Mid-afternoon sunlight refracts through the stained glass. Pools of rainbow light undulate and flicker on the thin carpet. The ceiling fans rattle, doing nothing to cut the thick waves of heat that has everyone slowly oozing to the ground like medieval wax candles. Seriously, who has a wedding in February?
‘Are ya nervous mate?’ Spud pokes Robbie in the ribs. ‘Thinking about screwing the same bird forever ’til ya finally cark it?’
‘Better than screwing your own hand until carpal tunnel kicks in, knobhead,’ Robbie fires back.
Father Mulroney leans over and whispers to Robbie, ‘People in the front pews can hear you.’
‘Aw, jeez, that’s okay, Father,’ Robbie booms. ‘I don’t mind people knowing Spud’s a compulsive wanker.’
Father Mulroney stares straight ahead, down the green carpeted aisle of St Lawrence’s Church, like he’s a guard at Buckingham Palace. He won’t crack a goddamn smile, but those eyes aren’t glazed over – they’re resisting a chuckle. There’s a mix of muzzled snorts and disapproving glares from the front rows, too. Dad can’t hold back his grin; he had a couple of pints at the counter lunch so he’s already halfway there; he hasn’t even remembered to do his top button up beneath the oversized knot of his red tie. Mum’s eyes are hawkish, her shellacked nails pincered around her clutch purse like it’s a grenade she’s just about ready to pull the pin from.
The rest of the guests are overwhelmingly Italian. You can tell Natalie only has fifty guests to Robbie’s hundred and fifty. It’s not the dark hair or the olive skin or the gold jewellery of our side that makes them stand out: it’s more that Natalie’s heathens look bewildered by the regalia of the Roman Catholic Church. I know Mum and Dad are proud of the turnout. First they defeated the Aussies in the debate about the pasta course (tortellini will be served between the soup and the main), then they crushed them on the music front (the Tarantella is going to crop up somewhere) and now they’ve vanquished them in sheer numbers. Natalie’s thin, bony mother sits in the front pew beside my parents, arms close by her sides and her weary head bowed, like a prisoner of war.
Spud whispers something in Hammer’s ear and they both snort. Hammer doesn’t pass it on to me.
My blood is still simmering with the change in line-up. I got bumped. How do you get bumped when you’re the groom’s only blood relative in the bridal party?
‘Hammer and Richelle were together when we asked them to be in the bridal party,’ Natalie had explained to me over cannoli and espresso the night before. ‘But since they’ve split up, we can hardly pair them up to dance.’
‘Shouldn’t they just suck it up?’ I’d said back, spraying icing sugar over Robbie’s jacket. ‘It’s only one night.’
‘But it’s the most important night of our lives,’ Natalie had explained. ‘And we’ve already had so many issues with people not getting along. You’re still in the bridal party.’
‘Can’t you bump Richelle up instead? I’ll be paired with her anyway. That way I don’t have to move down.’
‘But then that would make Josie feel awful about being bumped down. I couldn’t do that to her!’
It was insulting how quickly Natalie had replied. And how unfathomable it was for them that I might be capable of feeling awful, too.
Robbie had leaned over to grate his knuckles into my scalp. When you’re a little brother you get used to just letting people injure you. ‘Thanks for doing this, buddy. You’re a good egg.’
And that was it. I’d never actually agreed. I didn’t get a choice.
Hammer’s surfy blond hair touches the back of his collar. I hate how pathetic he makes me feel. There is a righteously indignant part of me that wants to drag him outside and challenge him to fisticuffs over what happened after the Summer Dance. And there is a softer – and sadly, bigger – part of me that’s too scared to challenge him. Any chance of him changing his mind and coming back to me would be squashed forever if I arc up. So I just stare at the back of that big blond boofhead and wonder if there’s any intelligent thought going on inside it. If he’s thinking of me right now. If he wants to look back at me, but he’s too scared.
