Unwelcome

by Michael Griffo

  Once again Michael was stunned, this time by Ronan’s words. How could he think such a thing? How? Well, maybe, Michael thought, because he was constantly suggesting that they were on the verge of eternal separation. “No!” Michael protested. “I don’t want that!” Realizing what he actually said, Michael grabbed Ronan’s arm, causing him to pull farther away. “No! I mean I want us, you and me, always, forever.”

  Michael mumbled a few more words, but Ronan didn’t hear them because he was kissing him. That’s all he wanted to know, that’s all he wanted to believe. He didn’t care about Michael’s dreams or premonitions or his crazy ideas, none of that mattered; the only thing that mattered was how wonderful Michael’s lips tasted. That and the fact that they now had less than an hour to get ready.

  Forget about visions of The Well and Brother Dahey’s portrait , that damned portrait, Ronan told himself. Our life is supposed to be filled with moments like this, mundane but real moments filled with jokes and laughter. Michael just has to stop complicating matters. “I call the bathroom first.”

  “Don’t hog it up like you usually do.” Michael laughed.

  It worked. “You do want me to look presentable for your father, don’t you?”

  “That’s just the point,” Michael cracked. “He’s my father. I should be the one making sure I look my best.”

  “Since he’s your father, he’s going to think you look smashing no matter what you look like.”

  This gave Michael the biggest laugh he’d had in days. “Seriously?! My father’ll be lucky if he recognizes me!”

  A quick kiss, one more, and Ronan ran into the bathroom. Of course the second after he closed the bathroom door, he remembered something he wanted to tell Michael. “Hey! Fritz asked if you found ‘that stuff’ for him!” Ronan shouted.

  “What stuff?”

  They were truly never going to be dressed and ready by six o’clock. “I don’t know, he wouldn’t tell me,” Ronan said, swinging the door open. “He was acting all mysterious when I questioned him about it, though. All he would say is that you promised to look for . . .” Ronan dropped his voice an octave lower. “That stuff?”

  “Oh, right, that stuff,” Michael said, remembering their conversation. “Of course.”

  First Fritz, now Michael. Was no one going to fill him in? “Oh, come on! What stuff are you talking about?”

  His dream a distant memory and dinner still a part of the future, Michael was enjoying teasing Ronan in the present. “Hmm, could be a bunch of stuff,” Michael said. “Are you jealous that Fritz and I have a secret?”

  Now it was Ronan’s turn to laugh, deep, genuine. “Jealous? Of you and Fritz? Absolutely not.” As Ronan continued to howl with laughter, Michael wasn’t sure to join in or be insulted.

  “Fritz is very handsome,” Michael protested.

  “I guess, but he’s also very straight,” Ronan pointed out. Looking at the hands of the clock moving ever closer to their time of departure, Ronan decided it was pointless to keep digging and time to act like the mature one in their relationship. “Fine, I don’t give a fig about whatever stuff there is between you and Fritz.” Turning abruptly, he went back into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  Michael stared at the closed door in disbelief and then shouted, “It’s about Tales of the Double A! I told Fritz I might have some old comic books he could use as inspiration.”

  Suddenly the door swung open. “I knew that would make you tell me.” Before Michael could respond, the door shut again. “Now hurry up and get dressed,” Ronan shouted. “We don’t have much time.”

  I’m a vampire, I need about three seconds to get dressed, Michael thought, and even if he weren’t, he didn’t care about impressing his father. He would probably just throw on jeans and a T-shirt; no need to make it look like he spent time getting ready. He had better things to do, like find those comics for Fritz, if he could only remember where he stashed them.

  He stared at the boxes on the top shelf of the closet and wished that he had X-ray vision. That would be cool, he thought, just like Superman, able to peer through solid objects, see if his old comic books were in any of those boxes, see what kind of underwear Professor McLaren wore. Michael blushed at the idea, but then couldn’t help but wonder if the handsome British lit professor wore boxers or briefs. No, he couldn’t remember putting the comics in the closet, but he did decide that McLaren was more of a boxers kind of guy.

