“I see Beth parked off school grounds today,” said Nicko.
“Wise,” said Prad. “Shaving cream can really destroy a car’s duco.”
I turned my head in time to see Beth and Larrie walking out the top gate after their second English exam. Larrie hadn’t said anything about the shaving cream incident at dinner the night before. In fact, she hadn’t said much at all, except that her English exam had been okay and that she had a lot of study to do before her second one this morning.
As ridiculous as Patchouli’s theory had sounded, the knot that tightened in my stomach when I thought back to Larrie and Beth struggling to clean up the car made me wonder if there might be some logic in her hippie-dippy thinking. But if Larrie and I were more alike than I cared to admit, what did that say about me?
Maz waved her to-do list. “Can we concentrate on the task at hand? The SkoolDaze final’s in two days.”
“Can’t it wait till rehearsal this afternoon?” asked Nicko. “Al can divide up what still needs to be done while we practise.”
I shook my head. “Sorry, I can’t come today, Jay and Dylan are doing a roquefort tasting.”
Prad got the pleased-with-himself smirk that usually preceded one of his jokes at someone else’s expense. “I guess the guys at Gay Cheese don’t have to worry about the dangers of unpasteurised cheese since they’re already a little queer.”
“Prad, you’re hitting new lows,” warned Maz.
I hadn’t told her about going to the Chill Out Room, or that I’d spent the rest of the school day sitting in a dim corner of the library thinking about what Patchouli had said, but Maz must’ve sensed something was up because she’d been watching me like a hawk since rollcall.
“Only eight days to go,” she reminded me as we worked on our portraits of each other in Art. “You must be getting excited.”
I reached for my rubber and scrubbed hard at the wonky eye I’d drawn. “If this photo hangs around, it’s not going to make any difference, is it? I mean, she could be a thousand kilometres away and Whitlam would still be talking about Larrie Miller.”
“At least they’re not saying how great she is any more,” said Maz, searching for the bright side.
We stopped talking when Mrs Gaunt came round. I hugged my drawing board to my chest to hide my picture, which bore more resemblance to Yoda than to Maz.
“Maryanne, that’s wonderful!” Mrs Gaunt held Maz’s drawing next to my face. “You’ve really captured her.”
I turned my head to see what she meant.
“I haven’t done the hair yet,” said Maz when she saw my reaction. “I promise I wasn’t going to leave you bald.”
“Is that seriously how you think I look?”
“I don’t want to brag about my drawing skills, but that is how you look. What are you so upset about? Half the girls at Whitlam would kill to look like you.”
I studied the half-finished portrait. If I hadn’t watched Maz draw it myself, I would’ve sworn it was a picture of Larrie.
It was a relief to get back to the normality of the shop that afternoon.
“Thank God you’re here,” said Dylan before I’d even had a chance to put my bag away. “We’re out of cling wrap, the grapes I bought have pips in them and Jay’s used every apron and tea towel we own.”
My mood lifted: at last, things that were within my control to fix. “I’ll nip to the supermarket and the fruit shop and then put a load of washing on.”
“Thanks, Al, what would we do without you?”
Laundry, for starters, I thought, but it was good to feel needed for a change.
Mrs Green made her third swoop on the platter I was holding, pausing her conversation to gouge out a chunk of cheese the size of her thumb. “Isn’t this roquefort superb?”
Mrs Ng mmm-ed in agreement but shook her head when I offered her more. She was still clutching the napkin she’d spat her first taste into when she thought no one was watching.
I waited until I was a few steps away from them to survey the damage Mrs Green had done to my perfectly arranged platter.
“As I was saying,” said Mrs Green, through her mouthful of cheese, “Mr Masch says it’s all within the bounds of acceptable behaviour these days.”
Mrs Ng sounded pained. “I blame all those TV shows about teenagers. They make it seem like it’s okay, like it’s … normal.”
“There was talk of taking away her house colours but Masch’s too spineless to do it. He says he’s still going to let her give the speech at prize-giving, but we’ll see about that. I’ve spoken to the Turners and they agree that she’s no role model for–”
The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I didn’t need to hear any more. I handed the platter to a surprised-looking couple in front of me and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other until I made it to the back room.
“Everything okay?” asked Dylan when he found me slumped over the prep bench.
I straightened myself up. “Fine. I … I came to get some more napkins.”
“Umm, I don’t think we’ll need those, since the last customers left five minutes ago. You’ve been out here for fifteen minutes. I thought you must be getting a head start on the washing up.”
“Yep, absolutely.” I snapped into action, turning on the hot tap full blast and squeezing way too much detergent into the sink. Anything to avoid making eye contact.
“Are you sure everything’s all right, Al?”
I nodded. And then I burst into tears. Big, fat, out of control tears, accompanied by some snotty action, for good measure. Between shoulder heaves and teary hiccups I told Dylan what had been going on. About the rumours and the photo and the kids at school and Mrs Green and Mrs Ng and somehow it all led to a howling wail of, “My life is over!”
Dylan gave me his hanky and put his arm round my shoulder. “That’s awful. Poor Larrie.”
I stopped mid-noseblow. Aside from Maz, Dylan had always been my biggest anti-Larrie supporter, but now, in my hour of extreme need, it sounded as if he was taking her side.
“What do you mean poor Larrie?” I said when I regained the power of speech. “I’m being made a social outcast because my sister’s too careless to keep her love-life under wraps, and she’s the one you feel sorry for? Newsflash: Larrie’s spent the last six years pretending to be someone else to make the whole world adore her. I don’t see why she couldn’t have kept it up till she’d left Whitlam.”
Dylan’s arm fell back by his side. “Al, does it bother you that Larrie’s gay?”
I grabbed a dirty platter from the bench and began scrubbing it. “Of course not! But the entire school’s talking about it. And now the evidence is on Facebook, where anyone can see it.”
“I understand you’re shocked, but can you imagine how Larrie’s feeling? She obviously wasn’t ready for this to come out yet; no pun intended.”
“Then she should’ve been more careful, shouldn’t she?”
“Whoa!” Dylan grabbed the platter I was still scrubbing, forcing me to look him in the eye. “I feel like I’ve gone back in time thirty years and I’m talking to my dad. No, worse, to Jay’s dad.”
“What about Jay’s dad?” I asked, momentarily forgetting about Larrie.
“It’s not for me to tell you Jay’s history,” said Dylan. “Let’s just say that if he seems a little joyless sometimes it’s because he had it beaten out of him as a young man.”
My stomach gave a sickening shudder. “That’s not what I meant … I mean, I’m not like that,” I whispered. “I just don’t want to be caught in the middle of it.”
Dylan nodded, but I wasn’t sure he believed me. “We’d better get this place cleaned up before Jay gets back with Doodoo,” he said, passing me another platter.
Al Miller is not like that.