I didn’t comment on Tiff’s wrists. No one did. Besides, year eleven was nearly over. I made the final sprint through exams and collapsed into my summer holidays. I was exhausted. It was hard to believe that in just twelve months I would be graduating from high school. The thought was too scary to contemplate. Anyway, I had to survive year twelve first.
The difference between year eleven and year twelve was palpable. We all felt it the moment we walked through the door on our first day back. Our teachers reminded us constantly that we were no longer students, we were ‘leaders’. My extra-curricula activities doubled as I took on as many responsibilities as my Vice School Captain status could allow.
Simon was still by my side, and our friendship group was stable. The summer holidays had provided a convenient break for Tiff and me, and we resumed being friends as if nothing had happened.
In that final year of intense academic pressure, you may be surprised to learn that my friends and I didn’t talk that much about exams, or the concept of leadership, or our future as adults (or, as our teachers insisted upon calling it, our ‘sacred journey’). We didn’t ruminate on Catherine’s inner-motivation in Wuthering Heights, which we studied for English. We didn’t interrogate the quadratic equations that we were studying in maths.
We mostly talked about the formal.
There are three critical ingredients required for a formal: dancing skill, formal wear and a partner.
For one afternoon a week leading up to the formal, the entire senior school body would pile into our massive gymnasium and learn dances that we would NEVER DANCE AGAIN, except at our own children’s formals, perhaps. Nevertheless, we threw ourselves into the task as if we were living in a Jane Austen novel and this was the only way we would ever fit into society.
The dances all had archaic names that seemed to encourage us to go back to a simpler time when women were subjugated and gender lines were crystal clear. The ‘Merry Widow Waltz’, the ‘Marching through Georgia’, and my favourite, the ‘Pride of Erin’. Who the hell was Erin? And why was I displaying my pride through dance?
We learnt the dances in two giant circles: the men on the outside, the women on the inside, and we swapped partners every few bars or so. As each girl arrived in my arms, they inevitably said, ‘God, you’re so much better than the other guys at this.’
I cursed God. Yes, apparently I had rhythm.
An alarm went off in my brain.
GAY GAY GAY.
I attempted to cover up my dancing prowess by constantly mucking up the moves. That the world has missed out on my natural dancing abilities is something many people are weeping over to this day. (Don’t worry. Upon request, I can break into the Pride of Erin with a moment’s notice.)
The second ingredient proved to be slightly trickier than the first. I wish I could say I pondered extensively what type of suit to wear, but I didn’t. I knew exactly what I wanted months in advance.
In the shop window of a quiet menswear store were three matching zoot suits. One in garish yellow, another in lime green, and another in royal purple. I decided I wanted the purple one. I would go to my senior formal in a purple suit.
Let me try to explain why I wanted to look like a Batman villain.
To wear a black suit, or anything resembling what most of the men were wearing, felt like a betrayal of who I was. It would be a lie to say I was a normal man, because I wasn’t. The purple suit fitted perfectly with my extroverted, clownish, Eugene-like persona. Not only that, it had a bright yellow silk lining and shirt, a glaring purple tie and two-tone purple-and-gold shoes. As ridiculous as it was, it was the perfect suit for me. I was the perfect joke of a man.
Problem was, the suit in the shop window was expensive. I was insistent that that was what I wanted, and my mother was sympathetic. But we couldn’t afford it. Mum, however, had the skills to make a replica from scratch.
So, months away from the big day, Mum bought a pattern and started making a purple zoot suit tailored for my skinny teenage frame. After all, she didn’t have enough to worry about with my two disabled brothers battling high school (we will return to them later).
The third element, finding a partner, was a complicated social dance in itself. The entire year level tricked each other into believing that couplings were arbitrary, and usually based on casual companionship as opposed to romantic desire. But the opportunity served as a chance for those harbouring long-time crushes to try their luck. All around me, new dating partnerships emerged.
Since Tiff and I had broken up, I had all but given up on finding a partner. Despite being constantly drawn to naked men in my mind, I was equally attracted to finding a wife and living a beautifully quiet, normal life. In fact, I believed it would be my salvation. I believed in my romantic vision. I would be a normal man, and find someone who would accept me.
I had plenty of crushes, but I found it difficult to take the next step and actually do something about it. This is true for most guys. But for most guys, it’s a fear of rejection. I was stopped by a fear of success. What would happen if a girl said yes, and suddenly I was in a Tiff situation again? I would stuff it up and destroy the poor girl’s heart. I felt as though I should come with a warning sign around my neck: ‘Loving me will almost certainly result in wrist-cutting.’
