On my first day of year seven, I let slip that I was dreading going to high school, so Dad drove me to school for the first and only time. He was on his way to work, so we were in his truck, which I always liked, because we towered over the puny sedans. When he pulled up on Maitland Street, he grabbed my arm and said, ‘Remember, Charlie, if you have a good day, then your worry was for nothing. And if you have a bad day, then we can fix it for tomorrow, okay?’
‘That’s the bell,’ I said. ‘I have to go. I can’t be late.’
Dad chuckled as he hugged me goodbye. ‘Charlie, it’s just high school. No matter how scared you are, it won’t physically kill you.’
His words lurk in my memory as I stand outside the steel gates at the entrance to school.
It’s my first day back since Alicia Stratton outed me.
I wanted to recall Dad’s words and feel comforted, like I did on my first day of year seven. But thinking of them just makes me think of Dad. He didn’t know, back then, how easily things that shouldn’t kill you still can.
And it makes me wonder if he was even right, after all. This morning, I feel like high school definitely has the power to physically kill me.
To deflect sword strikes, my chain mail: a black Ramones T-shirt beneath my grey school shirt, my two top buttons undone and my sleeves rolled up to show it off as much as possible without receiving detention or, worse, scab duty.
My hands are my shields: studded leather wristbands on both sides, my nails painted jet black.
My helmet? I put my earphones in and crank the volume on my phone to what it tells me is a dangerous level.
Then I press play and blast “Berlin Chair” by You Am I as I charge onto the battlefield.
The guitars propel me forward. Through the girls, glancing and whispering. Through the boys, calling stuff out and laughing. Through the teachers, who would usually arrest me for my studded wristbands and nail polish; today, they just look amazed to see me walking through the school again, like I missed the memo that being gay meant I was supposed to expel myself.
I don’t take my earphones out until I get to home room. My blood is pumping: I’m ready to fight, to snap, to verbally KO anyone who says just about anything that I could construe as being an insult. I don’t care who says what: whether it’s a footy jock in my year, or Mr Peters, my home room teacher, or a stupid year seven girl with a bad attitude, I will fuck them up if they say anything.
But home room isn’t what I expected.
Nobody shoves me, or calls me a faggot, or throws ninja stars at my back before spear-tackling me.
It’s just silence.
It’s like I’m not there.
Everyone just talks about the Summer Dance. A couple of the usual people I talk to say ‘hey’, but they don’t look me in the eye.
The only one who does look at me is Mr Peters. As he reads the daily notices, his eyes keep flicking over to me.
When the bell goes for first period, everyone bails, but Mr Peters walks up to my desk. ‘Stay back a minute, Mr Roth.’
As soon as the room is empty, he crosses his arms in his cheap, chequered business shirt.
‘You need to roll your sleeves down,’ he says. ‘Button that shirt up. Those wristbands need to go. You can’t do anything about those nails, but tonight you need to wipe that off.’
‘Why? Girls are allowed to wear nail polish. It’s sexist if I can’t.’
Mr Peters shakes his head. ‘Don’t argue,’ he says. ‘Also, you’ve been absent for several days in a row and we’ve had no word from your parents.’
‘From my mum, you mean,’ I say. ‘Fitzy’s not my dad.’
‘Do you have an explanation for your absence?’
‘Oh, come on. You already know. Everyone does.’
Mr Peters does a curt nod. ‘The rumours aren’t good. I’m concerned for you.’
‘Don’t be,’ I say, picking up my school bag. ‘I’m doing just ace.’
‘Charlie,’ he calls, as I move for the door. ‘Look, some of my colleagues wouldn’t do this, but I want to help you. Even if you’ve done everything in your power to get the teaching staff offside these past few years – and, quite frankly, you really have pushed us to the limits – I do still care about your wellbeing, you know.’
‘As if,’ I say. ‘You’re a Catholic. I know where you think I’m going.’
