I Want to Kiss You in Public

by Zelda French

  Because I know exactly what my quarrel with François is, I start laughing.

  Tony shrugs, a smirk on his lips. “What? Who’s the one shitting on other people now?”

  “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “No, you don’t.” His confident demeanour gives me pause. “I asked him, you know. For you. If you hadn’t ruined his coming out, we would still be invited to their parties, together. Oh wait. Lucie and I still are. You’re the only one left behind.”

  Tony enjoys watching my expression turn from angry amusement to disbelief, then shock, but soon, he stops laughing.

  “Stay with your new friend, by all means. When he’s done with you, I know you’ll come back running.”

  I stand rooted to the spot, too stunned to run. What has just happened? What did he mean, I ruined François’s coming out. Of course, as I wonder what I have done, François comes running by, and our eyes lock. His awkward, even frightened expression tells me he has heard everything. When he accelerates in an effort to put as much distance as possible between us, I know it for sure.

  It must be true, then. My legs refusing to pick up the pace, I give up running entirely, not even caring when groups of other student run by me, some of them sniggering at my lack of efforts.

  Could Tony be right? Could I be as selfish and awful as he claims me to be? I don’t even recall François’s coming out, except for that time at Shakespeare and Co. Could it be that I just wasn’t paying attention?

  It was undoubtedly a very important moment for him, and I can’t even remember blowing it. What stupid thing did I do, or say? Despite everything, I still believe Tony when he said I did it.

  I’m halfway through the last lap when our teacher whistles for the end of class. Seeing me arrive last, and walking, Granger warns me that next time, he’ll give me a zero. I acquiesce with a node, too upset to fight him.

  When I turn to pick up my backpack, among the sea of other belongings, I can feel Tony’s angry gaze burning into my back, and my resentment, mingles with shame, intensifies. But then, Sacha pops out of nowhere, grabs me by the hand and pulls me toward her friends.

  “Picture! Let’s take a picture!”

  “Why?” I try to wrench myself away. A picture’s the last thing I need, right now. But Sacha’s grip is like a vice.

  “I want to test my new phone’s camera. Just stand there and stand still!”

  That how I find myself shoved in the middle of the main path between François and Michael. François’s flushed from his neck up to his ears. Michael, bless him, looks as though posing for pictures is just another side effect of his general awesomeness.

  Sacha calls out to everybody to join us, even dragging a scowling Tony and a pale Lucie toward us.

  Granger comes to Sacha, a smile on his face. “Am I to be in the picture too?”

  Sacha lets out a tittering laugh. “But then who would take it? ” She thrusts the iPhone into his hands. There is an audible gasp as Granger fumbles with the phone and almost drops it. Tony and I instinctively turn to each other, and just as quickly look away.

  Sacha pounces forward to claim the spot on my left, but Michael is faster and reproducing what he did to me earlier, twirls her around, a clipped smile on his face, and places her on his left.

  “Impressive,” I mutter.

  His fresh apples perfume fills my nose as he leans toward me. “Thank you.”

  On my left, Tony watches us with open hostility. When Granger snaps the shot, he has us all frozen into our mighty glory. Sacha, laughing, in the middle of our makeshift group of friends; Tony and I shooting glares, my face red with shame at the words we have just exchanged; Michael looking ever so elusive, tall and a little stiff and definitely the prize for us all; and François and Lucie looking thoroughly miserable, the real losers of the game, their silent plea not falling into my deaf ears.

  Sacha takes one look at the horrid picture, decides she looks amazing, and posts it on Facebook right away.

  If I had friends, I would be mortified. But from the look on Tony and Lucie’s face, the hostilities are officially open. As for Michael, he might be mine for a clandestine, stolen moment, but in essence, he belongs to England.