There’s so much I don’t like about this church. I don’t like its warmth and stuffiness; the heavy, cloaking incense smell is intoxicating, and not in a pleasant way. I don’t like Father Mulroney and his raised eyebrow and his confessional box. I don’t like how he always goes on in his homilies about starving people in Sierra Leone and yet the altar and tabernacle are coated in gold leaf. I don’t like the garish stained glass window they made for the golden jubilee. I don’t like how cultish we all are with our Pavlovian responses of ‘Lord, hear our prayer’ or ‘and also with you’.
The only thing I’ve ever been drawn to in this holy place is the statue of Saint Lawrence to the right of the alter. He’s robed, but with a huge metal grill beside him, like he’s about to cook up a few snags; a cheerful smile is painted on his ceramic face.
It would be funny if it weren’t the most twisted, macabre statue I’ve ever seen. According to legend, Saint Lawrence was barbecued to death by his Roman persecutors. And here he stands in the church that bears his name, grinning and parading the tool of his death.
Although I think that’s part of the legend. Apparently when he was mid-roast, Saint Lawrence smiled at his enemies and said something like, ‘I’m done. Turn me over.’
Good one, Chuckles.
But I always wondered why that’s what the statue focused on. I’ve been to this church since I was little and if you asked me what Saint Lawrence did in his life I couldn’t tell you a thing. Not even why they made him a saint. All I know is that the poor bloke got literally fried and smiled all the way through it. What message is the Catholic flock meant to absorb from that? If someone sets you on fire, just grin and bear it? Is every person in this church – with their gold chains tangled in chest hair and crucifix lapel pins and cross tattoos – supposed to enjoy their flesh being roasted off their body?
Am I supposed to?
I wonder if one day I’ll be standing where Robbie’s standing. Will a girl like Natalie latch on to me, too? I don’t think I would need to do very much to end up married to Sabrina Sefton, other than not actively resist her advances. It would probably just take one night of too much to drink. We wouldn’t even need to screw. Just one sloppy, intoxicated kiss would be enough for her to capture me, wrap her sticky web around my body and cocoon me for life. If I just took the path of least resistance, we’d be hitched within a couple of years.
How bad would it actually be, to end up with a woman? I’m sure I could learn to live with it. I used to get a bit turned on by big boobs in Robbie’s old porno mags. Sabrina has a decent chest. I could learn to like playing with that. I’m sure. If I can enjoy sex with my own hand, I’m sure the addition of a female body won’t throw me off that much. It might even feel nicer. And if you close your eyes, well, you could imagine it’s a guy.
‘She’s running late,’ Robbie says quietly.
‘They always do,’ Father Mulroney says in his operatic whisper. ‘Every bride wants to arrive last, so everyone sees her walk down the aisle. It’s the whole point.’
‘I thought the whole point was to just get married.’
‘If that was the point, son, why are all these people invited to watch? Trust me. She’ll be here. Just fifteen minutes late.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s bloody hot in this suit, is all.’
Robbie slides a cut-up, calloused hand between the shiny buttons of his silky shirt and scratches his chest. He flaps the tails of his suit jacket like wings, trying to get air to run down his sweaty back. It’s like watching a dog whose owner dressed it up in human clothes for the day.
What would Robbie do if Natalie bailed on him at the altar? It’s probably bad that the thought makes my spine tingle with excitement, just like when I egged him the other night. But I’m so curious. Does he have any feelings beneath that boofhead face? Would he be gutted if Natalie cheated on him with Spud? Or would he dust himself off and say ‘fair enough’ and stumble into the next web along the line – maybe Josie or Freja or even Richelle once she’s eighteen? Does Robbie actually love Natalie, or did he just take the path of least resistance?
Holy shit, what if every male in this church has done that? Is that the history of relationships? Is there some secret variation on the ‘wankers and liars’ code Dad hasn’t told me yet?
