Unnatural

by Michael Griffo

  A few yards from him was the most beautiful face he had ever seen. The boy was a student, maybe a year older. He couldn’t tell. But despite the distance, he could tell he had a manliness about him that Michael had yet to possess. As the raindrops started to fall with increased speed, Michael blinked the wetness from his eyes so he could see more clearly. The boy’s face was extremely masculine, with a strong jaw and high, sculpted cheekbones, no longer a boy’s face but not entirely a man’s. Regardless of his age, the boy’s face was rugged, fierce, but with blue eyes so shimmery, almost the color of the silver moonbeams that danced above his head, that it gave him a much softer glow. Who in the world was this?

  Thunder roared overhead as if to announce the introduction of one to the other and the rain fell down harder, but neither boy moved. Michael lowered his gaze and saw that the body too looked strong. Underneath his wet T-shirt, his chest and biceps curved and his skin looked so pale, it was like white marble. Without touching the skin, Michael knew how it would feel, like cool water over rock-hard stone. Michael blinked again and when he opened his eyes he saw that the boy was looking directly at him, unsmiling but inviting. It was unnerving, though not in a frightening way, and Michael was completely calm and fascinated by every detail of this boy, his arms hanging loose, easily, at his side, his hair, jet black, thick, and straight, lifted slightly by the wind. But when he noticed that this boy, this apparition, this miracle, was still staring back at him through the raindrops, Michael could feel his heart pound within his chest. This is it, Michael thought, this is the thing I’ve been waiting for, something good. And then things got better still as Michael watched the boy start to move toward him.

  Even if Michael wanted to run away from him or run toward him, he couldn’t; he was incapable. He wasn’t going anywhere. He watched as this handsome stranger walked, walked, walked over to him in a few relaxed strides and stopped to stand directly in front of him. How could someone who looked so strong and, yes, brutal move with such a fluid grace? Michael had no answers. He was just grateful that this stranger, bathed in moonlight, washed in rain, allowed the first few seconds of their meeting to play out in silence so he could catch his breath.

  “My name is Ronan,” the stranger said, in an accent much less refined than Ciaran’s. Michael could feel breath escape from his lips, but not words. It was only when he remembered something else from his mother’s letter could he speak. No matter where you go, you can’t run from who you truly are.

  “I’m Michael.”

  Neither one of them extended a hand to the other and yet they both felt completely connected. It was as if they both understood that a handshake was not for them; they were destined for a different kind of connection, something more intense, better.

  “I’ve never seen you before,” Ronan whispered gruffly.

  “I’m new,” Michael told him. “Just arrived today.”

  “Well, then,” Ronan said, pausing to stare deeper into Michael’s eyes, “this is my lucky day.”

  Michael had no response. This was the stuff of dreams, the kind of stuff that he made up as he was falling asleep or seconds after waking. Wait, could it be? This boy looked just like the boy from his dreams, from the ocean. No, that wasn’t possible. This was real, this was better than any dream because in spite of what he dreamt in the past, he never fully allowed himself to believe that another teenage boy would speak to him like this; no matter how much he wanted it to happen, he always felt it was wrong. But make no mistake, Ronan was speaking to Michael in the way he dreamed someone would, softly, romantically, and with heartfelt interest. Yes, Ronan had spoken only a few words to him, but he sensed that he wanted to say so much more. As did Michael. But further conversation would have to wait for another time.

  “It’s getting late,” Ronan said, not taking his eyes off of Michael. “I should be getting back to my dorm.”

  “I’m here at St. Peter’s,” Michael offered, not really knowing why.

  “I’m in St. Florian’s.” That’s why. Now Michael knew where Ronan lived.

  Michael pushed his feet into the ground a bit more firmly and resisted the urge to run. “It was very nice meeting you, Ronan.”

  “You too.” But Michael almost missed his reply; he was too busy staring at the raindrops falling from Ronan’s nose, onto his lips, his chin. Regaining his focus, Michael replied, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” Ronan answered, his mouth forming a wet smile. “You will.”

