But the thing that sticks out the most at this moment, like a sore thumb or an iceberg painted neon, is Michael and how calm he is.
“You’re not afraid.” I dumbly state this, rather than ask him the question.
Michael tips his head back, and the large ice cubes in his glass clink together and brush against his nose as he tries to get the last drop from the bottom of his drink.
“Should I be? Do I have a reason to be afraid of you, Andre?”
“Most people would be afraid of random men appearing in their house.”
“You’re not the first, and I doubt you’ll be the last,” he teases, putting his bowl in the sink. “And besides, you seem scared enough for the two of us. You’re better dressed today, though.”
I look down quickly to examine myself.
“Something about it fits you.” Michael gives me another look up and down before walking to the couch and jumping over the back side of it. He heads upstairs.
Without hesitation, I follow.
When we enter a room, I realize that it’s his room—and that in the 2021 floor plan, it’s the upstairs living room. Mom and Dad blew the walls out in order to make the master bedroom bigger.
Michael walks over to his desk, where a record player sits, and moves the needle over the vinyl. A sharp sound fills the air, and then a soft aria ripples through the room.
“Do you know who this is?” he asks as he makes waves in the air with his fingers, which move smoothly along with the music.
“Opera?”
“I didn’t ask what,” he says, with no obvious sharpness. “I said who.”
“A woman.”
“Now you’re trying to be difficult.” Half a beat passes. “It’s a good look on you, even if you’re wrong. It’s Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. ‘Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen.’”
“Gesundheit.”
Michael smiles and shakes his head, focusing on lighting a blunt between his fingers. It takes him four clicks of the lighter to finally catch it. He takes a deep drag, the end glowing a mix of blacks, oranges, and reds. As he exhales, tendrils of white smoke dance and twirl in the air, disappearing as they rise higher and higher.
“Not my thing,” I say. Isobel does it, but only because of her girlfriend Stacey. Stacey always says it’s not a big deal.
Yet Isobel never wants to talk about it after she’s done it.
“More for me then,” he replies happily, taking another long drag. Michael stretches, showing his abs, and moves to sit on the edge of the bed, crossing his legs at his ankles. He closes his eyes, rests his arms behind his head, and presses the blunt between his lips while he lazily breathes out smoke.
“As much as I love having a handsome man in the house with me, you know you’re going to have to tell me how you got here, right?” he says, not opening his eyes. “Because if my parents come home and see you here, we’re going to need to have our stories straight. So they don’t call the pigs.”
Did he just say what I think he said? Does he believe me? I fall silent thinking my word choice over.
“You’re not worried about them, you know, finding alcohol and weed in here? How old are you, anyway?”
“Weed.” He chuckles, opening one eye. “You sound like a white boy.”
I pause, ignoring that racially loaded statement, and instead search for the right word. “Ganja?”
“Better.” Michael winks, then closes his eyes again. “And I’m eighteen. You?”
“Seventeen. Going back to the topic at hand. You believe me?”
Michael shrugs and takes another drag. “Twice you’ve just randomly appeared. One of those times, you also randomly disappeared, and if I were a gambling man, which I am, I’d bet you’ll do it again. It’s not about belief anymore, it’s about trusting what’s in front of me. Sit.”
It feels awkward to sit on the edge of the bed with my back straight, while Michael is so calm. I don’t know anyone who would be so chill about someone appearing in their home. Mom and Dad would send Clyde after an intruder. Isobel would throw things, like she did during Halloween last year when we watched The Strangers and her dad suddenly came home.
Michael isn’t like any of those people. He isn’t like anyone, actually. He’s slower moving, calmer. Quieter too. Like stress is something he’s aware of, but he doesn’t let it consume him.
I wish I were more like him.
Reluctantly, I give it a try, slowly leaning back, sinking into the bed.
“Tell you what,” Michael says, turning toward me and opening his blue eyes. “Let’s make a game out of it. You answer one question of mine, and I’ll answer one of yours. Complete honesty. That way, if you have some silly story about how you got here, which I’m betting you do, it’s an even trade. I get to hear about the future from you, and you get to hear some wild shit about the past from me. Stuff I bet isn’t in your history books.”
“No judgment?”
Michael shakes his head. “Besides, who am I to judge you? Like you said…” He gestures to the bowl of half-smoked weed—ganja—and liquor bottles. “I’m not exactly a saint.”
I turn to face Michael, searching his eyes for any sort of lie. Mom says you can always tell someone’s truth if you look in their eyes long enough. It’s how she vets candidates before taking them on.
If someone’s lying to you, stare at them, she told me on the way to mock debate finals last year. Liars always break.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it sounded suspiciously like something you would do to show dominance over a dog.
But Michael doesn’t waver. He holds my stare—doesn’t even blink. Instead, he playfully snaps his teeth at me, laughing one of those full body laughs.
