Storms - 7. Loz

I slammed the door to the bedroom I shared with my brother Darren shut and began pacing up and down between my bed and the wardrobe. I felt like I couldn’t breathe and took several large gulps of air. It didn’t help.

I hadn’t planned it. I hadn’t planned any of it. Not what had happened in the shower the day before, or what had just happened in the bathroom. Of course I hadn’t planned it. I wasn’t queer! I really wasn’t. I couldn’t be.

The previous day, I had gone back to the changing rooms to look for my scarf. When I heard the shower still going, I looked inside to see who was still there. The rest was a blur. He’d seen me looking. I was stupid. I made a mistake. But if it had been a mistake, why had I done it again?

Finally, I sat down on the bed, head in my hands. I tried to shut out the images of him, of Daniel. His slim waist and long back. Soft, brown skin and softer hazel eyes. Stupid little faggot! It was his fault, all of it. His hand had felt so good. I tried and completely failed not to imagine his lips stretched around my dick, and shivered.

I was getting hard again, but Darren could be home from college at any moment so there was nothing I could do about it. Not in here, anyway.

As if on cue, I heard the front door open. There were footsteps in the hall, and then the bedroom door opened and Darren stepped inside.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked when he saw me.

I straightened up, crossing my legs, and shook my head. ‘Nothing. Long day.’

‘Fuck, me too,’ he said. ‘And it’s about to get longer. I’m heading to the gym, and I’m going out with Sandra after.’

I forced a grin. ‘How’s it going with her?’

Darren pulled off his t-shirt and rummaged in the dresser for another. ‘Smooth sailing, little bro.’ He turned to me, pulling on a fresh t-shirt. Darren was even bigger than I was, and the fabric clung to his chest and arms. He had the same dark brown hair and heavy eyebrows I had, as did our eldest brother, George. We had them from our mother. Dad, on the other hand, was ginger as they came, with so many freckles he looked perpetually tanned.

‘What about you?’ Darren asked. ‘When are you gonna find a bird who will put up with your ugly mug?’

I shrugged and looked away, not answering.

Darren pulled out his gym bag. ‘Ugh. I hope that fucker who keeps staring at me while I lift isn’t there tonight. Always looks at me like he wants to shag me or something. I swear if he even thinks of trying to talk to me I will kick his teeth in. Stinking faggot.’

I nodded quickly. ‘Yeah, that shit makes me sick.’

‘All right, Loz, I’m off.’ Darren closed his bag, bumped my fist, and left the room.

I listened to his footsteps in the hall, and the slamming of the front door, and once I was sure I was alone, I pulled out my phone, finding the photo I had snapped of Daniel. I crawled up on my bed and, looking at the photo, wanked into the sheets. When I had finished, I lay there in a rapidly cooling puddle for several minutes, trying to catch my breath.

Laughter bubbled up from nowhere, because it was that stupid, and then a sob welled forth and I pounded my fist into the mattress, biting the pillow to stop myself from screaming.

This wasn’t right. It wasn’t right that I saw Daniel in my head when I closed my eyes. It wasn’t right that I wanted it to be his hand on me. Which I didn’t. He was just . . . Convenient. Yeah, that was it. Girls, they were hard to talk to. They wanted things, made demands. Bitches and slags, the lot of them. I wasn’t queer. This was just easier, for now.

I found some solace in that thought, and slowly got off the bed, wiping the mess from my stomach and the sheets with a dirty t-shirt. By the time Dad and George got home, I was doing my homework in the kitchen as if nothing unusual had happened that day.

‘Where’s Darren?’ Dad asked as George flopped down in the chair across from me.

I finished writing out my equation before answering. ‘Out with Sandra.’

‘Good lad,’ said George.

‘How was work?’ I asked, closing my Maths workbook.

George shrugged. ‘The usual. We’ll be done with this job by the end of the week, assuming everything goes according to plan.’

‘It will,’ said Dad. He got two beers out of the fridge and handed one to George. ‘Can’t wait until we no longer have to deal with that mincy little posho and his demands.’

Dad is a carpenter who deals in small scale construction. When George failed one too many GCSEs to get into college, Dad taught him the trade, changing his firm’s name from Wilcox Construction to Wilcox & Son Construction.

Dad sat down as well, cracking open his beer can and taking a long swig. ‘If you’re done with homework, stick the lasagne in the oven, will you, Lawrence?’