  Pushing distracting thoughts of teachers in their underwear from his mind, Michael lay on the floor and looked underneath his bed. Dust, an old pair of Ronan’s sneakers, more dust, and yes, there they were, his comic books jutting out from behind a small shoe box. He pulled the box out and then reached in to grab his comics. Once he felt the familiar glossy material, he was transported back to his bedroom in Weeping Water. The refreshing difference was that this time, the memory was a good one.

  In between reading schoolbooks and rereading his favorite classic novels, Michael would often sit cross-legged in bed, ignore the loud, angry voices coming from downstairs, forget about whatever embarrassing incident took place that day at Two W, and immerse himself in the adventures of some superhero. He loved to read that a normal boy could become an incredible, invulnerable being overnight armed with amazing powers. He never thought his fantasy would actually come true. “Guess I am sort of like a superhero,” Michael muttered. A superhero disguised as a very curious human.

  When he pushed the shoe box back underneath the bed, the lid got caught on the metal bed frame and fell off. Grabbing the lid to put it back where it belonged, he saw that the box didn’t contain shoes but letters. He hesitated, he knew he shouldn’t rummage through things that weren’t his, but, well, it’s not like he went looking for the box nor did he open it up deliberately, it was just there, right in front of him, opened.

  Instinctively, Michael turned around, but the bathroom door was still closed and he could hear the water in the sink running, Ronan must be washing his face or brushing his teeth, whatever he was doing, he had no idea that Michael was snooping through his things. I’m not snooping, Michael told himself. I’m just getting to know my boyfriend better.

  Ignoring the rational side of his brain and the increased beating of his heart, Michael reached into the box and took out one of the letters. The envelope was a shade lighter than the color of bubble gum and Ronan’s address at Double A had been written by someone who used a very thick black marker, the writing bold and obvious as if the person were afraid the letter would never reach its recipient. Michael wondered if the person was also afraid that the letter would ever be read by anyone other than the person it was meant for. Which is not you. Once again Michael ignored the rational and very interfering voice and pulled out the letter from its envelope.

  Dear Ronan. That’s not so bad, it’s not as if it said Dearest or My dear Ronan, just plain old Dear Ronan. Michael’s luck didn’t hold out. Miss you! Can’t stand that we have to be separated, it just isn’t fair! Michael knew he should stop reading right then and there. He wanted to, he really did, but now that he had started, now that he had violated Ronan’s privacy, there was no way he was putting the letter back without reading every word on the page. Doesn’t everybody know that we’re meant to be together? I mean you know it, I know it, why can’t the stupid world just let us be together?! Promise me that you’ll come to see me! You have to, Ronan, I’ll just die if I don’t see you soon!

  The desperate plea was signed with a huge letter “S.” Michael thought about all the people he knew in Ronan’s life, and the only person whose name started with an “S” was Saxon, his father. Well, this letter definitely wasn’t written by his father, so who could it be? Mentally, Michael checked off the family and friends he had heard Ronan talk about and he realized that Ronan didn’t talk about that many people. This “S” could be anyone.

  Then things got worse. Michael searched the letter for a date, but there wasn’t one, which meant the letter could have come last ye
ar or last week. Not only didn’t he know who sent the letter, he didn’t even know when it was sent. Furious that Ronan would keep this “S” person a mystery and hide his or her letters underneath their bed, the bed they both slept in, he ripped another letter from its envelope and started reading.

  It was so good to see you today, Ronan! I was really careful just like you told me to be and I know that no one saw us. Today will be our secret, just between you and me, no one else will ever have to know.

  Well, guess what, “S.” Somebody knows and somebody isn’t happy about it! This time when Michael shoved the letter into the envelope, he noticed there was writing on the back flap. The writing looked more like scribbling and he could make out only two words—on the top line was something that looked like “Saoirse.” Must be the name of whoever sent the letter, though Michael had never seen such a name before. Underneath was some scrawl he couldn’t read, and on the bottom was written “France,” the only word that he completely understood. So “S” was Saoirse from France, whoever that was.