‘Every man prefers dick to pussy, son, but we have to pretend we like birds so we can pop out some kids,’ he will tell me one day soon. ‘It’s normal. There are two types of men in this world – homos, and liars.’
‘So, I should be a liar?’ I’ll ask.
Dad will laugh. ‘Of course, Zeke. That’s the idea.’
He’ll pat me on the back and tell me he likes me in my Perth Glory jersey. Maybe I’ll start liking it, too.
Of course that’s not real. I know that. I’m just getting closer and closer to insane. If someone set me on fire right now, I’d probably smile.
I try not to think anymore. It’s doing my head in. I look out over the crowd, and a knot of ice rope tightens in my gut. Natalie isn’t the only one who’s late.
Charlie hasn’t rocked up.
Rocky and Hannah sit on wooden stools behind the church organ, where the choir would usually stand. Rocky’s phone is clutched tight in his fingers and he keeps glancing at it. The floral crown on Hannah’s head – blossoms of white and pink entwined in green threaded stems – does nothing to distract from her blotchy red face. She keeps checking the side door, hands on hips and a scowl on her gob.
I hope Charlie rocks up soon. He hasn’t answered my texts since he got expelled. I get it if he doesn’t want to talk, but it’s rude to leave someone dangling like that. Especially a friend.
Rocky taps his phone suddenly and nods to Hannah. She picks up her acoustic guitar and begins plucking away a sweet, soft melody. Rocky taps his palms on a set of bongo drums.
At Father Mulroney’s direction, everyone in the pews stands, and the bridal party enters. First are the flower girl and page boy – Natalie’s cousins, I don’t remember their names – followed by Richelle and Josie, as pink-faced and blotchy as Hannah, and the maid of honour, Freja, her brown skin more pristine than the other girls’.
Finally, Natalie enters, her shiny, made-up face basking in the glow of two hundred beaming faces. Her rigid, pencil-thin father strides beside her, mouth flat and grim.
She reaches the altar and faces Robbie with a smile. The crowd seems to exhale as they sit down.
Father Mulroney raises his arms. ‘We begin in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy spirit.’
Thirty minutes later, they’re married.
Robbie and Natalie and the rest of us in the bridal party file out and stand around in the grotto with the big statue of the Madonna. After Spud and Hammer, I shake Robbie’s hand. We slap each other’s backs: the man’s hug. I kiss Natalie on the cheek and she pulls away within a second to receive her next congratulations – because now the entire congregation has formed a line that snakes back to the car park.
Me, Spud and Hammer are shunted to the side as the procession of guests file through to kiss the newlyweds. Most of them are uncles and aunties and cousins from Perth who I’ve spoken to once or twice in my life: they’re more a list of names to me, really, than a line of people. I couldn’t tell you anything about them and they know absolutely nothing about me.
A car boot slams nearby. Hannah and Rocky have packed their guitar and drums away. The sea breeze comes in, whistling through the gum trees, but that isn’t what makes my skin shiver.
Charlie never rocked up.
Robbie and Natalie’s wedding reception is an over-catered, over-dressed, overblown Sicilian nightmare.
In short, it’s everything my parents ever dreamed of.
The ballroom of the Mercurial Winds Hotel is done up in some floral and frilly décor I can’t possibly believe Natalie had any say in. It’s pure Mum, circa her own wedding, which was essentially based on your average 1930s Sicilian wedding. I suddenly understand why people talk about cheap stuff being ‘no frills’: there are literally frills dangling off everything: the drapes that cover the walls; the decorated gift table; the bridesmaids’ dresses; even the tablecloths.
The bridal table is set up on an elevated dais, overlooking the parquetry dance floor and the sea of circular tables. I see Angelo sitting with some of my cousins from Perth and I’m glad I don’t have to be near or speak to any of them. Their only interests are playing soccer, either on a field or on an Xbox, and looking at girls. I’ve never fitted anywhere less.