  And that, Michael thought as he closed the door to St. Peter’s, was how it began. Before the door completely closed, he stole one more glance but couldn’t find Ronan anywhere. Was he an apparition? No, no, that was absurd; he was real even though the encounter had an air of the unreal to it. Ronan was flesh and blood and, best of all, perfect.

  Dried, dressed, and ready for bed, his first night in his new home, Michael’s head swam with images of the day. It was a whirlwind. The rain was still pounding the earth outside, hitting the window next to his bed, reminding him of Ronan. He looked across the room and saw Ciaran about to get into his own bed and he could no longer keep this stranger to himself.

  “Ciaran?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know someone named Ronan?”

  Did Ciaran’s body stiffen? It was dark in the room, so Michael couldn’t tell, but he was certain that his body language meant he recognized the name. “Why do you ask?”

  “I met him in front of the cathedral. He seems …” Michael couldn’t finish the sentence because he really didn’t know how to put his feelings into words. This was all very new to him, and Ronan seemed unlike every other boy, man, person he had ever met. Even though he had been in his presence only for a few minutes—they hadn’t even touched—the impression Ronan made, like his beautiful face, was incredibly strong.

  “Yes, he does make … quite an impact.”

  So Ciaran does know him. I knew it. Not that that meant anything. Double A wasn’t that large a school. “So I wasn’t just imagining things,” Michael said, hoping it didn’t sound as dumb to Ciaran as it did to him.

  “No, you didn’t imagine a thing.” Ciaran rolled over onto his side, his face turned away from Michael’s. “His name is Ronan Glynn-Rowley,” Ciaran said quietly. “He’s my half brother.”

  chapter 6

  When Michael woke up, Ciaran was already gone. Sitting up in bed, the room half-lit by the morning sun, he could see that Ciaran’s bed was made, his backpack, which had been propped up against his dresser the night before, no longer there. He leaned forward and saw that the bathroom door was open, the room dark. He was certain he was alone.

  Michael threw the covers off to the side, and when his feet hit the floor, he saw the note next to the lamp on his dresser. I had an early lab. Meet me at ten in front of St. Joshua’s. C. Michael wasn’t sure what this meeting would be about, but he hoped it would have something to do with Ronan.

  He couldn’t believe the boy he met last night in the rain was his dorm mate’s half brother. How incredibly perfect. Michael had wanted to question Ciaran further about their relationship; in fact, he wanted to hear every single detail Ciaran could offer about Ronan, but he got the sense that, at least for the time being, Ciaran had said all he wished to on the matter. Just because they were related didn’t mean they were close or that they even liked each other. Michael should understand that better than anyone. So instead of pursuing the topic, Michael lay awake in bed most of the night and made up his own stories. He imagined that Ronan and Ciaran had the same father but different mothers and grew up in separate parts of Great Britain and were reunited only when they attended the same school. Then he imagined they had the same mother, who raised them side by side on a rambling estate or who brought them with her while she traveled the world. No matter what the scenario, each one ended in the same way, with Ronan introducing Michael to his new family. This is Michael, Ronan would say, terrifically happy but with a trace of shyness in his voice. His parents
would welcome Michael into their lives graciously and Ciaran would embrace him with a warm hug and whisper something in his ear. What did he say? He could never clearly make out Ciaran’s words, so he made up his own: Welcome to the family.

  In the shower Michael closed his eyes and imagined that the water was rainfall. He pictured himself outside, naked, concealed by the overhanging branches of one of the sprawling trees. Facing him, his back leaning against the tree, wearing the academy’s uniform, sheltered from the rain, was Ronan.

  Like hundreds of tiny streams, the warm currents slid down Michael’s face, his arms, zigzagged across his stomach, curled around his legs while Michael kept his eyes closed and visualized Ronan watching the water crisscross his body. He sighed involuntarily, thinking what it would be like to be examined like that, so thoroughly and completely scrutinized. The vision was almost too intense. He pressed his hand against the porcelain to steady himself. This was better than anything he had ever imagined before, better than R.J. and all the other boys, because they were just faces, bodies, people he would never really connect with, boys he would never really know. But with Ronan, there was a sliver of possibility.

