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There are two things I have yet to learn about Michael Holden: who, and what his parents are like.
I know it’s really not any of my business. Michael probably doesn’t talk about them for a reason, and that’s fine. I don’t really talk much about my parents either, apart from the side remarks about how they treat Charlie, Oliver and I. It’s just that Michael Holden, when I had first met him, seemed like the kind of only child that was lonely as a kid, and wished they had siblings to play with. Sometimes I forget he even has parents. It never seems like he has to ask them for anything.
I’m not sure if I should bring it up or not. Maybe it’s a sensitive subject. But for some reason, I decided to anyway. Michael will decline if he doesn’t want to. I don’t have a problem with rejection.
So, one evening while Michael and I are huddled together on the couch, my legs over his as I lean my head back on the armrest, I sit up and say, “I have a question.”
Michael raises his eyebrow, eyes drifting from the film we’re watching. It’s a live action of some cartoon that came out a while ago. It’s been pretty bad so far. “Do you?”
“Yes,” I say, suddenly aware that I’m going to be asking a question that I don’t even know if I should be asking or not. “I do, but you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
Michael’s eyes, as if I’m going to ask him if he’s done drugs in the past year, widen like dinner plates. He pauses the film so he can listen more clearly. He has this thing where if he needs to pay attention, he can’t have any other noises on, or he won’t be able to comprehend what is being asked. When we’re driving, he’ll turn the music down so he can park properly, or to read the address. It’s sort of weird.
He turns to face me, straightening his back, then folds his arms over his lap where my legs still rest. “Go on.”
“I just noticed that you never really talk about your parents much.” I say, “And I wanted to know what they were like.”
Michael’s face shifts. Not like he’s uncomfortable, but he definitely seems put off. “You want to know about my parents?”
“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.” I add quickly, “Like, if it’s a sensitive subject for you.”
“No,” he says. “It’s not.”
“Okay.”
There’s a fairly long silence between the two of us. I’m a bit annoyed that the film isn’t still on so it’s less awkward. Michael has this face put on, like he’s thinking really hard about what he should say next. Finally, he sighs wistfully. “I don’t think my parents ever really liked me all that much.”
It is then I realise that I have asked the wrong question.
“I’m not sure when to begin.” Michael says, “Maybe it started around middle school, when my grades started to drop. Honestly, I’m not that good at paying attention to things that I should be paying attention to. Maybe I was too busy daydreaming about other things. Whatever it was, it didn’t really matter. My parents were pissed I wasn’t excelling as well as I could’ve been, but they didn’t really do much to help.”
Michael waves his hands about, his gestures becoming more expressive. “I started year 9 and 10 and got by with such mediocre grades that I didn’t bother trying anymore. I started focusing more on speed skating, because it was far more interesting to me than any of the things I learned in school. I never did anything in school. It was always assignments I could never fulfill, problems I could never solve. God, do you know how terrible I was at maths? I could never do a single thing in maths class.”
I watch as Michael Holden, a boy I have never seen truly unravel quite like this, rant in this woeful yet aggravated way. His jaw tenses up, like it’s hard for him to vocalise. His hands wave around as if he’s playing charades, fingers drawing in the air and hands making objects. His voice begins to waver a little bit. It’s sort of wonderful. It’s sort of terrifying.
“And when my parents found out I was focusing more on my speed skating career…what did they do? They said all this terrible, insulting stuff about it. That it was a waste of time. That I was just going to fail and end up at some 9-5 day job. They said that I would be better off if– if I–” He pauses, the anger that once flashed behind his eyes turns into despair, then deep, genuine sadness. “If I just quit.”
I am usually not a very angry person. I don’t ever really have much to be mad at, but if there’s anything I know about Michael Holden, he does not give up easily, and definitely doesn’t just quit. So, to hear that his own parents had said that, those terrible, insulting things…it makes me want to hit someone.
The sigh that Michael lets out brings me out of my temporary rage. He’s looking at the film on the TV. It’s still paused. “You know,” he says, “I don’t ever remember a time in my life where either of them were even…
there
for me.”
I’m out of words to say. I don’t know if I ever had any words to say at all. I’m pretty bad at comforting people, and what’s worse is
I
brought it up first. It would be rude not to say anything after the emotional outpour I was just graced with, but my brain comes up with nothing.
So all that manages to come out of my stupid, pathetic mouth is. “I’m sorry.” And I cringe, because it makes it sound like I’m trying to take the blame for Michael’s problems. I’m really not, I’m just an idiot.
“It’s alright.” Michael says, even though we both know it isn’t. “I have you now, and Charlie, Nick, and Oliver. Who needs parents, huh?”
“It isn’t fair.” I say, “You deserve better parents who didn’t try to belittle your dreams and actually gave a shit about your wellbeing. I mean, you’re a speed skating champion for Christ's sake. You can fly on ice like this magical being and yet—”
I pause. Michael blinks, speechless.
Now I’ve done it. I’m really not sure where that came from. I feel my face grow a little hot from embarrassment. “Sorry.”
“No,” Michael says, and his eyes turn glossy. “No, thank you. I needed to hear that.”
Another bit of silence. Michael switches the film back on. He watches it for a moment before he turns his head over to me. “Come closer.”
I move my legs off of his lap and scoot over next to him. He grabs a blanket we had discarded earlier on the floor and pulls it over us. His arm comes to rest on my shoulder, pushing us closer together. I don’t mind it.
“I’m not used to talking about my family.” Michael whispers loud enough to hear over the film. “But thank you for asking.”
“Are you sure? You seemed really upset.”
Michael’s face goes a little red. “If I’m honest, I didn’t mean to let myself get that angry. It just all sort of dawned on me at once and I couldn’t stop myself. But I’m glad I didn’t. It felt nice to tell someone.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So I’m just “someone” now?”
“That isn’t what I meant and you know it.” He snorts.
“I thought I was Tori Spring, the love of your life, but turns out I’m just some commoner.”
Michael offs the film completely, lifting me up off the couch with the blanket still wrapped around my body. It’s extremely embarrassing for him to hold me like this where anyone could see, but I suppose it doesn’t matter now.
He presses this weirdly placed kiss to the tip of my nose and grins like a wolf. “Love of your life has a nice ring to it.”
My dear Michael Holden, an angry, social, lovable, very,
very
flawed idiot.