At the bridal table, Hammer is to my left, and to my right is a little white table with some generic wedding paraphernalia: giant, white-painted wooden blocks of the letters R and N with a giant ampersand between them; lots of schmaltzy photos in decorative frames. At one point, Hammer twists towards me. My heart leaps. He’s had his back to me for ten minutes, bantering with Spud.
‘Hey, is that my glass or yours?’ Hammer says.
If someone stabbed me in the eye with a fork at that exact moment, I doubt I’d even feel it over the glacial rupture in my heart.
‘Yours,’ I say. ‘Glasses always go to the right.’
Hammer tousles my hair. ‘I knew you’d know, Zeeky. Cheers, buddy.’ He turns back to the waitress holding out a carafe of Coke and forgets about me.
I think I would rather be called faggot by Hammer than buddy. All through the photo shoot this arvo he was throwing his arms around my shoulders and calling me mate, champ, buddy. It was like taking a pick axe to the chest. And he only did it when we were posing and goofing around for the photos in a group. The moment Spud or Robbie or the girls weren’t around, he fell totally silent around me. I wasn’t even worth looking at.
As I stir ice cubes in concentric circles in my Coke, a shape moves up to the dais beside me.
It’s Hannah. Her blotchy face is stern and sour.
‘What’s up?’ I ask, crunching an ice cube in my teeth.
‘Zeke – it’s Charlie,’ she says. ‘He isn’t answering his phone. We got through the ceremony okay without him, and Rocky is just playing some songs from Nattie’s playlist for the first part of the night, but we need him to do our main set.’
My skin crawls. ‘When did you see him last?’
Hannah folds her arms and looks to the entrance doors. ‘At the Summer Dance.’
‘What?’ I demand. ‘You guys didn’t rehearse or anything?’
‘Have you heard from him?’
‘No.’
‘Would he reply if you called him?’
I don’t want her to know I already did, after the ceremony. He didn’t pick up.
‘Why don’t you call him?’ I shoot back. ‘I thought you and Charlie and Rocky used to be the Three Amigos. What happened to that?’
Hannah’s cheeks bulge. ‘It’s been complicated since – it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t expect a loser like you to understand how friendships work.’
Cow. She was trying to wound and she did.
But I am so done smiling my way through people’s barbs and slingshots.
‘I may not have a lot of mates,’ I say, looking her in the eye. ‘But I know friends should have each other’s backs. Especially when they’re going through something tough.’
Hannah draws back, some air puffing from her nostrils. Damage inflicted.
‘Just call him,’ she says.
‘Nup,’ I say. ‘I hope he doesn’t rock up and you can’t play your set, and Robbie makes you pay back the money you took for this gig.’
Hannah’s mouth drops open slightly. ‘Wow,’ she says. ‘I never knew you were such an arsehole, Zeke.’
‘Neither did I.’
The moment she turns tail and stalks back to the DJ’s booth at the side of the stage with Rocky, my heart starts pounding. I touch my thumb to the crucifix beneath my shirt. I take it back, God. I want Charlie to rock up and I want him to be okay.
I try calling him again, but it rings out. He doesn’t even have voicemail. Before I can text him, Rocky’s voice comes over the speakers.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, for the first time ever, Mr and Mrs Robbie Calogero!’
Robbie and Natalie float into the ballroom. Their hands are clasped together and pointed to the sky in an arrow of victory. Everyone stands and claps. Once they’re seated, we get to the only part of the wedding I’m looking forward to. Food is the only thing that gets better the more overblown it is. The courses parade down my throat: antipasti, arancini, minestrone, and then pasta! Beautiful tortellini in a good meaty sauce and a small mountain of Romano cheese.
After the pasta course, Rocky invites the newlyweds up for the bridal waltz. And then comes the bit I’ve been dreading.
‘Okay, now I invite the bridal party to the dance floor.’
