Self-Portraits - 6. Revolutionaries

On Monday, Harriet and I share a table in the library. We get our books out, but Harriet doesn’t open hers. She snaps off a row of chocolate and stares into space, chewing. I try to concentrate on my David Copperfield essay but it’s hard with Harriet sitting right there.

“Are you posing for a portrait?” I ask her, because that’s what she asked me on Friday night.

Harriet turns to me like she’s only just noticed I’m there. She glares at me. “I’m thinking.”

“About Victorian literature?” I ask hopefully. I’m at a loss for how to start my essay.

“No.” Harriet drops her voice to a whisper. “I’m thinking about this mysterious Maggie Silver.”

“She’s not exactly mysterious,” I say. “I just don’t know her.”

Harriet’s got a look in her eye that worries me.

“Meet me by the gate after school,” she says. “I’ve got an idea.”

Then, finally, she opens her books.

*

After school, Harriet makes me take her to the front of Maggie Silver’s house. It’s my third time spying on the house; am I an official stalker now? It looks like nobody’s home.

“Maggie Silver sure likes wind chimes, doesn’t she?” Harriet says. Then, to my horror, she swings her leg over the fence. “Come on, let’s take a closer look.”

“Harriet, no!” I hiss. “We can’t trespass!”

“It’s not trespassing if it’s your father’s residence,” Harriet says.

“I’m not sure that’s legally accurate,” I say, but she’s already trampling over a weed-infested flowerbed, onto the front lawn.

I only follow her over the fence to drag her back onto the street, but she’s too fast for me. She races around to the other side of the house, so I have no choice but to go after her.

The back garden is every bit as unruly as the front. There’s a large square of dirt that might’ve once been a vegetable garden but it’s impossible to tell now. There are large white sacks of fertiliser lumped in a corner. One of them has split open and pellets are spilling out. There’s a picnic table covered in bird poo.

Harriet’s peering into a window, on her tiptoes. “This must be their bedroom. I can see a man’s shirt on an ironing board.”

“Harriet, let’s go!” I never would’ve guessed Miss Goody-Two-Shoes was such a rule-breaker.

“Relax. We’re gathering intel.” Harriet turns to me. “Step one, understand the enemy. Step two, overthrow the enemy.”

Right then, the back door opens.

There stands the enemy herself: Maggie Silver.

She’s wearing a pink dress, with a maroon cardigan framing her baby bump. She doesn’t look angry or scared, just confused – understandably.

For a second, Harriet’s like a rabbit in the headlights. I wonder if she’s ever been in trouble before. How will Little Miss Perfect explain herself to the police?

The short answer turns out to be: she won’t.

Harriet turns around and makes a run for the back fence. She vaults over it and she’s gone. Some friend she’s turning out to be. I’m left alone with Maggie Silver.

I try to think of an explanation while my face burns.

Why would a sixteen year old boy be in a woman’s garden?

I’m starting to come up with something about hitting a ball over the fence (our neighbours sometimes knock on our door to retrieve a ball) but before I can put the sentence together, Maggie smiles, and says, “Hello, Richard.”

*

Maggie Silver and I sit at the bird-poo picnic table with a pot of tea.

“I saw a picture of you from last Christmas,” she says. “That’s how I knew it was you.”

Still, nothing comes out of my mouth.

“I knew you were a smart cookie,” she says. “I’m not surprised you found me. I imagine your poor Dad dropped about six billion clues?”

Again, I try to say something, but can’t.

“Well, it doesn’t matter how you found us, really. I’m glad you’re here.”

Really? She is? She’s acting like she’d been expecting me, like this is a normal way to meet someone.

“You can see I’m terrible with the garden,” she says as she dispenses tea into mugs with cartoon characters on them.

I’ve barely said two words yet.

“It’s fine,” I say. There! That was two words.

“That girl who went over the fence,” Maggie says. “That wasn’t Vicky.”

“No, that was a girl from my class,” I say.

“I see,” Maggie says, as if that explained anything. “I hear Vicky is a rather remarkable character.”

“She leaves an impression,” I say.

Maggie raises her eyebrows. “You’re the more peaceful one.”

“I don’t throw tantrums.”

“You should throw tantrums. They feel great.”

Then she catches me glancing at her bulging stomach.

“You probably have some questions?” Maggie says.

“Not really,” I say. “Your appearance speaks for itself.”

“You already knew, didn’t you? Before today?” I take too long to answer. She smiles. “You are a smart cookie.”

I come half-clean with her. I tell her about seeing her and Dad outside the hospital. I don’t tell her that Vicky was with me, or that I followed her back to the house, or that I went through her mail.

