Emmet

Emmet’s face burned with humiliation and self-loathing.

‘You can take the test again in seven days,’ the tester said, handing him his paperwork.

As if. Appointments were booked out months in advance, and what was the rush? Chances were, he’d fail a second time. That was the one thing he was consistent at: failing. School. Work. Friendships. Driving. Fucking everything.

He scanned the waiting area. Where was Dad? He needed to get out of here as quickly as possible. He headed for the automatic doors and came across his father sitting directly outside, looking pale and anxious. He shook his head before Dad could voice the question. Don’t ask. Don’t talk to me. He couldn’t trust himself to speak. He might actually start crying.

Dad squeezed his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. It wasn’t your day. Probably too much going on with the concert and everything.’

Emmet couldn’t blame the concert; he’d kept it firmly at the back of his mind. According to the feedback, he hadn’t failed for one specific reason, but lots of small mistakes. Which made the failure more comprehensive, more irredeemable. Emmet Sullivan, you have failed for many, many reasons …

Dad removed the L plates from the car and didn’t ask if he wanted to drive home. His expression was sombre, his knuckles white as they gripped the steering wheel. He was obviously disappointed, no matter what he said. Emmet stared out the passenger window, making it clear he didn’t want to talk.

‘Don’t beat yourself up, mate,’ Dad said, not taking the hint. ‘Plenty fail on their first attempt.’

Emmet had known he was going to fail even before he sat in the car and made all those small mistakes. He hadn’t felt confident walking into the test centre, couldn’t quieten the mocking voice in his head. You’re a loser. You’re going to fail. Well, the voice was proven right.

‘You’ve done all the hard work,’ Dad persevered. ‘You’ll fly through next time.’

Emmet found himself goaded into responding. ‘Stop talking me up, Dad. I won’t “fly through”. I’m shit at everything I do.’

‘You know that’s not true. But I’ll leave you alone. I get it.’

Silence enveloped the car and Emmet’s thoughts spiralled. Loser. Loser. Loser. In just minutes, he’d have to face Mum’s disappointment and sympathy, and Bridie’s – though his sister couldn’t relate because she never failed at anything. The thought of facing his mother and sister made him want to jump from the moving car and run.

Dad didn’t speak again until they were pulling in to the driveway. ‘You’re a good driver, Emmet. Don’t let this knock your confidence.’

Bullshit. Why do parents always think you’re better than you actually are?

~

He barricaded himself in his room, lying back on his bed. At one point, Mum knocked, and he shouted at her to go away. At midday he received a text from Dax.

Courtney gone home sick. Know you have your driving test today and other stuff on but would appreciate a few hours if you have them spare.

Emmet could spare a few hours – they weren’t due to leave home until four – but he had zero desire to go into work. He’d only be sterilising and cleaning, the usual shit. Although the atmosphere would be a lot more pleasant with Courtney off sick. What was wrong with her? Covid? Flu? Stomach pains from extreme grumpiness?

He was still mulling over Dax’s request when he received another message.

Fitzboy_Fit: Hanging out in the park before heading to the concert. Come down if you can.

Emmet contemplated it, felt its tug on him. ‘Hanging out’ was code for drinking, courtesy of Alex’s older brother, who sold them the grog at an exploitative margin. ‘Come down’ was code for ‘let’s put the fight behind us’. Emmet wanted the numbing effect of alcohol, but did he also want the reconciliation?

He sent Dax a text to say sorry, he wasn’t free. Then he got changed into his concert clothes: black jeans, dark-grey T-shirt, sneakers. He checked his wallet to make sure he had his ID and cash: sixty dollars, should be enough. A half-pack of chewing gum was sitting on his desk; he popped it into his pocket.

Downstairs, Mum was making tea and Sean was sitting at the counter, his expression sulky. They’d clearly been in the middle of an unpleasant discussion.

Emmet kept his tone casual. ‘Hey, I’m meeting the gang at the park for a few hours. I’ll catch you guys at the station, okay?’

His mother’s teaspoon slipped from her fingers, bouncing off the counter. ‘What? Oh, Emmet, that complicates things. Can’t you see them another time? This is meant to be a family occasion.’

His mind flashed back to the day she’d booked the tickets, when she’d finished her chemo but, cruelly, seemed sicker and weaker than ever. Dad had made a special meal and it was torture watching her struggling to eat it. Afterwards, she’d sat on the couch with a blanket over her knees and some cushions behind her back. She’d spent months and months on that couch, trying to be present in their family life while not possessing the strength to be on her feet, or even sit at the dinner table. In normal circumstances, he would never have put his hand up for a family concert experience, but they’d been on an emotional roller-coaster since the diagnosis. He was relieved that she’d finished the chemo, alarmed that she seemed sicker than ever, and scared of the upcoming radiation therapy and how she would cope. He’d felt a sudden need to cling to his mother and make her happy. Bridie must have felt the same because she immediately said that she wanted to go to the concert, too.

Now he swallowed his guilt, ignoring the unpleasant aftertaste. ‘No complications, Mum. I’ll be at the station at four fifteen. Promise.’

Then he was out the door before he, or she, could change his mind.