  When he finally opened his eyes, he stood motionless and waited for his breathing to return to normal. The water poured down over him and washed away the soap that he had lathered all over his body. He turned off the water, grabbed a towel off the rack, and buried his face in it. Smiling into the softness, the image of Ronan fully dressed, leaning against the tree and staring at him, just would not go away.

  His uniform fit perfectly. His father had managed to pick out all the right sizes, and there was something about the regimented look of the outfit that suited Michael, much more so than the jeans and T-shirts he wore every day at Two W. Already, that part of his life seemed so far away. He looked into the mirror and searched for traces of Nebraska. It appeared that his past had been stripped from him. The only time it crept in was when he made his tie. A memory enveloped him, his grandpa standing behind him, both hands holding the two ends of a tie, folding, wrapping underneath, pulling fabric between fabric, creating a knot, all the while instructing Michael, teaching him how a man ties his tie. Michael couldn’t remember what event they were attending that called for him to dress so formally, but he could remember, very clearly, the smell of nicotine on his grandpa’s fingertips and the pride in his voice. “You’re gonna drive them girls crazy today, Michael, just you wait ’n see.” No matter how nice Grandpa tried to be, Michael thought, he always ruined everything.

  Before the eight o’clock bell rang to announce the start of the day, Michael was already sitting in his seat in his world history class, notebook open, pen out, and amazed by his new surroundings. This classroom was a combination of old-world style and modern technology and was a vast improvement over the ones at Two W. There, everything looked out-of-date despite the fact that the school was only three decades old. The walls were institutional gray, the carpet a shade darker and stained, the blackboards the same as the ones used in nursery schools, and the technical resources rudimentary. Here, the walls were made of the same large stones seen on the exterior of the buildings, and the floor was thick planks of wood that gave the room an antiquated feel, but the technology was cutting edge. In the front of the classroom, in place of a blackboard, there was a large flat-screen television, probably sixty inches, built into the wall and flanked by two narrow Smartboards; and a wireless laptop was sitting atop a mahogany podium. Michael presumed the teacher typed on it to display text that was then transferred onto the screen. The only accessory the classroom seemed to lack was Ronan.

  Michael’s eyes kept darting to the front door every time another student entered just in case Ronan happened to begin his day with world history as well. No such luck. He did, however, notice Penry, whose face, upon seeing Michael, brightened, and whose walk quickened so he could grab the empty seat next to him.

  “Welcome to Wind Up the Willows,” Penry said.

  Confused, Michael replied, “This isn’t world history?”

  Penry laughed, which for him came quite naturally. “It is, mate. Willows is the professor.”

  “Oh. Is he tough?” Michael asked.

  “You know The Wind in the Willows, don’t you?” Michael was familiar with the classic story. “Well, Old Man Willows is not only filled with hot air, but he’s also got a bug up his arse.” Penry laughed again. “Takes this whole world history thing very seriously, you know. Just do your reading and you’ll be fine.”

  Penry’s laughter was contagious; unable to resist, Michael found himself laughing along with him. Yesterday Ciaran, today Penry. It felt good to share a laugh with someone. He could count on his left hand the times he shared a laugh or a joke with someone at Two W. How remarkable that he could feel so lonely at a school where he knew almost all the students since childhood, and yet here on his first day in a brand-new school, where he knew only a handful of students for less than twenty-four hours, he already felt like part of the group. Even when Mr. Willows, looking as old and dour as Penry implied, made him stand up and introduce himself to the class, he felt more at ease than when he had to read aloud at Two W. He hoped it wasn’t simply beginner’s luck.

  Halfway through British literature, his second class of the day and another class that he shared with Penry, Michael hardly felt like a beginner. It was a strange feeling. He had assumed there would be more of a learning curve, a longer period of adjustment, but no. Two classes in and he felt like he had attended Double A for years. Sure, his journey had only just begun, but already he liked the energy, the pace, the more advanced level of teaching. He also had to admit that he liked being in a classroom made up exclusively of boys.