The back door swings open again.

This time Dad stands there wearing his work clothes, suit and tie. He looks totally out of place in such a messy house.

“Mags, what are you doing out—oh.”

He stares at me in shock.

Good. He should be shocked.

Nobody says anything for a moment.

Then Maggie asks, “Would you like to join us for a cup of tea?”

*

Dad doesn’t take Maggie’s offer of tea. Instead, he drives me straight home.

Neither of us know exactly what to say.

I break the silence. “When were you going to tell Mum?”

“Tell her what?”

“About the fact you’re living with a woman … um …” I don’t want to say a woman you got pregnant to my father, so I say, “and an unborn foetus.”

Dad frowns. “Rich … she knows.”

“Mum knows?”

“Yes.”

I pause. “Even about the foetus?”

“Of course.”

This makes my head spin. Mum knows?

“I was going to tell you both this weekend,” Dad says, unconvincingly. “I’ll tell Vicky. I will.”

“Okay,” I say.

“There’ll be no more secrets,” Dad says.

I say nothing. Right now, secrets are all I have.

*

When I get home, Dad’s the furthest thing from anyone’s mind. Mum and Vicky are having another fight in the kitchen. By which I mean, Vicky’s shouting, and Mum’s responding calmly while rolling out the dough for her homemade pizzas.

“I just don’t want you getting into any more trouble over this silly dance,” Mum’s saying.

“I’m not breaking any rules!” Vicky shouts. “I’m organising a meeting, that’s it! God, you’re being so painful about nothing!”

“I wouldn’t get in anyone’s way,” Mum says. “I would sit there quietly and make sure you’re not getting anyone expelled. Now, can you help me dice these onions?”

I don’t think handing Vicky a knife right now is a great idea, so I jump in and do it.

“Oh my god, Rick!” Vicky howls. “Sizzler Stu and I are organising an after-school meeting about the homophobic ball ticket policy—”

“What?!” I cry. “Why?”

“—and I’ve just mentioned it casually to Mum and now she says she’s coming to it!”

That’s an even more horrifying image: Mum sitting in a classroom with kids I go to school with.

“Mum!” I groan. “You definitely can’t do that!”

“I don’t see any other option,” Mum says. Then she looks at me. “Unless …”

“Yes? Anything!” I beg.

“Unless you go,” Mum says.

“Me?” I splutter. “But – but I’m not part of it!”

“Exactly. Your sister’s already been suspended twice this year. She needs someone sensible keeping an eye on things. Someone to make sure nothing gets out of control.”

“But … I can’t … but …”

Both Mum and Vicky are looking at me, pleading.

“I’ll be much happier if I know you’re there,” Mum says. “Mr Jane will be, too. He knows you’re dependable. When he called last week, he made a point of saying you’ve never caused him any trouble.”

“Yes, please, Rick,” Vicky begs. “You need to be there. Anyone but Mum.”

We’re at a stalemate.

Fine. This time, Mum wins.

*

News of Vicky and Stu’s meeting spreads quickly. Everyone’s talking about it. I overhear Darren Park use the words “fags” and “dykes”, provoking a lot of laughter. Lisa Meadows overhears, and tells him he’s a “narrow-minded wang” which provokes just as much laughter.

“You going, then?” Darren asks Lisa.

Lisa tosses her hair. “Well, no. It’s a major overreaction, but whatever.”

I wish Vicky had never started this.

Everyone’s talking about the meeting but, as far as I can tell, nobody’s planning on going.

At lunchtime, Harriet and I talk about it in the library.

“It’s so trivial,” I say. “There are such big issues in the world. Who cares about a stupid school dance? There’s starvation and genocide going on all the world.”

Harriet shrugs. “Sometimes, you can only fight the battles you’re facing. Personally, I respect your sister for standing up to Mr Jane.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re not going to her meeting, are you?”

“I’ve got music practice straight after school,” Harriet says. “But even if I didn’t, I’m not going to the dance. I have neither the time nor the inclination in school activities.”

“What kind of music do you play?” I ask. I’m imagining a Renaissance group, with lutes and flutes.

“I play the piano,” Harriet says. “Penny is the percussionist. Benny plays string instruments.”

“Can I hear you guys play sometime?”

Harriet hesitates. “Well … we do have a recital this Saturday.”

“Perfect. Where?”

“Just at the Arcade. But you won’t know anyone going.”

“So?”

“You won’t have anyone to talk to.”

“It’d be to rude talk while you were playing.”

“Fine.” Harriet sighs. “But if you make fun of us, I’ll cut your head off.”

