Michael Griffo - Unwelcome

Nakano thought Jean-Paul Germaine was, without a doubt, the most attractive man he had ever met. And what made him so incredibly attractive was that he was a man, not a boy, not a teenager, but an adult, twenty-one years old in fact. And of course absurdly handsome and French and, as of three weeks ago, his boyfriend. He never would have thought someone like Jean-Paul would be interested in dating someone like him, but as they snuggled in the backseat of his car, kissing quickly and impatiently, while his fellow students raced to their next class, there was no doubt, his boyfriend was very interested in him.

“I weesh you had a free period every morning,” Jean-Paul said, his words sounding like the perfect lyrics to accompany the violin music that floated throughout the car.

“Me too,” Nakano said. His words sounded harsher, more like gasps, sharp intakes of breath. But that’s okay, he thought, I’m still sort of new at this; I’ll learn; I’ll learn to be just as perfect as Jean-Paul. The day’s lesson, however, was over because just then Jean-Paul’s cell phone rang, the dramatic, sweeping music of the Nessun dorma overtaking the soft violins and reminding Jean-Paul that while he was a boyfriend, he was also an employee.

“That’s zee boss’s ring,” he said, with a resigned shrug.

“That’s okay, I have to get to math anyway,” Nakano said, trying to sound excited, as if he were expecting Father Fazio to unveil new and exciting revelations about geometry. From Jean-Paul’s response, it sounded as if it worked. “Cool, math was my favorite subject.” Straightening his clothes, Nakano decided he would really pay attention in class today; maybe the priest would provide him with some useful information after all.

As Jean-Paul focused on listening to his boss’s instructions, all Nakano could concentrate on was that smell that was still lingering in the air. It wasn’t Jean-Paul, that was for sure. He smelled like a man, simple and clean, like a just unwrapped bar of soap. This odor was sort of spicy and reminded him of that stupid American holiday, Thanksgiving, that he loathed because it was simply an excuse to eat all day long, and who cared about that? He sniffed deeply and it finally came to him: cinnamon! That was the smell. So foul, so pungent, so boringly human. He would have to remember to get Jean-Paul a new air freshener since he planned to spend a lot more time in the backseat of his car.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, sir.” Jean-Paul snapped his cell phone shut and looked at Nakano intently for a moment before speaking, “I have to get to zee airport. Will I see you later?”

“I have swim team practice ’til six.”

A smile appeared on Jean-Paul’s face, lopsided, the right side higher than the left, and slowly his lips parted to reveal his tongue lazily brushing against his sparkling white teeth. “I’d love to see you in nothing but your swimsuit.”

“Okay.” Nakano heard himself say that one word and even though he knew it was a stupid, completely unromantic response, he couldn’t think of anything else to add, so he kept quiet and hoped that the image of him wearing just his Speedo would occupy Jean-Paul’s thoughts and not Nakano’s inability to flirt.

They both got out of the car and walked toward the driver’s side in silence, the only sound the soft crunch of snow under their feet. By the time Nakano got around the car, Jean-Paul was wearing his chauffeur cap, his straight, dark brown hair tucked neatly behind his ears, looking very important, like a man with a career. Nakano looked up until his eyes met Jean-Paul’s and reminded himself not to slouch, to stand as straight as possible. Taller might make him look older, he thought, and even though Jean-Paul never commented on his age, never said anything except that a five-year age difference wasn’t a big deal, Nakano couldn’t help but feel like an imposter in his presence. As if he were the one part of this couple who didn’t belong. But he was, he was part of a couple, he was Jean-Paul’s boyfriend, and the way Jean-Paul kissed him good-bye was proof of that.

A frigid wind blew across Nakano’s body, making his white shirt ripple, his tie fly past his shoulder, but he didn’t feel the cold; he could feel only the heat that lingered from Jean-Paul’s lips. Filled with energy, both nervous and unbridled, Nakano rubbed the back of his head briskly, hardly noticing the feel of the strong bone underneath, the coarse bristles of his crew cut flicking through his fingers, and watched Jean-Paul in the driver’s seat, looking relaxed and professional.

“See you later,” Nakano said, not even aware that his hand was still massaging his scalp.

“Yes, you will,” Jean-Paul replied. He started to turn the car around and then suddenly stopped. “Have you ever thought about letting your hair grow out? I bet it would look très chic.”

As Nakano watched his boyfriend drive away underneath the iron Archangel Academy front gate, he realized he had yet one more thing to think about.

The only thing Michael was thinking about was how happy he was that the first day of classes of the new semester was officially over. Now the fun could really begin, starting with swim team practice. The excitement of being part of a team still hadn’t lost its novelty and for good reason. For the first part of his life, Michael was a loner, spending his time either by himself in his bedroom reading, thinking, dreaming, or at school acting as if it was his preference to stay on the outside looking in, to pretend that he didn’t want to belong to any of the school’s cliques. It was a lie. It was not at all what he wanted, but he felt that it was better to let everyone think he was independent and chose to be alone, instead of the truth, that his solitude was forced upon him. There were a few times in grammar school and at Two W, his old high school, when he tried to break through the wall that the other students had built around him, tried to make contact with someone, just one other person who might want to be his friend. But for whatever reason, he was never successful. He never found anyone who wanted to call him their friend, until he came here.

Here he was a starter on the swim team; he had attempted something and he had succeeded. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before and he was sure that Mr. Alfano, his old gym teacher, would be proud. He knew exactly what he would say to him—“Better late than never, Howard”—in a voice filled with more respect than surprise. Then Michael wondered what Mauro would have to say. How surprised would he be that Michael was an athlete now—correction, a star athlete. But wait, no, Mauro couldn’t say anything because Mauro was dead.

On the other side of the gym, Michael saw Nakano dragging Mauro Dorigo’s nearly lifeless body across the ground, the Weeping Water track in the background, the smell of blood in the air, and he had to shut his eyes tight to wipe out the memory. It wasn’t my fault, he told himself. I let him go; I was going to let him live no matter the consequences. It was him, Nakano. He killed Mauro. I wouldn’t even feed off his blood. I couldn’t, even though I hated, hated, hated him, I couldn’t do that to him. “Are you all right?”

The memory was gone and Michael was back in St. Sebastian’s Gym, standing next to Ciaran. “You look, pardon the expression, a bit queer,” his former dorm mate said.

Grateful for the diversion, Michael exhaled, unaware that he had been holding his breath. Forcing a smile, he replied, “Oh yeah, just a bit nervous, I guess, about getting back into practice.”

Because Ciaran was both very perceptive and fully aware of Michael’s history, he knew he was lying, but because he was also his friend and now an honorary member of his extended family, he didn’t press the issue. “You’ll be fine. Ronan tells me the two of you got in some practice over the break.”