It paralyses me with fear, asking one of the hottest girls in school to dance with me, even knowing that she’s obliged to. But as I step down from the dais and approach her, Richelle is a pro, smiling and taking my hand. I have to count aloud, under my breath, the one, two, three of the bridal waltz to get into the rhythm. A few people laugh. Maybe it wasn’t as under my breath as I thought. Richelle stiffens and stares blankly into the ballroom. I never knew it was possible to deliver the I-don’t-know-him look when you’re physically in the guy’s arms, but Richelle nails it.
I eventually get the rhythm right and we circle on the spot beside Hammer and Josie. Richelle’s hands rest limply on my shoulders, like two wet sponges. I can’t help but wish I had Hammer’s hands on me instead: they’d be rough-skinned and tough and his grip would be firm.
Finally, Rocky puts on a second song – a Delta Goodrem ballad that Natalie loves – and invites everyone up to the dance floor. People whirl past us: Uncle Gino and Aunty Marisa; Natalie’s parents; my cousin Angelo and one of Natalie’s slutty cousins (typical); Uncle Mario and Aunty Grace. Hammer’s brother, Doug, is dancing stiffly with some girl. I feel sorry for Doug. He has the drooping shoulders and weary face of someone who’s suffered from acne for a long time: he barely takes his eyes of his feet.
Someone wolf-whistles at us. I glance sideways in sync with Richelle to see my parents dancing past, arm in arm. Dad grins.
‘Looking good, kids,’ he booms. He winks at Richelle. ‘Good looking rooster, isn’t he, darlin’?’
Richelle laughs nervously. ‘Sure … reckon he needs some dancing lessons, though.’
Bitch. What did I ever do to you?
As we dance away from my parents, a hand taps my shoulder.
Hammer.
‘Mind if I cut in, buddy?’ he says boldly. I can smell beer on his breath.
Richelle stops dancing, bringing me to a halt, too. ‘What do you want?’
‘I saw you broke up with Jai,’ Hammer says. ‘Thought you might wanna dance.’
Richelle’s hands detach from me instantly. ‘I guess so.’
Hammer puts his arms around Richelle’s waist and they sway into the sea of dancing figures, leaving me standing alone in the centre. I glance around for Josie and raise my eyebrows at her, holding out my hands half-heartedly to offer her a dance.
‘No, sorry, my feet are hurting,’ she mouths, walking off the dance floor.
The pit of my stomach burns like a smoking coal. I stride over to Robbie and Natalie without thinking of how it would look.
‘Guys,’ I say, pointing. ‘Hammer is dancing with Richelle.’
Robbie and Natalie follow my finger. Both of them smile.
‘Maybe they’re gonna work things out,’ Natalie says. ‘That’s so sweet.’
‘I thought you didn’t want them dancing together.’
‘It’s fine if they’re happy,’ Natalie says. ‘Robbie, spin me.’
‘Bro, buzz off, we’re dancing,’ Robbie says, twirling Natalie beneath his arm.
I head back to my seat alone. I mash the buttons of my phone as I text Charlie, asking him where the hell he is. I give up all pretence and send him about a dozen bright red angry face emojis in a row.
After the song is over, Rocky calls everyone back to their seats for speeches. The waitress pours me and Hammer a flute of champagne each for the toasts. Guess she figures we’re over eighteen. Bonus. Champagne is kind of yuck, but my face gets warm and my head gets comfortably fuzzy.
Spud roasts Robbie: literally every story he has involves them drinking or clubbing. Freja gets emotional, eliciting a hug from Natalie at the lectern and applause from everyone. Natalie’s dad, Eric, reads his staccato one-minute speech directly from an ink-covered sheet of paper.
Dad speaks last. He tears up with pride as he looks over at Robbie and his new bride.
I know I should put everything aside, pause the tornado of my own soul, and be happy for my brother. But I don’t feel happy. When I see my father look at my brother like that, salt stings every wound within me.
He will never look at me with that pride.
The main course is served after the speeches. I have the chicken.