“I can agree to those terms.”

The bell rings. We haven’t touched our books.

*

When the final bell rings, I drag my feet to the Year 10 common room. That’s where the dreaded Meeting is taking place. But when I step into the common room, it’s almost empty. There aren’t even ten people sprinkled over the chairs and couches.

Vicky and Stu are there, of course, and so are three of Vicky’s squeaky Year 10 friends. I don’t know why Year 10s are here – they can’t even get tickets.

To my surprise, two guys from my class are there – Chris Smith and Dale Winduss. Their girlfriends are also there, looking both irritated and embarrassed. What are they doing here?

So, this is the big meeting everyone’s been talking about – nine people, and me. I sit as far away from the group as I can, next to the door, like I’m the bouncer. I don’t want anyone to think I’m here to actually participate.

“Well, thanks for coming, guys!” Stu looks upbeat, despite the poor turn-out. “As you know, the Year 11 Ball has a ticket policy of boy-girl couples only. We’ve made our objections known but Mr Jane has been clear. This is non-negotiable. So, we want to come up with a way to stage a peaceful protest.”

Chris and Dale look disgruntled. “Peaceful? We thought we were gonna be pulling an epic prank on Mr Jane. We want revenge for the month of detention he gave us for climbing up onto the gym roof last year!”

Ah, so that’s why they’re here.

“I don’t think it’d be helpful to do anything that might get us expelled,” Stu says, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t plan something moderately outrageous.”

“Massively outrageous,” Vicky says. She takes over. “This is what I’m thinking. We play along, at first, and buy a bunch of boy-girl tickets. But on the night, the teachers all stand at the entrance, and we have to enter with our partners, and introduce our partners to the teachers, right? Which is by far the worst part of the Ball. But what we do is, even though we’ve bought boy-girl tickets, we arrive in an enormous group in same-sex couples. So for example, Chris, you get tickets like you normally would. But, on the night, you don’t turn up with Lacey. You turn up holding hands with Dale, right in front of Mr Jane and all the teachers, and Lacey, you turn up holding hands with Sarah.”

Sarah looks up from her fingernails, unimpressed. “So, like, three couples turn up to the dance? That’s your protest?”

“Imagine the impact we’d make if we got more people involved,” Vicky says. “Imagine twenty same-sex couples filing past the teachers.”

Chris and Dale howl with laughter. “Imagine the look on the fuckers’ faces!”

“Exactly,” Vicky says. “So our task, between now and then, is to get as many people as possible to join us. We can get more people on board if we tell them we’re playing a prank – it doesn’t matter why people are doing it. And we only need to walk into the dance in the same-sex pairs, past the teachers. Once we’re in, everyone can go back into their actual pairs, whatever they like.”

“If we can get more people involved, we can get in the news,” Stu says. “There’s this journalist Molly who comes to Sizzlers, she’s cool. I’ve talked to her about this. She could turn up to the dance on the night and take pictures of us arriving and put it on the front page of Monday’s paper.”

Chris and Dale are enthusiastic. They reckon they can get a few of their friends to join in. Meanwhile, Vicky’s Year 10 friends are all desperate for a Year 11 boy to invite them. This results in a peculiar matchmaking conversation between Chris, Dale, and Vicky’s friends.

The meeting’s over by four.

Stu comes over to me. “So? What do you think of our plan?”

“Oh, um, I don’t know. Mum just made me come to make sure Vicky doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“Are you going to be there?” he asks. “At the Ball, I mean.”

I think about what Nicholas said on Sunday, about asking a girl to go.

“I’m not sure,” I say. “I haven’t gotten tickets yet.”

“Good.” Stu grins. “Come with me, then.”

I freeze. Did I hear him correctly? “Ah …”

“Relax,” he says, laughing. “Not as a date, just for the protest. We’ll find two girls to take but the girls can be each other’s dates, and you can be mine.”

There’s something alarming about the way he says you can be mine.

“But … me? I mean … I’m not …”

“You don’t have to,” Stu says. “You’ve just been nice to me, and your sister’s amazing. But if you’ve got someone you were wanting to ask, then that’s totally cool.”

“Yeah, I mean … I was going to ask a girl … I just hadn’t gotten the tickets yet …”

If I was sitting inside the sun, my face wouldn’t be burning as much as it is right now.

“That’s cool, Sizzler Boy,” Stu says with a grin. “It’ll be an amazing night, no matter who we go with.”

*

On the way home, Vicky is remarkably optimistic about her protest plan, considering how few people turned up.