‘We aren’t all monolithic in our beliefs, you know.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’ve already spoken to the school counsellor. She’d be quite glad to see you for a chat. Nothing scary.’
‘Too bad,’ I say. ‘I really don’t care about seeing that bitch.’
I put my earphones back in for the walk to English. My nerves soften: this is one of the classes I share with Zeke. For whatever reason, a thick, ropey knot slides undone in my stomach.
But when I get to English class, there’s no sign of that dumpy, curly-haired wog.
I stand on the threshold for a minute, sussing out my options. I’d normally sit with Manny Mendoza and Caleb O’Bree, but there’s no sign of either of them, either. It looks like they both chose the same day to wag school. Probably getting high at Manny’s while his mum is out of town for work. Of course they didn’t think to invite me.
I glance around, desperate for options. Razor and Lockie have their feet up on their desks in the biggest fuck-off gesture known to man; Piera and Amber return my glance with identical don’t-even-dream-of-it faces.
In the end, I figure the safest thing I can do is sit next to the two shy female nerds of the class: Phuong and Shruthi. We may have nothing in common but they’re probably the least likely to insult me, laugh, ask questions, or in any way engage with me.
But to my surprise, as I head up to the front row to sit with the girls, a plastic chair slides out from a desk, as if by telekinesis.
I look up. Pedro and Jeremy are beside the empty desk.
‘Spare seat,’ Pedro grunts.
Without weighing it up, I slump into the chair. I’ve hardly ever spoken to these guys but I feel a rush of affection towards them both. I remind myself not to verbalise that in any way, or it will kill any pity they feel for me.
‘How’s it going?’ Jeremy asks, leaning over the plastic mess of pens that Pedro has deconstructed on his desk. ‘You okay, man?’
‘Yeah, of course,’ I say quickly.
‘Big week, huh?’ Pedro says, smiling.
If it were anyone else, I’d think they were smirking at me, having a private chuckle about my condition, or my situation. But I don’t get fuckhead vibes from these two. They’re quiet, nerdy guys.
‘Bit of a big one, yeah,’ I concede. That doesn’t even scratch the surface. ‘Doesn’t Zeke usually sit with you guys?’
‘Yeah, but he’s at a Summer Dance committee meeting,’ Jeremy says. ‘Loves his extracurricular activities.’
‘Yeah, he spends half his lunch times at ’em,’ Pedro says. ‘We only get like forty-five minutes to escape the teachers, why would you actively choose to spend it with them?’
‘Stockholm syndrome,’ I joke. They half-laugh. ‘He’s a good guy, Zeke.’
I don’t even know why I say that. I guess I want to let them know that I’m kind of becoming mates with Zeke now. Maybe I could become one of their group.
But Pedro’s moustache twitches and he exchanges a look with Jeremy.
‘Hey, look, just be careful with Zeke,’ Pedro says, scratching his neck. ‘He is a good guy, but he’s got some kind of traditional views.’
‘I wouldn’t say he’s homophobic, but I think his parents are old school, and Italian, and Catholic,’ Jeremy adds. ‘He’s probably just saying whatever they tell him instead of thinking for himself. Just a heads up.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. Jeez, it really is true what they say about homophobes: they’re always the closet cases. A smile flickers over my face. It’s pretty cool of them to look out for me when they hardly know me. I suppose sometimes people can surprise you in a good way.
English is thankfully a breeze: we’re watching an old movie called The Quiet American. It should be more exciting since it’s kind of an espionage movie, but I can’t get that into it. One quote does hit me hard, though. At one point, this Vietnamese dude called Hinh says: ‘Sooner or later, Mr Fowler, one has to take sides, if one is to remain human.’
It’s the only thing I write in my exercise book for the whole class. In fact, I trace my pen over that one line over and over, until the ink has soaked through to the next page and the paper is tearing itself apart.
When Mrs Montgomery pauses the movie for us to ‘work on our notes’ (ha!), the discussion inevitably turns to the dance.
