Today is the last time Michael and I are to work together. If you asked me, I would tell you the essay was already perfect a week ago, but Michael insisted on going over it once again, and I don’t mind at all. Anything for my grade to be perfect, of course.
Chemistry is cancelled, our teacher is sick. Our teacher is often sick — with us — but as a result, we have decided to spend the afternoon working at Le Censier, a bistro in our neighbourhood. The day is unusually beautiful and warm. I’m running a little late; I wanted to exchange my sweater for a T-shirt and collect myself before meeting him. I’ve been worried about the future of our relationship, now that the essay is over. By relationship, I mean friendship — of course.
Michael is gathering two tables together. He accidentally slams his knee into the table leg when he sees me approach. It’s probably because I’m lumbering to hold my baggy jeans together, or anyone on the street would get a sight they never asked for. He starts laughing. Nothing mean about his laugh. His eyes fall on my jeans; I quickly pull out a chair in front of me.
“Why?” he asks, moving his bag to give me more space.
“Why what?” The waiter arrives, we order coffee. I repeat my question.
Michael shakes his head. He’s still laughing. “You dress like an old man’s idea of a kid.”
What’s that? I throw myself on the chair, give him a withering look from behind my sunglasses. “I dress like Kurt Cobain, man.”
“Who’s that?”
Who’s that? Cute. He’s joking, right? “Are you serious? He’s only one of the biggest rockstars!”
Michael flips his laptop open and our essay appears on the screen. It does look perfect as it is. Just perfect.
“Why do you dress like this Kurt guy? You love him or something?”
Okay, no. Just no. The way he says that upsets me. I must defend myself, or he’ll think I’m some cheap-arse groupie.
“I don’t love him per se. But I look like him, so I thought it made sense, you know, to play with it.”
He cocks his head. “Oh, so you dress like someone you don’t even like because you look like him.”
“Well—”
“Isn’t it like, erasing your whole identity? Which is exactly the opposite of your rockstar lifestyle?”
Hang on. He’s not supposed to see the glitch in the Matrix. Soon he’ll start to psychoanalyse me and he’ll never speak to me again.
I throw my head back and laugh. “Can we stop talking about my fashion sense? You’re not Karl Lagerfeld, as far as I know. He’s a fashion designer, by the way.”
Michael says nothing while our waiter returns with our coffees, then he gives me a look. “I know who Karl Lagerfeld is, Louis.”
I love the way he pronounces my name, Lou-ie, like the ‘L’ is a string he particularly likes to pluck. Since we rarely meet around other people, when he says my name like that, I keep asking myself if he’s the same with everybody or performing just for me. Then I start wondering if he’s got somebody, somewhere. Perhaps he swings both ways. Will I ever know? I should learn not to care about such trivial things.
Michael is shooting me insistent looks and eventually tears me from my thoughts. A little rattled, I drink a large swig of scalding coffee to look inconspicuous.
“Do you like his music, then?” he asks.
“Who, Kurt? Yeah, sure, but he’s not my favourite.”
Michael edges closer to the edge of his seat. “Then who’s your favourite?” He couldn’t have pleased me more even if he got down on his knees and called me Jagger.
“Wait, I’ll show you.” Immediately, I jump off my chair to get my iPod out of my bag. When I turn around, the device in hand, I trip over the leg of my chair and land almost face-first onto his lap. My sunglasses slide off my nose, he catches them just before they hit the ground.
As stated previously, Michael’s a kind bloke and as such he doesn’t complain, even as he manoeuvres my sorry arse back into my chair. But from the look on his face, I can tell that I have probably broken fifteen unspoken rules and the Queen would have me put down if she knew. After we’re done making fun of my stunt, his laughter a tad nervous and mine two octaves too high, I stick an earbud into his ear and play Kaiser Chiefs’ Ruby. It’s a little loud, and I’ll be a little deaf later in life, but who cares? Most people have less interesting things to say than Kaiser Chiefs. Michael grimaces at first, but when I inch closer and put the other earbud in my ear, he grows perfectly still.
“It’s nice, I like it,” he says after a minute.
“You do?”