She begs me not to tell Mum about the plan. “She’ll tell Mr Jane and he’ll throw a spanner in the works. Our idea will only work if it comes as a surprise on the night.”

“I won’t tell Mum,” I say, “if you listen to Stu’s advice about not breaking any rules.”

Vicky sighs. “You’re such a square queer.”

Back home, I help Mum with dinner by peeling potatoes.

“How was the meeting?” Mum whispers. I feel like a spy.

“Boring,” I say. “Hardly anyone came.”

Mum’s relieved. “And she’s not up to anything that’ll get her expelled? No rule-breaking?”

“No,” I say. Then add, “Not technically.”

*

The next day, Mrs Hansen is still disappointed in my efforts in Art class.

I had used the paintbrush much more aggressively, even though I was only painting a jug with flowers in it. I tried to show the anger and emotion that Mrs Hansen has been nagging me about for so long. I made the petals jagged, and I gave the water had a pinkish hue, as though blood had been dripped into it.

“You’re trying to show me anger and emotion,” Mrs Hansen says. “But you’re not actually showing it.”

I feel like I could show her some anger right now. Instead, I take a deep breath. “I used more aggressive brushstrokes.”

“What does that mean for you? Aggressive?”

“Um … I pushed down harder with the brush …”

“Did you feel aggressive when you painted it?” Mrs Hansen says.

“Um …”

Truthfully, I can’t remember what I felt when I painted it. I usually tune out when I’m painting. That’s what I like about it.

“A little bit,” I lie.

“There’s no such thing as a little bit of aggression,” Mrs Hansen says. “You’ve got a thunderstorm inside you, Richard. I’d really love to see your black clouds and lightning come through in our next module.”

With that, she floats over to Lisa Meadows, who painted a bowl of fruit. She examines the painting for a long time, then asks, “Were your bananas bereft?”

*

On Thursday morning, Nicholas is waiting for me at the gates again. This time, he’s happy – excited, even – as if he can’t wait to talk to me.

“You haven’t bought ball tickets yet, have you?” Nicholas asks with urgency.

“Hi – um, no, I haven’t.”

“And you’re not getting involved with this thing Vicky’s organising, are you?”

“No way,” I say vehemently.

“Good.” Nicholas looks relieved. “She’s acting like a crazy person.”

“As always,” I say.

“Did you think about what I said on Sunday? About inviting a girl?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve been thinking about it … um …”

Nicholas pulls a face. “You haven’t invited your new best bud Harriet, have you?”

I’m embarrassed – I didn’t know Nicholas knew Harriet and I have been spending time together. I feel like he’s caught me out. I assure him I haven’t asked Harriet to the Ball.

“I don’t know how you can put up with her. She’s got such a stick up her ass.”

I laugh, out of habit, but I can’t bring myself to agree after she’s been so nice.

Instead, I ask, “Have you bought ball tickets?”

“Yeah,” Nicholas says. “I’m going with Carrie Green.”

“Oh, cool.”

“Her cousin Marta’s staying with her that weekend,” Nicholas says, “and she really wants to go. I was thinking you could take her. She’s really pretty. No tits, but she’s skinny.”

Since when did Nicholas care about tits?

“So, I’ll take Carrie and you can take Marta,” Nicholas says. “That way, you and I can be there together.”

My heart soars.

“Definitely,” I say. “That would be amazing.”

He grins. “Perfect.” He squeezes my hand, only for a second. His fingers are warm. “You’re the best. Can you get the tickets, then?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’ll get them today.”

“Thanks,” he says. The morning bell rings. “See ya when I see ya.”

“See ya when I see ya!”

*

I’m going to the dance with Nicholas. I’m going to the dance with Nicholas. All morning, I replay what he said, over and over. That way, you and I can be there together.

At lunchtime, I go to the reception to buy the ball tickets. The stern-faced secretary says, “Name of partner?”

“Marta Green,” I say, but my brain says, I’m going to the dance with Nicholas!

The secretary nods approvingly and slides two tickets across the counter.

I practically bounce into the library.

“What is with you today?” Harriet demands. “You look like you’ve taken the drug ecstasy.”

I tell her everything that happened.

“Well, I’m happy you’re happy,” Harriet says. “Speaking of tickets, here’s yours for the concert this Saturday.”

It’s at 8 o’clock Saturday night at Arcade Hall. Apart from the time and venue details on the ticket, the only clues about the concert are the words Local Showcase.

“I’m excited!” I gush.

“You’ve gone insane,” Harriet says.

She’s right. I have gone insane, insane with happiness.

I’m going to the dance with Nicholas.

Life can’t get any better.