“Are you deaf or what?” Tony slaps me across the back, tearing me from my thoughts. I stare at his amused face, then around me. We’re in the gymnasium’s changing rooms. Everyone’s dressed for the volleyball class starting in five minutes, except for me. My backpack’s open, my gym clothes bunched up in there amidst random papers, old pens and pieces of rubber erasers.

“What?” I bark, rubbing my eyes. I haven’t been myself this morning, ever since I woke up sweaty after four hours of awful sleep and a bunch of nonsensical dreams.

Tony, looking too skinny in his sweatpants, studies me through narrowed eyes. “You’re hungover.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You went out yesterday? With Lucie?”

I love Tony, but sometimes, he gets on my nerves. Without any hope for success, I attempt to shove my foot into my trainer. “I wasn’t with Lucie. I was at home.”

“Then why didn’t you come to my place? My mother made lasagne. You love her lasagne.”

Because! I was lying in bed in the dark, having all sorts of weird thoughts about Michael. I’m sure he’d love to find out that seeing another bloke’s underwear gave me a boner and that Yasmine’s Malinois almost chomped my dick off. I’m slowly losing my grip on reality. This morning, I was that close to running to people on the street and asking, “Tell me, am I gay??”

“Sorry, Tony. I’ll come next time.”

“There are leftovers, you know. You can come tonight.”

“Fine, tonight.”

Tony stomps his foot. “Perfect, but in the name of sweet baby Jesus, hurry! If you move it, we can share a joint by the dumpster.”

I stare down at my halfway laced-up trainers. “Nah, I’m good, thanks.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Tony slaps his hand against my forehead. I push him away.

“Nothing. I didn’t sleep well, that’s all.”

When I lift my own T-shirt over my head, I can’t help but shiver at the memory of Michael’s flat stomach. I haven’t spoken to him since. Sure, I saw him on Monday when we submitted our essay in English Lit. But I kept to myself, and as I was being stubborn in my silence, he didn’t insist; he left class without a word, and I was left to repeatedly bump my head against the table until Tony came over to get me.

I shouldn’t worry too much about it, I know. I’m almost eighteen, I’ve got hormones on fire, as the experts say on TV. I saw a flash of skin and my body reacted. It doesn’t mean I’m into guys. Just one look at Tony’s long face and dangling arms and I’m missing Lucie’s striking beauty. But something is messing with my brain; I haven’t been feeling right lately. Because if it were just this incident, right, but it’s not. Was I just not, the other day, marvelling at the elasticity of Michael’s curls? Is that really a straight thing to do? I could ask Tony if that ever happened to him…

Tony tosses my shirt at my face. “Wake up!”

Forget it. There’s no way I can ask him anything. He would never shut up about it.

“Sorry, sorry.” I hastily put the shirt on.

“Lucie’s waiting outside.”

“She can wait for a second, can’t she?”

“You’re so annoying this morning.” Tony never gets the hint to shut up. “Are you on your period or something?”

“You’re so funny.” I rise from the bench and jab a finger in his chest. “Remind me to consult you next time we have an essay on sexism.”

“Oh!” He clutches at his chest, pretending to be shocked. “Excuse me?”

“I told you I haven’t slept!”

“Confess, it’s because of the new guy.”

My heart jumps in my throat. “What? Why?”

“Is he that boring? Did he suck the life out of you?”

Once again, Tony’s got it wrong. “Just drop it, okay?”

Tony’s too entertained by my bad mood to drop it. I can see in his black eyes that he’s about to add something, and I already want to punch him in the face, but at this exact moment, Michael charges into the changing rooms, closely followed by François. They’re both flushed, as though they’ve raced the whole way here.

Seeing me with my jaw hanging open makes François look particularly chipper. Michael barely registers our presence, hurriedly opening his backpack to retrieve his gym clothes. When I realise what he’s about to do, I brutally shove Tony toward the exit.

“Come on, Lucie’s waiting outside!”

Once the door is safely shut behind us, I release a breath: the last thing I need is another glimpse at Michael’s underwear. When it comes to the sensitive subject of my genitals, I’ll take Yasmine’s Malinois over Tony’s laughter any day.

Volleyball class is just as it sounds. The class is taught — if you can call it teaching — by Mr Granger, an overweight man in his early thirties, whose baby face is always red. If Granger has given up on life by becoming a PE teacher at Colette International, he has not given up on terrorising generations of slackers through his harsh grading. Needless to say, he hates Tony and me most, especially since that time Tony tried to convince him he had developed the ability to menstruate overnight, and therefore couldn’t attend swimming lessons.

Volleyball is pretty straightforward: Granger splits us into teams, and we face each other while he watches lazily, drinks coffee, and types on the keyboard of his old Pocket PC. There’s no way I’ll distinguish myself as a brilliant athlete today, so I’m not expecting a good grade and I’m not too anxious about it.

Lucie’s great at volleyball, she can throw a nasty punch, and I’m not the only one who gazes at her longingly while she plays. She trots toward us in her gym shorts and swaying ponytail, meaning business, and hands me a hair tie. “So you don’t miss the ball this time.”

It happened once, okay? My hair fell over my eyes like a curtain, I missed the ball, and our team lost. She never got over it.

“Why are you helping me?” I gratefully accept the hair tie and begin pulling my hair back. “You’re on the other team.”

“Exactly. I don’t want to have to watch you fail miserably.” When I’m done tying my hair in a low ponytail, Lucie watches the result with glowing cheeks. “Your hair looks so good these days.”