I needed a risk-free partner.
Because we were friends, and because I felt comfortable with her, and because I knew I couldn’t let her down more than I already had, I asked Tiff. She said yes. Simple. Easy. No stress. The marks on her wrist had faded, and our friendship had resumed its natural course.
It would all be fine.
Right?
I watched with interest as a blonde girl named Maddie began a campaign to take a female partner to the formal. The year was 2004, and teenage homosexuality was really only a shadow on the public consciousness. Maddie ended up getting her way. She was the first open lesbian in the school’s history. The students didn’t really care. But it was a long debate between Maddie and the staff, who at first dismissed her desires as a cry for attention. She went to the formal with her girlfriend. If it was a cry for attention, it was one of the bravest cries I’d ever witnessed.
Maddie was tolerated, but not accepted. I had the opportunity to get involved in the debate as a representative of the student body, almost all of whom didn’t care who Maddie took to the formal beyond making it a subject of rumours. But the thought of actually using my School Vice Captain status to help Maddie’s campaign for acceptance never crossed my mind. Instead, I took part in the schoolyard rumours as the saga played out. It was such a delicious scandal. Looking back, I can’t imagine what Maddie was actually going through.
Also becoming prone to gossip was the boys’ drama group I was part of across town. With our audiences growing, we were determined to push the envelope on what was acceptable, and every show was immediately followed by a long list of complaints from the principal. We enjoyed getting in trouble. I had no concerns at all, as I didn’t attend the school and I didn’t have to put up with the principal’s disciplinary lectures.
But it was only a matter of time before things went too far. A week before the formal, a showcase evening turned to near tragedy when a fire-breathing routine got out of hand. An inexperienced young man swallowed the fire accelerant. He believed that fire breathing meant you breathed the fumes of fuel to make the fire whip into fantastical shapes. In fact, fire breathing is spitting very small quantities of fuel onto lit torches, followed by intensive mouth-rinsing immediately afterwards. It shouldn’t be attempted by anyone who hasn’t had extensive training in performing the stunt.
The victim of stupidity and poor supervision was rushed to hospital to get his stomach pumped, and the drama club became the focus of concerned parents and teachers. The principal had to fight off cancelling it altogether. Fire breathing was banned.
I was disappointed, but my mother took it further. The day before the formal she put her foot down and said I wasn’t to attend anymore.
I was horrified.
‘Mum! No way! It’s the best part of the week for me!’
‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘You’re not going. I don’t trust Mr Coates. It’s dangerous and irresponsible.’
‘You can’t do this. I’ll go anyway.’
‘Then you’ll walk.’
I was furious.
‘Fine.’
Mum had a lot going on at the time. Her depression now manifested as acute stress migraines, and her nights were often interrupted by visits to hospital for injections to relax her muscles. I woke up regularly to red beams of light flashing through my bedroom windows. Mum would call an ambulance and attend the hospital alone, asking them not to turn the siren on so they wouldn’t wake the rest of the family.
Teenagers aren’t particularly sensitive beasts, and so I didn’t take any of this into account when I threw a petulant adolescent tantrum, stating repeatedly that I would be going to the drama club with or without her permission. Our argument escalated.
‘I cannot believe you’re doing this to me,’ I said, growing in anger.
‘David, it’s not safe.’
‘It’s like you want to make me miserable.’
Down the hall, on a coathanger, was the purple suit that Mum had now been stressing over for months. It had all the markings of a zoot suit: a silk lining, interior pockets, a pleated waist band. It was a work of art. I had said thank you on a number of occasions, but now Mum was saying that I wasn’t nearly as grateful as I should be. Soon we weren’t talking about fire breathing at all, but about how she, somehow, in my teenage mind, didn’t understand or support me. I declared that she never supported me.
‘If this were the twins asking,’ I said, ‘you wouldn’t have a problem.’
Her eyes flew wide open with tears and anger.
Dad said, quietly, from his corner, ‘I think that’s enough now.’
Mum started yelling at me. Really yelling. Properly yelling. I had never heard her voice so high and vicious before. I remember her eyes: wild, bloodshot eyes that burned out at me from a body rigid with fury. She got up and stormed out of the house. She slammed the car door, backed out of the driveway at a God-awful speed and raced down our street.