  I am truly on my own.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M SAYING THIS

  YEARS AGO, LONG before I met Tony, when I had baby teeth and much shorter hair, wispy and so blond it looked white, as well as two parents, I had a fight with my best friend Thomas about which Ninja Turtle was the best. A really deep issue, as you can see. We didn’t speak for two weeks, and I was utterly alone and thought I’d never, never be happy again. Life was over.

  Now I’m almost eighteen and much more mature, I can guarantee you I feel just as terrible. And I’m not even one day in. Tony and Lucie haven’t said a word to me all day, and we spend our breaks glaring at each other.

  Lucie and I are like two generals of enemy armies, circling each other , wondering who will say the first word, draw the first weapon. Lucie’s backpack is ever since our fight, the same surly raccoon.

  However, none of us is willing to take the first step, both too aware of the disaster that would ensue. And with Michael still sitting with François in English Literature, I don’t even have the comfort of his company.

  And there’s François.Every time I see him, I’m reminded of Tony’s words, and my cheeks start burning with shame.

  On Friday evening, I naturally end up slouched on Eugénie’s sofa, eating pickles out of the jar, watching her smoke one of my joints.

  We are waiting for Don’t Forget The Lyrics to start. It’s Eugénie’s new thing; she has, just like me, had enough of birds. She’s trying to convert me to the joys of prime time karaoke. It’s never gonna happen.

  “The best thing is to apologize.” Eugénie blows out a perfect smoke ring. I have told her about my fight with Tony.“Grown ups apologise, or they lose their place in their social circles. That’s how it works.”

  Tony’s long face appears behind my eyelids. “Rockstars don’t grow up,” I say, followed by a sigh.

  Why should I be the only one to apologise? Tony said some pretty nasty things himself. If I should apologise to somebody, then it would be François. But there’s not enough Porto in the world to compel me to do that.

  Eugénie gives a harsh laugh. “You don’t know a thing about rockstars. Sometimes I feel like I’m talking to a kid.”

  “I am a kid.”

  “Not anymore. Now’s the time to get on with your responsibilities.”

  She hands me the joint.

  “Nah, thanks.” I don’t feet like smoking. I lift myself up on an elbow. “By the way Eugénie. Who’s Paul Newman?”

  She points toward the door. “Get out.”

  Bur I stay right where I am. Don’t Forget The Lyrics has just began.

  Tony’s the first thing that pops into my mind when I get up the next morning. (Actually, the second. Michael has his own privileges.)

  Tony had said: “Wouldn’t it be great to be a rockstar?”

  Shortly after we met, he took me to his place, showed me his music collection, his poster of Rage Against The Machine, and we lit up our first joint together. Sprawled on the floor of his bedroom, we looked at pictures of rock bands in magazines.

  “I guess,” I said, already high. “It would be pretty cool.”

  Tony nodded. “They can do anything they want. They’re surrounded by the coolest people. Haven’t you noticed? Even the ugly ones have the best looking girls swarming around them.”

  “How do you become cool, then?”

  “Easy,” Tony said, in a tone that suggested he knew what he was talking about. “First, take shit from no-one. And we’ve got to be bold. We’ve got to be bold, and free, and take shit from no one. Oh, and It would probably help to play a cool instrument. I play the bass pretty well.”

  “I don’t know how to play any instrument.”

  Tony slapped me on the back. “You
’ve got to become your own instrument, man.”

  The clock has been ticking since the first time Tony and I met. Since he threw that rockstar persona over my shoulders like a blanket and I followed in his footsteps. Now that time for us to part is drawing near, I’m becoming in serious danger of drowning in sentimentalism.

  In the afternoon, sunlight pours into my bedroom and bathes the whole space in golden light. I have never actually noticed, since I spend most of my time outside, with Tony and Lucie. I open the window to let some clean air inside.

  It’s the beginning of April. My own birthday’s right around the corner.

  Eighteen years old, not a rockstar, possibly gay.

  When did I ever think I had it all figured out? Next time I better keep my mouth shut.

  A walk is all I need.