The lights dim after the plates are cleared. Hannah and Rocky huddle in the DJ booth, Rocky nervously scrolling through Natalie’s playlist. No sign of Charlie.
Rocky eventually says, ‘Okay, we’re going to play some requests before we get into our set.’
The requested songs get both sides of the wedding up to the dance floor. This has to be the first wedding in history where redneck trash like “Thank God I’m a Country Boy” has played in the same playlist as Lou Monte’s “Lazy Mary”.
When Uncle Gino busts out his accordion and the crowd forms a huge circle for the Tarantella, I wait for somebody to notice that I’m not in the circle with the rest of the family. I could join them. I could physically snake my arms between someone else and force my way in. But I don’t want to leave my seat until someone notices me and says, ‘Zeke, what are you doing? The whole family’s here. Come join us.’
But nobody does.
I’d had a little fantasy of teaching Hammer how to dance the Tarantella. It’s dead now.
After a while, Rocky and Hannah take to the stage.
‘We were originally going to do an electric party set, but we’re going to try a bit of a mini acoustic set before that delicious-looking wedding cake is cut,’ Hannah breathes into the mic.
‘Hannah,’ Rocky interjects. ‘Um.’
He jerks his head at the doors of the ballroom, and the entire crowd follows his line of sight. Charlie Roth has just staggered in, lurching with each step he takes. His white singlet is splattered with bright red blood.
My heart jumps into my throat. Then Charlie takes a swig of something from a hip flask, and I realise it’s alcohol that has him staggering, not blood loss. The singlet isn’t soaked in blood: the red splatter is a printed design.
‘It’s okay, guys,’ Charlie calls across the ballroom, pocketing the hip flask. His voice is at drunk volume. ‘We can do an electric show now. I’m here!’
Whispers whip around every table. I don’t know where to look. Robbie and Natalie are muttering to one another. My mum has full-on laser eyes as she watches Charlie cross the dance floor. Dad shakes his head and crosses his arms.
And Natalie’s mum’s papery skin lights up scarlet with incandescent rage.
Charlie reaches the stage and adjusts the mic. His eyes are bloodshot, the edges thick with black eyeliner. He’s freshly painted his nails black; his green satin boxer shorts are hanging out for all to see, his silver-studded belt barely holding up his black skinny jeans. Compared to Hannah in her yellow dress and Rocky in his suit, Charlie looks like a trashy teenage punk.
‘Okay, something old school to get this party started!’ Hannah calls, desperate to plough onwards. She shoots a glare at Charlie as he picks up his guitar. ‘One, two, three, four …’
She launches into “Beat It” by Michael Jackson, which somehow is enough to get people out of their shocked, gossipy stupors and up onto the dance floor.
The set is pumping. Even the middle-aged crowd get up to dance. Charlie and Rocky and Hannah sound rough, but more in tune than at the Summer Dance. Natalie is right in the thick of it, dancing with a triumphant grin while Acid Rose plays. She had to fight the formidable duo of her mother and her mother-in-law just to get her favourite band to play music at her own wedding. Natalie won in the end, but it’s probably the last time in her life she ever will.
I know Charlie’s presence in the room won’t go unchallenged, and it’s not just about his appearance or his tardiness. Natalie’s mum is at the entrance of the ballroom, covering her ear as she mutters into her mobile phone. My mum is beside her, hands on her hips.
Rocky smashes on his drums to signify the end of a Madonna cover.
‘I’m getting signals that it’s time to cut the cake,’ Hannah pants over the mic. ‘We’re gonna take a short break and we’ll be back soon.’
Rocky cuts the mics. Both he and Hannah grab one of Charlie’s arms and practically carry him down to the DJ booth. After Rocky plays some old 80s hit, they huddle together and start whispering at Charlie with shouting faces.
Robbie and Natalie cut their cake. Applause. Confetti. Photo flashes. Tears.
