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 meeting 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