  Outside, tourists are flocking in noisy groups, armed with their cameras, their kids hanging on their arms, looking exhausted. Behind my sunglasses and with my earphones on, they are no threat to me.

  On a day like this, you start getting ideas about laying down in the grass, going on a mini-trip with your crush, feed the ducks and you know, other urges…

  Perhaps I should go to Michael and hire a Mariachi band to sing under his windows, tell him to meet me outside, let’s feed the ducks together, perhaps our other urges.

  Or I should grow a pair, go to Lucie and say “Surprise! I’m g—”

  My phone rings, making me jump. Is it Tony? Or Michael? Or even Lucie?

  No, it’s not. It’s from an unknown number. Like I would ever answer a call from an unknown number. I jam the phone back into my pocket. That’s when I notice that, while I was daydreaming, my feet have taken me straight to Tony’s flat.

  I have to stop in the middle of the street. I want to apologise, I want him to forgive me. But sometimes he too, acts like a dick, and I hate the way he speaks about Michael…

  I decide to take refuge in the first coffee place I see, yes, even the tacky one around the corner with dancing coffee beans painted on the windows. Happy Beans. I’m even not making this up. It’s not very busy at this time, perhaps because no one likes to see cute little coffee beans dancing on the window when they’re about to be ground to oblivion to become your next caffeine shot.

  Damn, I’m becoming awfully bleak when I don’t get my dose of Michael in the morning. I haven’t waited more than a minute, my eyes cast down at my feet, when my turn comes. I step forward, ready to greet my barista, and my jaw drops.

  Before me stands François, wearing an apron and a deep scowl.

  I look from François’s face to the apron —where coffee beans are dancing too— back to François’s face, blinking, not sure I’m actually awake or if this is just another anxiety-induced nightmare.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I work here.”

  “But why?”

  François looks really pissed off to see me. But a word of advice. If you don’t want your mates to find out what you do, try not to work in a coffee place, in a busy street, in a busy city.

  “I want to spend the summer in Barcelona.” He forces a little bit much on the accent and sends spit flying all over the counter.

  Wiping a fleck of spit off my cheek, I give him a suspicious look. “I thought you were rich.”

  “I am, thank you.” Talking about his riches always work. His shoulders relax. He even does a little curtsy. “But my father thinks having a real job won’t hurt me, for once.”

  “A real job, right.”

  I don’t know what else to say. He doesn’t know either. Eventually he drops his arms to his sides.

  “Anyway, what do you want?”

  An idea comes into mind. A crazy idea. Looking around to make sure no one can hear me, and ignoring the woman huffing and puffing impatiently behind me, I lean over the counter and whisper:

  “Actually… Can you take your break? I want to talk to you about something.”

  François’s whole face twists, torn between suspicion and oddly, what looks like fear. He steps away from the counter, his arms folded over his chest.

  “Vale,” he says eventually, and thankfully turns around to remove my apron, or he would have seen my smirk.

  Two cups of smoking coffee clutched in his fists, François meets me under the awning outside, where two narrow tables and sets of chairs are waiting for customers.

  “Thanks, man.” I pull up a chair.

  François takes the other chair, opposite me. I’ve never been so close to him in broad delight. His hair colour is like it couldn’t decide between ginger and blond, and settled for something in between. It looks vibrant under a fierce sunlight. I always complained about his freckled face, but up close, they’re really not that bad. His eyes too are green, a washed-out kind of green nothing as deep as my Michael, of course. Right now they’re staring at me anxiously.

  “So. What do you want?” He’s struggling to remove the lid of his paper cup.

  “I think we should sort our problems. Man to man. I offer that we beat the shit out of each other tonight on the roof of Colette.”

  He looks up, his eyes popping. “What?”

  Sorry, couldn’t resist. It’s the face he made. It was worth it. But, if I want to get to the bottom of this, I’ll have to stop trolling.

  “I know you heard Tony and I when we were arguing.”

  He lifts up his chin. “How do you know?”

  “You don’t know how to lie.”