The waitresses begin to cycle the slices of rich, alcohol-soaked fruit cake out to the tables, while Mum and Natalie’s mum supervise. The waitresses hit up the bridal table first, and then head for the DJ’s booth. But before they can get there, Natalie’s mum intercepts them. Her face contorts with anger as she gives them a very specific order.
I already know what it is.
And I watch it unfold. The smallest thing in the universe is somehow the biggest thing to me.
Two plates, two skinny dessert forks, two slices of wedding cake cross the dance floor. The waitress hands one to Rocky and the other to Hannah.
No cake for Charlie.
My legs carry me off the dais to the cake table. Mum and Natalie’s mum are huddled together, arms folded.
‘Move, darling,’ Mum says, tugging the sleeve of my white shirt. ‘You’re getting in the way.’
‘You forgot to give a slice of cake to Charlie Roth.’
Natalie’s mum slams her plate onto the table. ‘That boy is not welcome here,’ she seethes. ‘He has a nerve showing his face.’
‘Why?’ I say. ‘What did he do?’
‘Zeke, go back to your seat, love,’ Mum says, with no love at all in her voice.
‘No, seriously,’ I say. ‘What has he done that’s so bad?’
‘He ruined my friend’s marriage,’ Natalie’s mum says, pressing the knife through the plastic cake icing.
‘I think Alicia’s husband was the one who did that,’ I say.
‘Zeke, sit down,’ Mum says. Her hold on my wrist tightens.
Natalie’s mum locks eyes with me. Her mouth is perfectly flat with suppressed rage. ‘Kevin was a loving, devoted husband until the boy tempted him with his filth. Don’t you know what he is?’
I knew it.
All along, people hid their hatred of Charlie behind what he’d done. He’d broken up a marriage. That was what everyone said. That’s what justified the contempt and the disgust.
But I knew it wasn’t that. The whole time, I knew it.
And now, at last, someone has actually said it.
Don’t you know what he is?
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll give him the cake myself.’
I grab a slice with my hands and plop it on a plate.
As I head for the DJ’s booth, a bony hand squeezes my wrist and jerks it back. The white ceramic plate falls to the floor and shatters. People glance up from their tables.
My mother stares at the fragments of china at her feet. ‘Sit down, Zeke.’
I gape at her. ‘You knocked it out of my hands.’
‘I know,’ Mum says.
‘No. I mean you knocked it out of my hands,’ I say, bones grinding and blood simmering. ‘Not out of Charlie’s hands. Out of my hands.’
‘Zeke, people are looking at us,’ Mum whispers. ‘I will never forgive you if you make a scene and ruin your brother’s wedding.’
‘You knocked it out of my hands.’
‘Stop saying that!’ Mum hisses. ‘Smile, and go back to your seat!’
My heart has never hammered faster in my whole life as I stare her down and say, softly, ‘No.’
A shiver courses over my skin as I turn my back on her. Pieces of china crunch beneath my shoes as I cross the dance floor for the DJ’s booth.
I stretch my hand out to Charlie. ‘Wanna dance?’
Charlie’s bloodshot eyes widen. ‘With who?’
‘With each other.’
‘The dance floor’s empty.’
‘It won’t be once we’re on it.’
‘But this song – it’s …’ A strange smile spreads across Charlie’s face. ‘Dude. It’s Kylie Minogue.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘It’s perfect.’
He takes my hand and stands up, as Hannah and Rocky stare on, silent and stunned.
‘Have you lost it?’ Charlie mutters as I drag him into the centre of the dance floor.
‘Nope,’ I say, grinning. ‘Lucky for you, I’m the only sane person in the whole room.’
I draw my arm around his shoulders and grind my body against his as the thumping disco beat radiates through the ballroom and two hundred people stare on in horror.
Saint Lawrence smiled when they set him on fire, but I won’t go down so easily. I won’t even let the flame catch.
I’ll raise my voice and scream for water.
This saint won’t burn.