‘This is getting desperately sad,’ Pedro says, doodling a cool letter S on his page. ‘It’s Tuesday. The dance is Saturday. And I still haven’t asked anyone.’
‘Not everyone is going with a partner,’ Jeremy says. ‘It’s not the Ball. We could just go solo.’
Pedro crumples up a ball of paper and ditches it at the back of Phuong’s head.
‘What the hell was that for?’ she says waspishly. I didn’t even know she had a tongue in her head, let alone that she could be snarky. Maybe nerds interact with each other differently to how they interact with the rest of us.
‘Wanna come to Summer Dance with me?’ Pedro says, already red in the face.
Phuong narrows her gaze, then turns and whispers something to Shruthi, the way a Secret Service adviser whispers to a US President.
Phuong turns her chair back to us. ‘Only if Jeremy goes with Shruthi. Then we can go in a group of four and meet at Shruthi’s for pre’s.’
‘Done,’ Pedro says, with an accomplished nod at both girls. They turn back around. I think they’re the only ones in class actually taking notes.
‘You didn’t even ask me,’ Jeremy mutters.
‘Like you’d turn it down,’ Pedro says. He nudges me. ‘What are you gonna do, man?’
‘For a date?’
‘Uh huh. Solo? Or gonna act straight for the night?’
‘Dunno. My band is performing, so I don’t know if it really matters since I’ll be on stage for half of it. If I could, though,’ I say, ‘I’d take a guy. Can you imagine –’
I never find out if Pedro could imagine, because there’s an outburst of guffaws from the table of meatheads behind us. Someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn.
‘Charlie Roth,’ Razor says, bending a knee on his plastic chair. ‘I heard you need a date to the Summer Dance.’ He snorts. The other three snicker. ‘Do you want to come with me?’
There’s a twitter of mumbling around the classroom. Mrs Montgomery lazily raises her head from her marking. ‘Boys, come on,’ she groans.
‘Whaddaya say, Charlie?’ Razor says. ‘I’ll go with ya if you give me a blowie in the car on the way there.’
My face is hot, but my nerves are stone cold. ‘Yeah, I’m down for that,’ I say, winking like a total thot. ‘I’m pretty good at sucking cock. You’re in for a treat, Razor.’
‘Oh SNAP!’ Lockie shouts, and they all burst into hysterical laughter mixed with groans of disgust.
‘BOYS!’ Mrs Montgomery roars.
That’s the end of it until the end of the class. But, not long after we file out of class and into the hot summer air of the corridor, I see Hannah leaving her classroom and, unexpectedly, making a beeline for me.
‘We need to talk,’ she says, hands on hips. Her school jumper is on again. It’s thirty-two degrees today.
I look either side of me, and then back at her, twisting my face into mock surprise. ‘Oh, can you see me again, can you? I thought I was invisible.’
‘I heard a rumour you’ve been planning to bring a guy to the summer dance,’ she says matter-of-factly.
‘Jesus, how quickly do you girls gossip? That literally just happened.’
‘You know the school will never let you, right? You can’t go to the dance with a guy, Charlie. This is a Catholic school. Come on.’
‘This is more of your super awesome support for gay rights, huh?’
Hannah clicks her tongue, as if I’m not dead right. ‘I’m not saying it’s fair. I’m just saying it won’t work.’ She tucks a ratty strand of hair behind her infected helix piercing. ‘Look, I feel bad for you. It must be hard to have nobody to go with.’
‘Well, your pity won’t help that,’ I say. ‘And anyway, we’re still performing, aren’t we?’
‘Yes,’ she says, like the band is a total inconvenience. ‘And we’ve kept the wedding gig, by the way. I managed to talk Nattie around. You’re lucky.’
‘Oh yeah. I totally feel lucky.’
‘Look, are you not getting where I’m coming from?’ Hannah says, shuffling a couple of inches towards me. ‘You can’t go with a guy to the dance. I’ll go with you, if you want.’