He gives a nod of assent. Perhaps it’s a lie, to make me happy. I can’t tell the difference, so I hold on to our earbuds. Our faces are really close: I can see every speck of gold in his green eyes. I expect he can see the same in my blue ones. Where the fuck are my shades? I look away. He does the same, glances down at my arms first, then at the iPod I’m holding between us.
When the song is over, we part from each other. Michael looks agitated. He does this thing of chewing his bottom lip when he’s thinking hard about something.
“Do you want to…”
“What?”
Whatever he’s about to say, my answer’s already YES, but despite my pleading eyes, Michael doesn’t finish his question. His face softens and relaxes at the sight of something behind me. What the fuck could be more important than talking to me at this exact moment?
I turn around. It’s Yasmine, walking her big Malinois on a tight leash. I’m acquainted with that beast, and accordingly, I withdraw my legs under my chair. Yasmine stops at our table, pulling the dog closer. The Malinois and I stare at each other. He starts panting; instinctively, I reach for my sunglasses and put them on.
As usual, Yasmine looks unimpressed, too cool for school. She leans down and pilfers one of my cigarettes.
“You guys are still working on that thing? Sacha wanted to go to the movies.”
Michael stretches his arms behind his head. “I told her I had to finish this.”
“You’re trying too hard, it’s only for Paquin.” She blows smoke out her puckered lips. Her dog begins sniffling under our table. Unnoticed, I squeeze my thighs together.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been accused of trying too hard.” I arch an eyebrow, pretending to be amused. The dog’s snout brushes against my knee.
Yasmine’s smirk tells legions. Michael casually sticks his hand under the table and pets the dog’s head. The beast shuts his eyes, satisfied. Yasmine, who rarely smiles in public, grants Michael her sweetest specimen.
“Rufus doesn’t like anyone, usually.”
“He’s adorable.”
He’s a lunatic, I swear! Michael's too innocent to know this. But of course, Michael has superpowers, everyone likes him. A rattlesnake would remove its hat to salute him. If rattlesnakes were wearing hats, that is.
Yasmine leans over the table and starts reading Paquin’s list of questions. “You missed one,” she says.
“What? Which one?” Michael bends over the list.
“Here. Question four: Which event causes Dorian to alter his life?”
Michael looks all flustered to have missed a question. The dog watches him quietly through his dark brown eyes.
“It’s getting really hot.” He wipes his brow with the back of his hand.
“Of course,” Yasmine replies. “You’re wearing fifty layers.” She points at her cropped top and high-waisted jeans.
I put my coffee cup to my lips. “She’s right.”
Just like that, Michael pulls away from the table, grips the hem of his sweater and gives the whole thing a good yank upwards. He accidentally lifts his T-shirt as well, revealing a flat tummy and an inch of neon blue underwear. It’s as though I received an electric shock: something springs up within me, rises every hair on my body. Coffee catches in my throat, sending me into a coughing fit.
Yasmine turns to me. “Jesus! You okay over there?”
“That’s really hot.” Eyes streaming, I point down at my cup of coffee. Naturally, the dog pounces on me, barking, and sticks his snout between my legs. Michael stares at me, open-mouthed, while I battle with the beast under the table. About ten seconds too late, Yasmine finally retrieves him and leaves us, laughing all the way.
There are drops of coffee all over Michael’s laptop and my embarrassment is so bad that it takes all of my willpower not to throw myself under the first passing car.
“What’s wrong, Louis?” Michael looks concerned.
“Nothing. Why are you asking this?”
“You look very anxious.”
“That’s not true.” What the hell was this? What’s happening to me? I’m shaking. I could always tell him I have epilepsy — that might work.
Michael is pinching his lips. “You’re the most anxious person I’ve ever met.”
“I’m not.”
“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing.”
I clear my throat. “I’m not. It’s just… I don’t see what more we can do for the essay, and I’d prefer to go home, so let’s get to it, so I can go home.”
Michael scratches the back of his neck. “You can go if you want. There are only a few typos to fix. I can do that myself.”
“Really?”
“I’ll take care of it, you go.”
His evident concern
for me makes it all the more devastating, but I can’t stay around him any
longer. I swing my backpack onto my shoulder, and after one last wave goodbye,
I sprint back home without a look back.
Comments (0)
See all