  Michael tried several times to pronounce the name with little success and figured it must be old-world French even though it didn’t sound it. Then again, what did he know? He didn’t know the language very well, but didn’t every word have lots of vowels that weren’t even pronounced? The one thing he was certain of was that it was a girl’s name. He just knew it. It looked like a girl’s name and the penmanship was flowery and the words, the words weren’t like the words a guy would use. At least he would never use them. But why in the world would Ronan have a box of letters from a girl? And why would he hide them under the bed?

  Michael tried to convince himself that there had to be a logical explanation for this, but unfortunately, the only logical explanation he could think of was that Ronan was lying to him.

  “Who’s Say-o-ear-see?!” Michael yelled, flinging open the bathroom door.

  For the second time in as many days, Michael had surprised Ronan while he was in the bathroom. This time he wasn’t in the shower, but at the sink shaving. Vampires didn’t age, but their hair grew. Ronan accepted it as another way to feel connected to the human race. Now as he watched a drop of blood bubble, then slowly slide down his chin, he just thought it was a nuisance. “What are you talking about?” Ronan asked, pressing his index finger against his bloody cut.

  “I’m talking about these!” Michael shouted, waving a handful of letters at Ronan. “Letters from someone named Say-o-ear-see. Who is she?”

  Licking his bloodstained finger dry, Ronan grabbed one of the letters with his free hand and immediately started to laugh.

  No way, Michael thought, he wasn’t going to get out of this by laughing. But that’s all Ronan did, laugh so hard that he dropped his razor in the sink and had to hold on to the vanity to steady himself.

  “This isn’t funny, Ronan! I thought we weren’t going to have any secrets from each other. I thought you were my boyfriend. But these are from some girl!” No, no, Michael do not cry in front of him, not again; he doesn’t deserve to see that. “I want to know right now—you tell me and do not lie to me—do you have a girlfriend stashed away somewhere in France?”

  The shaving cream felt cool against his face. That was Michael’s first impression. His second was that Ronan’s blood tasted so incredibly sweet. Ronan was kissing him; involuntarily, Michael’s tongue glided over Ronan’s and the blood from his cut still lingered in his mouth. How can I be angry at him, Michael thought, and love him so much?

  “Is that the kiss from a bloke who’s ever had a girlfriend?” Ronan asked.

  Michael allowed Ronan to keep his arms wrapped around him, his arms and chest, naked and warm, felt wonderful against his body. He stared into his beautiful blue eyes and he wished that he had never looked into that stupid box, but he had, and no matter how gorgeous Ronan looked, that fact wasn’t going to change. “Then who is she?”

  “She is my sister,” Ronan explained.

  Incredulous, Michael wasn’t sure he believed him. “Another sibling?”

  Shrugging his shoulders, Ronan replied, “Humans aren’t the only ones with complicated family trees, you know.”

  A sister? That does explain things. And what girl wouldn’t idolize a brother like Ronan. “So where is this Say-or-ear-see?” Michael asked.

  “First off, her name is pronounced Seer-sha,” Ronan said. “It’s an Irish word for freedom, and darling little Saoirse does a right fine job living up to her name.” He went on to explain that Saoirse was his younger sister, just turned fifteen, and living at Ecole des Roches, an exclusive boarding school in Normandy, France. “Fact is, even though she likes to come off as being independent, down deep she misses her big brother.”

  Grabbing a towel from the vanity, Michael wiped the globs of shaving cream that clung to his chin, his cheeks, noticing a tiny speck of blood on the towel—Ronan’s blood. No, don’t get distracted, say what you need to say, say what’s on your mind. “And you never thought to tell me about her before?”