‘As a friend?’
Her teeth flash into a smile. ‘Of course. That’s what I meant.’
I think about rocking up to the dance with a girl I wouldn’t even be attracted to if I were straight. Worse, spending the night with a so-called friend who rejected me when I needed her.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m bringing a guy.’
The smile vanishes from her face. Nothing changes in her hollow eyes.
‘You can’t,’ she says. ‘They won’t let you.’
‘Well, I won’t tell them,’ I say brashly. ‘It’ll be a big, epic surprise. I know everyone in this town likes talking about me behind my back. That’ll give them something new to chomp on for a bit.’
‘I was trying to be nice,’ Hannah says. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘Everything,’ I say, throwing her a departing look of hate I usually keep reserved for Fitzy. ‘Absolutely everything is wrong with me.’
I spend most of the next few classes trading texts with Matt. They’re intermittent. I forget he actually works during the day.
Hey. How’s your day?
Hey. Sorry took so long to reply. Helping Dad. Farm life. I’m OK. You?
Not bad. First day back at school. It sucks arse. Couple of guys were OK with me which was cool. You building up a nice sweat, huh?
Just on smoko now. Hehe you have a one-track mind, don’t ya? Bit hot and sweaty, yeah. Think it’s like 35 today.
32. They said on the radio.
Oh right. Bit warm.
This is Matt’s level of conversation. I kind of love him for it. It’s sweet.
He doesn’t text back for a while, so I send another one:
School sucks. Wish you were here with me. X
Don’t do the X thing. It’s gay as.
It’s just meant to be a kiss.
Yeah, but it’s weird between guys. Only girls should do it. Or guys only to their girlfriends and only if they’re whipped. But not from one guy to another guy. It’s weird, man.
I make a mental note to never send him any Xs, nor any Os, for good measure.
Everyone at school is talking about who they’re gonna take to the summer dance. Lol kinda lame right?
Sorry was busy. Finally stopped 4 lunch. You goin to summer dance?
My band is playing there so yeah, by default. I don’t have a date yet. I was sort of thinking of asking this hot farm boy I met the other day … is that crazy?
That one doesn’t get a reply. Idiot. Of course he’s not going to come to the dance with me. Not with everything being how it is. Not with him being upset with even Zeke knowing about us. It’s not going to happen.
The worst part is, I can see that he’s seen my message, but he doesn’t respond. Left on ‘read’ again.
When I finally get to fourth-period music, I’m ready to just space out and play some good music on my guitar. Save for jamming in Hannah’s garage (before she turned on me) music class is my second favourite place to mess around with the instruments and just make a racket.
But before I can get started, one of the year twelve prefects pops their head in the door.
‘Excuse me, Miss Batts. Brother Murphy wants to see Charlie Roth in his office.’
Now, usually when this happens, any student within earshot would join in a general, mocking chorus of ‘oooooh’. But nobody does it this time. Seems like it makes sense to them that I’d be called to the Principal’s Office eventually.
Brother Murphy is as Irish as his name suggests: he’s fifty-odd but still has a shock of red hair and a few freckles that never quite faded; he wears a gold-and-emerald shamrock badge on his lapel, beside a little crucifix pin; and the poster behind his desk is Guinness-related. I think he thinks it helps him relate to teenagers by showing that he drinks, too, but it kind of just makes him look like an old guy – who else would drink Guinness? The stuff smells like Vegemite.
‘Have a seat, Charles,’ Brother Murphy says, closing the door. At once, I feel claustrophobic in his office. It smells like aftershave. Too much of it.
‘Charlie’s not just a nickname,’ I say. ‘It’s actually on my birth certificate. Not Charles.’
Brother Murphy raises an eyebrow. He settles his middle-aged bloat into the leather swivel chair behind his desk. ‘Right. Charlie. Do you know why I’ve called you here?’