This had never happened before. Our family’s first defence was to avoid conflict. In a choice between confrontation and silence, we chose silence every time at all costs. No one in the family had ever argued the way Mum and I just had. Certainly, no one had ever stormed out of the house and straight-up left.
Dad and I were suddenly alone, stunned. Our first concern was the boys who were in their bedroom. They must have heard the yelling. If they knew that Mum had left in a distraught state, they would likely have an anxiety attack that would need a significant boost of meds to calm them down. Dad and I went in and assured them everything was fine. They nodded their understanding with complete and oblivious trust.
It was a strange afternoon, waiting for Mum to come back, worried that she might never return. Dad and I went back to our routines without talking. He went to the computer; I went to my room.
What had just happened? And what was going to happen? Would Mum come back?
We didn’t have to wait too long. I was in my room when I heard the car pull in and Mum storm out. She opened the front door to find Dad.
‘I’m packing my bags and going!’ she yelled.
‘I think you need to calm down, love,’ Dad said.
‘Don’t PATRONISE ME!’
I knew Mum was headed for me. She was sure to come to my room. I had to hide. More than that, I had to get to the boys. What would they do if they saw Mum in this state? What would Mum do? I quickly ran the long way to the boys’ bedroom, hiding from the escalating argument between Mum and Dad.
I raced in and closed the door. The boys were sitting in their second-hand lounge chairs, staring mildly at the television. They looked up at me calmly.
‘What’s wrong?’ Andy asked.
‘Nothing,’ I smiled. ‘Nothing.’
I heard movement in the lounge room, Mum screaming.
‘What’s that?’ Chrissy asked.
‘Let’s put some music on.’ I went to the CD player and turned up the music. A plastic pop tune blared out from the speakers. The boys and I danced and sang wildly; all the while my heart was pounding in my chest. We could no longer hear what was going on outside.
I felt a part of me break. The boys were happy and beautifully ignorant, but I went a little nuts, singing and dancing with them. Pretending everything was fine while the world was ending outside. Pretending, for a moment, that I was some kind of protective brother, or a good son.
The song ended, and there was no noise.
Silence.
Safety.
Right. I should get back to my bedroom. If Mum comes in to confront me in front of the boys…
I make a quick duck to my room and close the door. I don’t run into Mum. I think she’s up the hallway, in her own bedroom. I wait, breathing heavily by the door. I’m scared. I’ve never been scared of Mum before. It’s never been like this.
I hear her stomping up the hallway and then the terrible pounding of her knock. She swings the door open and I jump over the bed, out of the way, away from her.
I’m sure she’s going to hit me. I’m almost positive it’s going to happen. My mind races to those kids at school with their dark bruises. I tell her, I scream at her through tears that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said. I was angry and I was stupid.
She stares at me with cold, wild eyes. She’s not my mum. I don’t recognise her. She’s not my mum. She opens her mouth to speak. There are tears in her eyes. The sharp shrill of anger has disappeared, and it’s replaced by a deeply certain and guttural tone.
‘You’re a horrible, awful son. You’re ungrateful and you do nothing for this family.’
She turned around and left, slamming the door behind her.
I punch myself repeatedly in the head as I cry.
It’s about 5pm, and I don’t leave my room until the following morning to go to school.
My mum is there, like she always is. We don’t speak of the events the previous evening. Everything is normal.
That night, I put on my purple suit. Tiff comes to my front door. Her parents are driving us in their vintage car. I give her a corsage and she gives me a peck on the cheek. We pull off a seamless performance in front of our parents. Her dress is dark blue. I take her by the arm. Side by side like this, we look like a bruise.
Everyone laughs at my suit, and I laugh with them. I am funny and energetic. I mimic joy perfectly. I am expected to dance with my mother for a song or two. I take her by the hand and lead her round the floor. Other mothers have tears in their eyes. We are awkwardly stilted, false.
Then I danced with Tiff. I was in a gigantic purple suit, playing a madman, dancing with my ex-girlfriend who I’d let down and my mother who hated me. This was so stupid. I was so stupid. I’d never felt more like a fraud.
I kept expecting another conversation between my mother and me, but it never came. School and family life moved on. My Crazy Drama Dave performance continued at breakneck pace.
Then, a month before school was scheduled to finish, in the middle of my final exams, I woke up to a startling realisation. It sunk into me like a freezing cold wave.
If I got out of bed, I would die.
I was paralysed from head to toe.