  How could Ronan tell Michael about Saoirse when he hardly understood anything about her? She was his sister and even though she was a legend among water vamps, she was more like a stranger to him. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Michael,” Ronan said. “And there’s a lot I don’t know about you too, but . . . but we have time, lots of time to discover every detail.”

  Something wasn’t right. Michael could feel it. He pressed the towel against Ronan’s chest, using it like a barrier to create some distance. “I don’t believe you, Ronan. You’re hiding something from me. Something about Saoirse.”

  He couldn’t possibly be reading my mind, could he? No, it’s impossible. “The only thing I might be trying to hide is my own embarrassment. I haven’t been a very good brother, if you must know.” That’s good; a half-truth is always better than an out-and-out lie. “Saoirse is always begging me to visit and, honestly, Michael, I can’t remember the last time I went to see her.”

  Enough with the interrogation, Michael told himself, it was time to act like a boyfriend, stop accusing Ronan, and start offering him some help. Tugging on the waistband of Ronan’s pants, Michael pulled him closer. “Then maybe you need to take your own advice.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Reach out to your sister like you told me to reach out to my father,” Michael suggested, feeling quite proud and mature, confident that he had solved the situation in record time. What he didn’t know and what Ronan didn’t want to tell him was that if he did reach out to Saoirse, Edwige would probably disown him or at best treat him with the same kindness she showered upon Ciaran.

  “I’ll think about it,” Ronan said, swallowing hard. “But right now, love, we have to deal with repairing your family’s tattered tapestry.”

  Sadly, it soon became apparent to Michael if not to Ronan that some families were tattered beyond repair. They had gotten to the front gate with four minutes to spare and now it was a quarter past six, but still no sign of Vaughan’s driver. The only sound that interfered with Michael’s deep intakes of breath was the creaking of the metal Archangel Academy sign as it swayed in the cold January wind. The temperature had dipped several degrees and Michael was sure it was hovering around the freezing point. The cold didn’t bother him very much, but his father didn’t know that and still he left him waiting outside in the freezing weather without so much as a text to advise him that he was on his way or that he was running late. For all Michael knew, Vaughan had left on another business trip and had forgotten all about their dinner.

  “I don’t think he forgot,” Ronan said.

  There was no way Michael was going to cut his father any slack, not after he went against his gut instinct and agreed to this dinner. He had already given in as much as he was capable. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Suddenly the boys were bathed in two beams of light. “I told you he didn’t forget,” Ronan said.

  The muffled sound of the snow-covered gravel being slowl
y crushed underneath the tires accompanied the vision of the two high beams moving toward them. Vaughan’s driver had finally arrived. “It’s about time,” Michael barked. But when Jean-Paul got out of the car, Michael’s foul attitude crumbled. Long-limbed and lanky, he moved with an effortless swagger that immediately reminded Michael of R.J., the gas station attendant back home. Two memories of Nebraska in a row that didn’t make him feel miserable had to be a new record.

  “You must be Michael,” Jean-Paul said, ripping off his black leather glove with one quick tug and extending his hand to him. “I’m Jean-Paul Germaine, your father’s new driver.”

  Alistair, Professor McLaren, the new headmaster, now this one. Michael couldn’t believe how attractive he found these older men. All different, but all appealing. His feelings weren’t the same as those he had had for other kids his age and they were nothing at all like the intense feelings he had for Ronan; he simply thought these men were really handsome. The most important revelation was that Michael found it liberating to be able to acknowledge that kind of truth and not feel covered in shame, not feel like he was unnatural or wrong. Once again he was surprised by how different a person he was from just a few months ago.

  His father, unfortunately, had not changed.

  “Again?!”

  “He had to fly to Tokyo to secure a business deal that he said required hees immediate attention,” Jean-Paul conveyed.

  “Tokyo?” Ronan asked.

  “Oui, something to do with one of hees factories.” Again with the stupid factories. “Does this incredibly important emergency business deal have anything to do with those contact lenses my father’s company makes?”