I think about the fact that my Ramones shirt is right underneath my school uniform. It always makes me feel bolder.
‘Let me guess,’ I say, trying to look Brother Murphy in the eye. ‘Is it a lecture about how God doesn’t want me to suck dick?’
The revulsion moves through him like a seizure. I love the effect that image has on people.
‘That’s crass,’ he says, lips opening like he just tasted something sour in his tea. ‘Charlie, listen. You’ve been raised within this school and its Catholic ethos. You know the values of the school. Now, you might be expecting me to say something against your sexual preference, but I’m not going to do that. If I intervened in the personal affairs of every student who was sexually active and doing something God didn’t want them to do, I’d never get home each night.’
I’d never thought of Brother Murphy actually living in a house. I assumed he dangled upside-down from the rafters of the school chapel each night.
‘This isn’t about what you do in your own time,’ he says. ‘Though our counsellor is happy to talk to you if you have any issues to discuss.’
‘Jesus. Is she stalking me or something? Doesn’t she have anyone else’s head to mess with?’
Brother Murphy frowns. ‘Don’t blaspheme in this office. The counselling is intended as pastoral care.’
‘I don’t need any fucking counselling,’ I snap. I grab my school bag. ‘Is that all you wanted me for? I’m good. Thanks.’
‘Sit down!’ Brother Murphy bellows. ‘And do not swear again in my presence!’
I make sure he sees me rolling my eyes, and slump back into the chair. ‘What now?’
‘Well, as much as I believe in non-intervention in our students’ private lives, I cannot exercise that principle when your beliefs run into conflict with a school event.’
‘What?’
‘I hear you’re planning to invite a same-sex partner to the Summer Dance this weekend.’
Oh wow. That got around the traps pretty fast.
‘What if I am?’ I say, jutting my chin out at him.
‘Well, you can’t. It runs counter to the school’s moral code.’ He puffs his chest out; his gut reflexively bulges out along with it.
‘I am forbidding you from bringing a male partner to the Summer Dance,’ he says with force. ‘If you attempt to do so, the dance will be cancelled on the night. You and your band won’t get your fee, either, since you’d be violating the terms of our hire agreement. Oh, and I may have to expel you.’
I shrink back into the chair.
‘Not feeling so punk rock now, are you?’ he says lightly. ‘Do I have your agreement?’
‘You suck,’ I say. My jaw is fused shut with rage. ‘Why would you try to ruin my life like this?’
‘That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it? You can attend the dance. Come on your own. Enjoy the night. But don’t get any funny ideas, or you’re out.’
‘I’m not even Catholic,’ I spit. ‘You can’t hold me to your rules.’
‘Your parents chose to send you here, so yes, we can hold you to our rules,’ he says. ‘Your father was particularly keen to have you here.’
‘Fitzy isn’t my dad!’ I cry. My stomach is bubbling with fury. ‘He’s not even my stepdad. He’s just a giant leech and a cheating piece of shit.’
‘Language. And I don’t even know who you’re referring to. I was talking about your biological father.’
My stomach goes still. The breath catches in my chest. ‘What? What about him?’
‘Well, I’m just saying, it was obviously his wish that you be raised in a Catholic school environment. He wanted you to have the best opportunity his money could afford.’
‘Is that a crack? Because we’re poor?’
‘You must know this already?’ Brother Murphy says, taking his spectacles off. ‘Charlie, in his will, your father left most of his money to the school, to cover your tuition fees until you graduate. He wanted you to have the best shot possible at life.’
He clears his throat. Looks away from me. Waits until I wipe my face. Dammit.
‘I’m sorry. I assumed your mother would have told you that.’
‘She didn’t.’
‘Well, you ought to know. Perhaps keep that in mind before you think about rebelling at this dance and pissing all over his legacy.’