I grimaced at his use of my given name. Dad is the only one who ever calls me that. I’ve had a few teachers who tried, but they were all convinced to change their ways. I can’t understand why, after giving my brothers perfectly ordinary names like George and Darren, my parents decided on Lawrence for me. Dad swears up and down that it was Mum’s idea, but if that were the case I can’t understand why he’d continue to insist on calling me that even after she fucked off.

Dad didn’t seem to notice the face I made, though, and I quietly did what I was told, turning on the oven and getting the lasagne out of the freezer, while Dad and George continued to discuss their client. From what I could gather, they were building a patio for some rich tit’s house.

‘That other bloke who keeps hanging around is obviously his gay lover,’ said George, grimacing in disgust.

Dad laughed. ‘It’s his brother-in-law, actually.’

‘Sure he is, and he’s probably takin’ it up the arse from him without his sister knowing.’

I took a cola from the fridge and sipped it slowly while I listened to them talk. If I were gay (which I wasn’t, by the way, definitely not), I’d have a hell of a time explaining it to my family. But that wasn’t a problem, because I wasn’t gay. Obviously. Not a bit. I was just a red-blooded teenager who needed to let off some steam. A hand is a hand. It’s just more fun when it’s someone else’s.

Daniel was not in school the following day. Not that I looked for him, of course. I couldn’t care less where he was. But he definitely wasn’t there. Julie was, though. I passed her in the corridor between lessons.

‘Where’s your boyfriend today?’ I asked her.

She gave me a look I couldn’t quite interpret. ‘For one, he’s not my boyfriend. For another, how should I know? And anyway, why do you care?’

I shrugged as nonchalantly as I could, and ignored the heat I could feel spreading across my face, hoping that she wouldn’t notice. ‘I don’t.’

‘Well, piss off, then.’ For such a dainty little thing she certainly wasn’t timid.

I wasn’t looking for him. Of course I wasn’t. But my eyes kept straying to his empty seat during the lessons we usually had together. Why wasn’t he there?

At dinner, I sat with Alec and Jason. I was barely listening to the story they were telling me, until they mentioned Daniel’s name.

‘So then what do you think happens? My bitch of a cousin only shows up, with a group of year elevens. Threatens to tell my mum, and makes us leave Hartman alone. Was hoping I’d see him today so we could finish the job, right Alec?’

A strange burst of anger filled my chest at Jason’s words. I couldn’t explain what it meant, but I knew I didn’t want anyone else to touch Daniel, whether to hurt him or otherwise. I swallowed the sensation, made my voice indifferent.

‘Wait. Why were you beating on D—Hartman, again?’

‘Weren’t you listening?’ Alec said, rolling his eyes. ‘We got an official warning from the school. Got called into Hugh’s office, said someone said we’d been bullying people. Must have been him, after we gave him a thrashing last week.’

I frowned. ‘Over the volleyball? And why did you go with, Jason?’

Jason shook his head. ‘Over going to see Griffiths after. Friend of the underdog, that guy. And I went with cause Aziz and Alec wanted backup.’

I snorted, in spite of myself. ‘Right. Backup. To beat up the smallest kid in the year. Brave of you, lads.’

They both stared at me. ‘Are you taking the piss? Fucker deserved it. We needed to make sure he wouldn’t squeal.’

‘That seems to have worked out brilliantly, didn’t it?’ I didn’t know where all this sarcasm was coming from. Jason and Alec seemed put off by it as well. I usually wasn’t especially talkative. Monosyllabic tended to describe my conversations fairly aptly. But now I kept talking. ‘And what about Aziz? How come he wasn’t with you?’

Alec shrugged. ‘Dunno. He didn’t get a warning.’

‘So, you’re telling me that Daniel Hartman went and told on you and Jason for hitting him, but left out Aziz’s involvement? That’s what you’re saying?’

They glanced at each other.

‘Does it matter?’ said Jason at last. ‘We don’t need a reason to give that little faggot a thrashing, do we? He’s a fucking weirdo.’

I shrugged one shoulder and picked up my fork. ‘Then just say that. Don’t make up excuses.’

‘Whatever,’ said Alec, and drained his juice. ‘Why do you care, anyway? He lost you those volleyball matches, same as me and Aziz.’

‘I don’t,’ I said. ‘And I don’t care about the volleyball matches, either. It’s high school PE, not the fucking Euro Cup. You wanna go beating on other kids, that’s your business. Another thing I squarely don’t give a shit about.’

I returned to my meal, and the others changed the subject. I tuned out their voices, focusing on my fish fingers and mash. It had nothing to do with me, and I had no reason to protect Daniel from them. I had said enough. Better I shut up. After all, I really didn’t care.