  Surprisingly, he wasn’t distracted. If anything, he was more focused on the subject matter because although he found many of the boys attractive, he also found them smart and inquisitive. Unlike most of the boys and even the girls back at Two W, these students, from what he could tell so far, wanted to learn, respected education, and were interested in expanding their already impressive minds. Michael was thrilled to be a part of their company; he too wanted to absorb as much information as he could. But he was still a teenager, and try as he might to reel in his thoughts, his mind did stray. While he listened and took notes during Professor McLaren’s lesson about morality among the different social classes as played out in Middlemarch, he kept glancing at the clock above the door, almost willing the hands to reach ten o’clock so he could race to St. Joshua’s during his free period to meet Ciaran and talk about Ronan. Finally the time had come.

  “I’ve got bio for the next two hours,” Penry announced. “Save me a seat at lunch.”

  “Of course,” Michael replied. Saving a seat at lunch for a classmate. That would be another first.

  Making a left out of the building, Michael walked until he reached St. Jerome’s, where all of the foreign language classes took place, then made a right. Although the buildings looked as if they were placed haphazardly, they were actually sectioned off into groups of four and categorized by subject matter. Michael didn’t have the whole campus memorized, but before he left his room that morning, he made sure he knew the route from British lit to St. Joshua’s Library. He wanted to get there as quickly as possible.

  Even though it was September, there was already a chill in the air—this was northern England after all—but Michael could feel heat fill his cheeks and flame out to his ears and he felt beads of sweat form on the palms of his hands. He wasn’t flushed because he was walking quickly; it was because of what he saw in the distance. In front of St. Joshua’s he saw Ciaran, and standing next to him was Ronan.

  There he was. He wasn’t merely a dream, he was a person. Involuntarily, Michael’s face broke into a smile. How odd that he just couldn’t hide his true emotions; he had gotten so good at doing that back home. But here and now, he reminded himself, he had to. He couldn’t risk everything by walking up to Ronan with a beaming grin, smiling as if their meet
ing last night was anything more than unexpected. As if it was the beginning of something. But it was. It was and Michael knew it. Even though he had no proof, no logic as backup, he knew that last night underneath the moon and the rain, in front of the cathedral, something had begun. However, today in the sunlight he had to at least try to act as if last night was mere happenstance.

  Despite his conviction to act casual, he felt his pace quicken and so he forced himself to slow down. Mustn’t look too eager. His slower strides also allowed him to take in the view for a few more seconds and he had to admit it was a captivating one. The two boys looked nothing alike, Michael remarked to himself, with Ciaran tall and lean, and Ronan shorter and more muscular. But beyond the physical dissimilarities, there was something else that separated the two, an intangible quality, almost like a class difference. Ciaran and Ronan may have been half brothers, but to Michael they just didn’t look as if they were part of the same family. And by the way they stood next to each other, bodies facing in separate directions, not speaking, he got the distinct impression they both wished they weren’t.

  As nonchalantly as possible, Michael wiped his right palm against his leg to dry it off in case Ronan wanted to shake his hand today. He didn’t want their first touch to be sweaty. But Michael didn’t have to worry because when Ciaran muttered, “I think you two already know each other,” Ronan nodded slightly but kept his hands in his pockets. Somewhat more verbal, Michael was able to add a “yes” to his nod.

  The three of them sat in the anteroom to the main library. It wasn’t a large room but one where conversation was allowed. In front of them was a bay of windows that allowed the light to illuminate and heat the room, and to their left was a large fireplace, unlit at the moment. Its size meant it would be a great help during the winter months when the room would need more than sunlight to create warmth. Above the fireplace in a beveled gold frame was a huge painting of a monk, Brother Dahey, according to the small inscription, who Michael presumed was one of the founders of Archangel Academy or at least a prominent person in its history. He was dressed in a simple brown robe, his red hair cut short in the unflattering style adopted by monks in the fifteenth century, and while his expression was serious, it was oddly alluring. But there was something wrong with the painting. The monk’s eyes were incredibly black, not typical for a redhead, yet that wasn’t completely it. Then Michael realized he didn’t see any rosary beads hanging from his waist or around his neck. Despite attending mass regularly on Sundays, Michael didn’t know a great deal about religion, but he thought monks were supposed to adorn themselves with rosary beads or at least a crucifix. Wasn’t that the whole point of their existence? And wasn’t the whole point of his being here to get to know Ronan better? Ecumenical ponderings would have to wait until another time because Michael needed to concentrate on making a good impression.