‘Hypocrite. You just swore.’ I glare at him. ‘And that is such a fucked up thing to say to me.’ I stand up. ‘I hate you. I hate your poxy school and everything about it. I don’t give a shit if Dad wanted me to go here. You can all go to hell.’
I run out and leave him there, ignoring his calls for me to come back.
I can’t go back to music class. I’m too upset: my veins are on fire. How dare that Irish arsehole bring my dad into this? Dad would never have wanted me to put up with this bullshit.
I wander the halls aimlessly for a few minutes, which is dumb because it’s the quickest way for a teacher to catch you and haul you right back into the office. I head for the toilets and lock myself in a cubicle and my whole body starts to shake as I think about my dad. I wish he was here right now. I want him to save me.
My phone vibrates.
It’s Matt.
Oh. No. I’m already going to the Summer Dance with Kara Spumani. She’s a family friend. Think she needed a date and she asked me. Sorry. But I guess I’ll see you there?
‘For fuck’s sake!’ I shout, ditching my phone through the gap under the cubicle door. ‘Why can’t anything go right in my life?’
A belt buckle jangles in the cubicle beside me. ‘Is that you, Charlie?’
Shit. I thought I was alone.
‘It’s me, Zeke,’ the voice says. ‘Apparently I’m just always in the toilet when people are melting down. Do you want your phone back?’
‘Not really,’ I grumble.
He pulls his pants up, and I quit moping on the throne and open the cubicle door. It’s like we both instinctively know how bad it would look for me to be talking to guys in the boys’ toilets.
Zeke hands me my phone. The screen is still intact. I kind of wish I’d shattered it, just to see something break.
‘You having a hard first day back?’ he asks, washing his hands. ‘Maybe you should go home. You made it this far. That’s pretty good for a first day back.’
‘No,’ I say, clenching my fist. ‘I’ll make it through the whole day. These people aren’t going to break me.’
‘I think you’re really brave,’ Zeke says, wiping his hands on his shorts. ‘I couldn’t be open about it. Not in high school, at least. And not here.’
A flame of hope flickers in my heart. ‘Come to the dance with me.’
Zeke’s dark eyes widen. ‘Oh, um … I’m already going with someone.’
I chuckle. There is nothing else I have the energy to do but chuckle. ‘Seriously?’
‘Sabrina Sefton. We work together on the dance committee and I think she has a crush on me. She asked me this morning. She even wants me to go to some party with her tonight. Like, it’s a school night! Anyway … sorry, man, but … like I said, I’m not out. I’m not even sure I want to be out.’
‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m the one who should be sorry. I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have asked you. I shouldn’t have asked anyone.’
‘What do you mean?’
I hold my hands up as if to push him away. ‘Nothing. Just leave me alone.’
I feel dumb about the last letter because I started going on about how being homosexual was like a devil thing but when I read some more websites I realised that’s just crazy bullshit that religious nutcases push and last night I got into a real dark place and I had a messed up dream where I was the grim reaper and I had to tell a young guy like me that he had satan inside him so it was time for me to kill him for his own good before he hurt his parents and everyone he loved and ruined their lives and ruined the whole town, but when I swung my big steel scythe it went straight through this guy like he was made of smoke and stuck into my chest and my blood gushed out black like it was diseased or like when you have a scab
point is: I don’t hate being gay because of God or religion. I really don’t believe in that … but I still don’t wanna be gay and I don’t like the idea of being gay because:
that last point is the worst because once you accept you’re gay and tell people then that’s the moment the world won’t see you as a real man anymore you will always be weaker than straight guys and less than them and they won’t look you in the eyes and when they do look at you all they’ll see is a feminised sissy guy and it doesn’t matter if you don’t want to be like that that is all the world sees and it doesn’t matter what you think of yourself, you can be gay and want to still be manly and you can even be a bloody gay lumberjack but no straight man will think of you as masculine and even if you know you belong at the men’s table they’ll never let you sit there ever again because you’re only masculine if other men think you are, which is what I learned the night of the Summer Dance