  “Oh, and you do?”

  “Yep. I do it all the time.”

  There’s a silence while François looks at me while chewing the inside of his cheek. Then he shrugs, and starts dunking an impressive amount of sugar into his cup.

  “Let’s say I heard you fight with Tony. So what?”

  I take a swig of scalding coffee. “So is it true? Did I ruin your coming out?”

  François lifts his shoulder in a hesitant shrug. “I guess so. You were drunk, you were loud. You didn’t care.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t remember it.”

  François scoffs, and puts the sugar down. “Of course you don’t. I just said you were drunk. Like, really drunk.” He picks up the sugar and adds more into his cup.

  Should I tell him he’s going to die, if he goes on like this, or…

  “What happened?” I ask, forcing myself to remain focused.

  François puts the sugar down again.

  “I said it wanted to tell my friends something important about me. Then I said I was gay, and you stormed out, said you didn’t need to hear this.”

  “I did?”

  François nods. “Not many people heard you, but I did. It was a shitty thing to do, you know.”

  I ransack my brain trying to remember, but I simply cannot.

  “When was this?”

  “September last year, for Sacha’s birthday party.”

  I shake my head. “No… I’m not sure—”

  “The night Yasmine puked on the Persian Rug!”

  “Oh, right. Yes, of course.”

  I don’t know what to add so I watch François pick up a plastic spoon and start twirling it around his mountain of sugar with added coffee. He keeps slipping me looks that he thinks are discreet, but there are only two of us, and he’s standing right in front of me, so eventually, I burst.

  “What? What?”

  “I know about you and Michael, you know.”

  My heart leaps straight into my throat. I want to lurch forward, grab him by his apron and shake him for information. But that wouldn’t be very nice. Instead, I clear my throat.

  “What do you know?”

  François looks like he’s enjoying himself, at least. “It doesn’t take a genius. Though, sometimes, I wonder. No one else seems to have noticed that you’re screwing each other behind everybody’s back. Even Sacha, who saw you together at the museum, didn’t come to the same conclusion. Oh yes, she saw you,” he adds, smirking, “and she tells me everything. I’m the one who told her to
zip it about it.”

  I say nothing. But I’m expecting my pale complexion to betray me and surprise, my cheeks start burning.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you ask her not to say anything?”

  François takes a deep, affected breath. “Because, Louis, I shouldn’t get to decide when or how you come out. You do.”

  I flinch under his pointed look. “I’m not—”

  “What, gay?” He starts laughing again, a little at first, then a little too madly. He stops when he registers the scowl on my face. “Even better. You should tell Michael.”

  I’ve done François a lot of wrong. I messed up his coming out announcement and I’m fooling around behind everyone’s back with his crush. That’s the only reason I don’t throttle him right here and now.

  “You know what, Louis?” François says, his voice high-pitched. “I never got it. You always act like you’re so cool and we’re so lame, with your side-kick, your hot girlfriend, now your secret lover everyone’s pining for. You treat people who love you like shit. It’s like your shit doesn’t stink. I always wondered, why is that that no one has ever noticed that you are faking it?”

  Excuse me while I take another swig of coffee to wash down the brick I just swallowed.

  “So, what’s the act? Do you pretend to be cool, do you pretend to find us lame? Do you pretend to be straight or do you pretend to be gay? Do you like treating people like shit? Or do you just pretend that you do? I’m so confused with you at times.”

  My last sip of coffee sends me into a coughing fit. “You sure spend a lot of time watching me, François. You shouldn’t bother, really.”

  “So,” François ignores my attempt to throw him off. “Which is it?” He takes a sip of his Diabetes-inducing monster and smiles.

  It’s a diversion technique, really. I pretend that I fit, so people don’t look too deeply into myself. It’s none of his business.

  I can only offer him a dumbfounded half-shrug. François slumps back on his chair, clearly annoyed.

  “But all these people who are crazy about you, and you just mess around with them.”