“Jesus Christ!” Tony exclaims, bending close to the top of my skull to take a better look. “It’s true, your hair’s been weird all week. You’re washing it, aren’t you?” He puts his hand on his hip, looking thoughtful. “You know, that’s not the only thing that’s different about you.” He turns to Lucie. “The other day he stopped at the papeterie outside my flat and bought a binder and notebooks and shit.”

“What?” I try not to sound too defensive. “I needed new supplies.”

“Lou, you never even take notes.”

“You don’t, baby,” Lucie agrees, laughing.

“I do now.” My cheeks heat up. “I need good grades, you know, for London.”

A brief silence settles between us, before Tony lunges at me and ruffles my hair.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his face splitting into an evil grin. “That was too tempting.”

Lucie, laughing at my disgruntled face, blows me a kiss and walks over to the other side of the net, where Michael is also standing, flanked by Sacha and Yasmine. Sacha looks angry and Michael is pretending to be absorbed by the structure of the net.

I jerk my chin toward Sacha. “What’s up with her?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “She’s mad at New Guy.”

“Michael?” My heart thumps. “Why?”

“Who gives a shit? Some girls’ stuff.” He laces his fingers behind his head. “I tell you what. I’ll tell you everything if I can bum a cigarette later.”

“Fine. Now, tell me. I can’t wait for you to explain to me how you became an expert on ‘girls’ stuff’.”

He lets out an enormous bark of laughter. “Ha! What do you think?”

“Lucie told you, and you thought the information too irrelevant to share with me.”

“Bingo.”

I shake my head, amused. “So, what’s up with Sacha?”

“She thought she could get herself a nice juicy slice of British pound cake, if you know what I mean.”

“You are so gross.”

He shrugs. “Anyway, that’s not gonna happen.”

“Why not?” My heart rate kicks up another notch. “She is… ahem… great.” I’m such a hypocrite. Tony’s eyebrows rise to his hairline; he seems to agree with me.

“Sure, Sacha’s great. Anyway, New Guy’s got a girl back home.”

A little glass bubble shatters in the confines of my chest. I glance up toward the windows above the stands, the milky-white sky staring back at me, indifferent.

Michael’s got a girl, back home.

“So,” Tony says, now making ridiculous poses to stretch his legs, “Sacha’s pissed off, she’s wasted a lot of energy on him since he arrived, and it was all for nothing. And Lucie comforted her, even though Sacha’s a bit much. But I was telling Lucie, you know what? We know her, she’ll bounce back, she’ll find a way to get around that small complication.”

A small what? Well, it’s not like I never thought it was possible. It’s just that… you know… He never told me. Why wouldn’t he tell me? He’s acting like we’re best friends, but he didn’t tell me he had a girl back home. What’s her name? What does she look like? Unsurprisingly, my imagination kick-starts with no regard for the truth, and the image of a brunette in a schoolgirl skirt and tweed jacket, striking sexy poses for him on a velvet bedspread, flashes before my eyes.

Michael has a girlfriend. I could have asked him this question a million times. He would have told me, if only I’d asked. All my stupid little questions would have been answered, and we would have moved on. Michael isn’t gay, sorry, François. He’s got a girlfriend, sorry, Sacha.

Now I can stop acting crazy. No more asking myself weird questions which fuck with my brain, my sleep, and occasionally, my manhood. All is well in the world. Rubbing my hands together, I jump into the game with a newfound determination.

Ten minutes later, they’re destroying us. The third time François slams into me, allegedly to get the ball — but I think it’s just good old sabotage — I’m ready to throw in the towel. My already thin motivation to honour my team has pretty much evaporated. I remove myself to the back of our team to watch better athletes than myself take care of business.

On the other side of the net, Lucie, her face glowing, is an absolute beast. Everyone watches in awe and no girl in their right mind is tempted to comment on the sweat pooling down at the small of her back. Behind her, Michael looks taller than the others, second to Lars. But contrary to Lars, he’s too much of a gentleman to stare at Lucie’s arse. Sacha, on the other hand, won’t take her eyes off his. Classic.

Tony joins me, breathing hard. “Fuck this.” He leans against me for support while he adjusts his shoe.

“My thoughts exactly.” I sound bitter, I realise.

Tony points toward Lucie. “She’s so good, though.”

“She’s perfect.”

Tony adds something, but I’m not paying attention. Sacha is approaching Michael, a determined look on her face. She raises herself on tiptoes, whispers something in his ear. Michael’s eyes widen, his mouth stretches into a smile, he laughs. Then, quick as a fox, he spots the ball François is hurtling at him and throws it right back at him with great agility, scoring another point. His team cheers; Lars headlocks him, buries his chin into his hair to congratulate him. Some people know absolutely no boundaries! Who does he think he is?

Michael doesn’t seem to mind. He pulls at the band of his sweatpants with one hand and uses the other to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Sacha’s burning eyes are not leaving him. It’s a shame, really. Isn’t it, Sacha? A real shame.

Tony tugs at my sleeve. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Sure.”

Sacha walks over to Michael again. A bead of sweat glimmers at the edge of his full eyebrow. Slowly, he lifts his hand and runs his long fingers through his dark, glistening curls. His nostrils flare with each of his strained breaths. His sharp green eyes never leave the ball.

Sacha speaks. Startled, Michael jerks his head back, sends heaps of curls bouncing like a flock of fat little lambs, and—

WHAM!

Something hits me square in the eye with the force of a wrecking ball and flattens me to the ground, knocking the air out of me. Bouncing lambs give way to an explosion of stars. Somewhere around me, the sound of Tony’s laughter and Granger’s whistle reach me.