“Let’s get the most awkward question out of the way first, hmm? How did you get here? By here I mean my house.”
There’s no easy way to answer that question. No way that wants to just pour out of me. I start, but it feels like my mouth is filled with hardening molasses.
What if he’s asking me these questions because he doesn’t really believe me? What if he wants to lock me up or something? Can he even do that? I could just time travel away, right? But what if I can’t?
But, deep down, do I really think Michael is that type of person? Even sitting here, his body so relaxed and at peace, tapping his blunt to an invisible beat, he seems…not at all worried or concerned or whatever synonym better fits the mood.
So I take a leap of faith.
“Time travel,” I say in one quick breath.
It takes a moment for it to register on Michael’s face, like he’s not sure if I’m telling the truth.
“Oh, wait, you’re serious,” he says, nodding and rubbing his hands together. “Okay, I’m with you. So time travel is how you got here?”
“I think.”
“You think? Like, you’re not sure?”
“Before I say anything or even attempt to explain it, I want you to know that I fully understand how unreal this sounds. And no, I can’t explain it.
“I have two options.” I take a few moments to practice in my head what I’m going to say. “The first is that I’m dreaming, or in a medically induced coma from hitting my head, and all of the past three days is some complex hallucination that is deeply rooted in my subconscious and my desire to be someone, which has been instilled in me by my parents for as long as I can remember.”
“And the other option?”
“That, somehow, I’m time traveling into the past, and I’m tied to you or this house…because this is my house in the future.”
“Is that a question or a statement?”
I pause. “Both?”
The sounds of the neighborhood around us fill the air once again, plugging the space that my silence leaves. Or attempting to. Neither of us talking is a deafening thing.
“Oh, they totally do. But, between you and me, number two actually makes more sense than number one.”
Before I can chime in, he explains.
“Number one means that I’m just a figment of your imagination, right? If this is all a ‘manifestation,’ then I’m not really real. Which can’t be true, since I have memories, experiences, and independent thoughts, and I can do this.”
Suddenly, he leans over and presses his lips against my cheek. It feels like being burned, but in a good way, like his lips are going to leave a searing mark on my flesh that’s impossible to get rid of.
Michael pulls back as if nothing happened. It’s only a peck, sure. I’ve given Isobel more sensual kisses than that. But…the fact that he did it so casually? And that it came from a guy? It makes my cheeks burn, and my head feel dizzy.
I look over at Michael with a sideways glance, like if I move too quickly, this will all shatter. He’s gone back to smoking.
“Plus, and I mean this nicely, you’re definitely out of sight.”
“Excuse me?”
“You dress funny. You talk funny. Hell, you move funny. Hence, weird. Luckily, I like weird. Especially weird, cute guys.”
“You don’t think I’m lying?” I ask, ignoring his flirting as best I can.
“We’re all lying about something, Andre. And, if I may, the idea that something out there—or someone—has connected us? That out of all the gin joints in all the world you walked into mine?” He looks over, his shaggy hair now in front of his eyes. “That’s unreal. And I like when things are unreal. And I prefer to think that’s what this is, rather than accepting that my existence doesn’t matter in the grander scheme of things.”
When I was young and afraid of something, instead of comforting me with platitudes, my mother and father explained facts to me. Told me how irrational my fears were.
My family is a family of science. My father? The biological. My mother? The statistical. We don’t believe in this.
But this moment, sitting here with Michael, listening to him hum under his breath to the music? It feels like magic.
Eight
Hanging out with Michael is as easy as breathing.
We spend hours talking and laughing. Occasionally, we argue, but it’s never more than a small debate. And when we do, we pause, compare words, and make jokes at each other’s expense about how different we are.
In many ways, the most important ways, I guess that makes us the same.
Sounds like the message on some half-price greeting card or something.
Until he asks me that question, sometime between four and five o’clock in the morning, that no one ever likes hearing.
“Mind if I ask you a personal question?”
I know what that means. It’s like saying, No offense, but…
Spoiler: these questions are always, always offensive.
I don’t look at him as he turns to face me. I keep my eyes trained ahead, memorizing the disfigured shapes formed from the warped ceiling.
“Sure.”
He hesitates for a moment—for so long that the tension settles, and I think he won’t ask it. A part of me prays that he won’t. But Michael isn’t that type of guy.
“Are you gay?”
The question comes out of left field, or at least it feels like it does. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been asked that. I’m not saying I live some perfect life where everyone just knows or doesn’t dare assume, but the question, so blunt and direct, makes me refocus my attention.
“Why does it matter?”
Michael shrugs. “Just curious.”
It’s a decoy answer. Something you say to relax your target before laying the real hard-hitting question or statement on them. Give them a false sense of security, and then throw them off guard.
