isn’t it? Fourth time’s the charm, I do promise myself to take better care of it.

“Would you boys like something to drink?”

Michael turns to me, I nod and shrug at the same time, noncommittal.

Anne cocks her head. “Tell me, Louis, are you a coffee person or a tea person?”

“Coffee, obviously.” I hesitate. “Tea’s for British people, isn’t it?” My answer, though delivered politely, only serves to make her laugh. With a pointed look at his mum, Michael waves at me to follow him.

“We’re going to my room.”

Michael’s room is located at the end of a long and squeaky corridor. His bedroom is also bare. A queen-size bed with navy blue sheets and neutral pillows sits in the corner of the room, close to an oak desk. A matching wardrobe stands on the opposite wall. It’s too neat to be real. The only thing on the wall, above the desk, is a poster about a Chopin concerto occurring next month at Opera de Paris. Unless he’s sexually obsessed with Chopin, or pianos, I still have no clue as to where Michael stands on the spectrum.

He shuffles his feet, an apologetic look on his face. “We’ve just moved in. It doesn’t look like home yet.”

Thankfully, he has no clue as to what I’m thinking. Nothing in this room could tell me anything about himself, let alone how gay he might be. It’s the plainest, most boring teenage bedroom I have ever seen. No way this guy is gay. Not that I was expecting glitter bombs and butt plugs, but shit, come on, a minimum of effort would have been nice. Where’s the life? What are you hiding? Who are you, Michael? What’s your favourite colour, the name of your first pet, your worst memory? When did it all go wrong?

“We only took two suitcases each,” Michael says. “We didn’t really plan beyond that.” He’s frowning at me. I frown back. What does he expect me to say?

“It’s, ahem… it’s great that you can pack so efficiently.”

“Hm… Thanks.” Still frowning, Michael offers me to sit on his bed, by his desk. The only thing on there is a laptop. I wonder if he has Facebook. His profile would surely show pictures of girls or boys, but he would need to add me first. There’s no guarantee he will; he has not, after all, offered me his phone number either. If he is gay, he isn’t into me. A small part of me finds this unacceptable.