But if I know that going in, then I have the advantage. So I bite.
“You first.” I throw it back to him. It gives me a moment to think.
But Michael doesn’t hesitate. “Oh, I’m gay. I mean, come on. Look at me,” he teases and gives a fake muscleman pose. It causes his shirt to ride up again and his biceps, lean but well-defined muscles, to flex, and I can’t help but smile.
“I look like this, and I’m going to be a world-famous musician. I can’t lose.”
“A world-famous musician, huh?”
He nods firmly. “You heard it here first. I’m going to join a band, play for Wayne Shorter or Herbie Hancock or someone.”
“Who?”
Michael blinks owlishly. “Seriously? You don’t know who… Jazz musicians, Andre. Come on, now. You should know this.”
“Because I’m Black?”
“Because you seem like a cultured person,” he scoffs. “Do you at least know who Joan Didion is?”
I nod. “The author. Everyone knows her.”
He lets out a fake deep breath. “Thank God you at least know that cultural icon. I want to be an author like her too. Obviously, I’m still trying to figure this whole career-for-life thing out. But I’m certain I’m going to be some kind of artist. You can put your money on that one.”
I wonder, for a moment, what would happen if I told my parents I wanted to be a musician. Would they throw me out of the house? Would they even care? Music is a science and an art. Quarter notes, half notes—that’s all math, and I’m good at that.
But a musician is not a doctor. Nothing else matters besides that.
“Plus, it means I get to travel. Really see the world and its people, you know? That sounds great.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see him looking at me. “You never answered me.”
“Yes, I’m gay,” I say, as easily as he did. And, to keep with the theme of describing our futures, I add, “I want to be… I’m going to be a doctor.” I pause. “A double doctor, actually.”
He quirks his brow.
“I want to have an MD and a PhD. An MD in oncology and a PhD in biomedical research with a focus on transplant sciences, to be exact.”
Michael whistles. “That’s a cancer doctor, right?”
“Mm-hmm. There’s something cool about taking complex problems and finding a solution that saves someone’s life.”
“How did you decide?”
“It’s the most stable field out there. People will always get cancer,” I say, which isn’t a lie, but its easier than going into the whole I-had-cancer-so-it’s-close-to-my-heart discussion.
Michael’s face screws into a frown. “So you’re doing it because it’s stable? Not because you want to?”
“Can’t it be both?”
“Is it both?”
A leading question, I think, but I also don’t know the answer to it. Ever since I was little and told my parents that I wanted to be a doctor, they helped suggest what field I should specialize in. From a young age, the choices were limited: family medicine, oncology, or cardiovascular medicine. Cardio was quickly thrown out when it became evident that I don’t have outstanding fine motor skills. And family medicine…that just seemed so boring to them.
Oncology was the right choice. The best choice. We all agreed. At least, that’s how I remember it.
I shrug and give a not-quite-full answer as a reply. “Mom and Dad are both doctors, but more doctors of research. Academic ones. They have always just wanted what’s best for me.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Do you want to be a doctor because you want to be one or because your parents want you to be one?”
There it is.
“Because you seem so much more interesting than someone who does something just to please Daddy.”
I shove him hard enough for his body to sway, but not enough to really move him.
“I’m sick. Well, I used to be sick. I still
could be—who knows?”
Usually, people tense up when I say that. They back away and stumble over their words. But Michael doesn’t.
In fact, he moves closer to me. Close enough that his body heat radiates against mine, warming my skin. The faint smell of cigarette smoke is stronger than it was a few moments ago but not overpowering.
“Like, sick sick?”
I shake my head. “You can’t catch it. Don’t worry.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I have—had cancer a while back.”
Michael sits up on his elbows, eyes wide. It’s not the usual reaction I get from people when I tell them that, but it’s similar. Surprise. Pity. Fear. All rolled into one neat package.
“Seriously? You okay?”
I nod again. “Cancer of the liver.” I pull up my shirt, showing him the scar. I wince as his fingers move gently over it, tracing the rivers and valleys from the sutures.
“Sorry.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“Oh, so you’re just ticklish. Noted.”
“I’m just not used to someone doing that. Anyway, it’s what gave me this ability to travel.”
He gives me a puzzled look.
“Long story. Circles back to what I said before—about, you know, time travel.”
“We’ve got time.” He grins in a boyish way that shows off dimples I’ve never noticed before.
In response, I hit him with my foot. “I got this cancer thanks to a hepatocellular carcinoma; you don’t need to remember that.”
“Thank God.”
“I want to find a cure for it. That’s why I want to become a doctor. I’ll go to an Ivy for undergrad, then Harvard for medical school and my doctorate. New York for my postdoc. And we’ll see what happens there.”
“No breaks?” Michael asks, obviously surprised.
“I don’t have time for that.”
Yesterday Is History Page 5
