Self-Portraits - 7. Rock Stars

I float through Friday on cloud nine. I smile at everyone. I’m even glad to see Mrs Hansen. I thank for her daft criticism of my first attempt at painting a live subject – the neighbour’s cat who was sleeping on our lawn.

“Where’s the feline’s power?” she asks. “Even a slumbering cat has a tiger inside!”

“That is so true,” I say. “I’ll try to paint more power next time. Thank you so much!”

I’ve never enjoyed school this much before.

At lunchtime in the library, I tell Harriet how much fun school can be “once you start applying yourself”.

Harriet leans across the desk. “Richard,” she whispers, “you’re still acting like a crazy person.”

“I feel like a crazy person,” I agree, “but in the best way possible.”

She rolls her eyes and turns back to her chemistry book, but I’m too excited and giddy to concentrate on homework.

“Hey, Harriet?” I say.

She looks up, impatiently. “What now?”

“I can’t wait to come to your concert tomorrow night!”

“SSSH!” The librarian’s stern face appears around the side of the shelves. “If you want to gossip about your weekends, do so outside of the library.”

“Sorry,” I say. “We’ll be quiet.”

“We?” Harriet hisses after the librarian has gone. “You’re the one who can’t shut his mouth.”

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I’ll behave better, I promise.”

But I don’t. I can’t help grinning and giggling. After ten more minutes, the librarian evicts us both from the library. Harriet’s furious with me, but I’m too happy to care.

*

After school, neither Vicky nor I have plans – me, because I only have 1½ friends, and Vicky, because she’s exhausted from her detentions and her Protest Planning.

So, for the first Friday in forever, Vicky and I walk home from school together.

“It would be great if you and Nicholas were part of the protest,” Vicky says. “I mean, you guys are actually going to be at the Ball together, so it makes sense.”

“I’ve told you,” I say. “Nicholas and I are taking it slower this time. We’re not labelling ourselves as definite boyfriends. It’s more relaxed now. I’m a lot happier,” I add.

When we get home, the smell of perfume and vodka tells us that Cheryl’s somewhere in the house. We find her in Mum’s room, which looks like a tornado’s swept through it. Dresses, shoes, and handbags are strewn across the floor. Cheryl’s looking like a beautiful vulture, sipping a martini, and sifting through the debris.

“What about the dark blue dress with my black strappy shoes?” she says.

A strange woman steps out from behind the wardrobe door, wearing a towel. The woman has glossy brown hair, tumbling onto tanned shoulders. She has long arms and legs, fingernails painted red.

“Your strappy shoes murder my feet,” the woman says, and my stomach drops through the floor. This near-naked woman is my mother.

“MUM!” Vicky screams.

“Hello, sweethearts,” Mum smiles.

“What is going ON?” Vicky screams.

“Vicky, dear, please turn the volume down a notch,” Cheryl pleads.

“Why do you look like that?” Vicky demands.

Cheryl smirks. “It’s amazing what five hours of beauty treatment can do for us middle-aged crones, isn’t it? Of course, it helps that your gorgeous mother had a rather nice body to begin with. Good curves.”

“Oh, PUKE!” Vicky cries. “You look ridiculous, Mum!”

Mum’s smile wavers.

“No, no,” I say quickly. “You don’t look ridiculous at all. You just don’t look like – you.”

“Good,” Cheryl says. “Death to your boring Mum. Today this red-hot man-eater is born!”

“I’m going to be sick,” Vicky groans.

“Shut up,” I mutter at my tactless sister. “Are you guys, um, going out tonight?”

“I’m not,” Cheryl says, “but she is.”

“Cheryl – let’s not—” Mum begins.

“Your sexy mother has scored a date with Paul Watson,” Cheryl says.

“I am going to be sick,” Vicky groans. “You’re going out with Pool Cleaner Paul?”

“Olivia Watson’s uncle?” I ask. “He installed Nicholas’s pool.”

“Paul Watson is a millionaire with a highly successful pool installation business,” Cheryl says. “He’s been interested in your mother for years. So if you two want free holidays to the tropics on Paul’s dime, you’d better shit or get off the pot!”

“It’s not a date,” Mum says. “I’m just going there for dinner.”

“You’re going to his house?” Vicky cries. “Oh my god. This is too much. Richard, say something.”

“I … I …”

I look from Mum, who looks embarrassed, to Cheryl, who’s trying to catch the last drops of vodka on her tongue, then I look back to Vicky, who looks furious.

As for Paul Watson, he always seemed like a nice man. He’s got grey hair and muddy boots. Whenever I see him, like when he picks Olivia up after school, he always calls out my name and waves.

So I say to Mum, “I hope you have a nice time.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Vicky hisses at me, “Typical Mr Perfect,” and storms out. Seconds later, my long-suffering bedroom door slams.

*

Cheryl takes Mum to Paul Watson’s, leaving Vicky and I home alone on a Friday night.

Vicky and I drag our bedcovers down to the TV. We watch The Simpsons, then the 6 o’clock news.

“Our parents go on more dates than we do,” Vicky says, while we’re updated about stock-market prices. “Are we losers?”

“You’re not a loser,” I say. “You chose to come home on a Friday night to do nothing.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Vicky smiles. “I do have a lot of friends.” With that, she squeaks out a fart. “What should we have for dinner?”

“Certainly not whatever you had for lunch,” I say, pinching my nose.

After the 6 o’clock news, we walk to the Fish and Chip shop around the corner. We order large chips, two pieces of fish, two potato cakes, two pineapple rings, two burgers, and two-litre bottle of diet coke. We giggle about the diet coke; it’s our way of pretending that our dinner is healthy.

For now, Vicky’s not thinking about Mum, and I want to keep it that way.

We watch more TV, and start digesting our enormous greasy dinner.

Vicky is texting Stuart about the Ball. She keeps passing me her phone so I can wipe her greasy fingerprints from it with a paper towel.

“We’ve got fourteen people committed to the protest now,” Vicky says. “That’s seven couples. Stu’s coming with Mark Bell, so we just need to match Mark’s girlfriend Donna with one of the girls.”

Her phone beeps again and she laughs. “Stu’s bitching about work. He’s at Sizzler’s tonight and apparently a group of Year 9 girls are there, who are totally in love with him. Stu’s great, don’t you think?”

“He’s very friendly,” I agree.

Vicky types a text back to him and sighs wistfully. “The good ones are always unavailable.” She passes her phone back to me to de-grease and picks up the hamburger. “You know,” she says, with her mouth full, “if things weren’t going well again between you and Nicholas, I would totally be trying to set you up with Stu. He’s yet another perfect guy I can never have.”

I haven’t thought about Stu in that way though. Even though we are similar in some ways (well, one way in particular), he’s a different species, really, with his white-gold hair, that earring, and his aggressive friendliness.

After we’ve finished a tub of ice-cream, Vicky remembers where our mother is.

“Do you think Paul Watson will want Mum to go for a swim in his pool?” Vicky says.

“It’s too cold,” I say. “I think he has a Jacuzzi though.”

“But … she didn’t take anything to swim in.”

Our faces turn into matching expressions of disgust as we contemplate our naked mother sitting in Paul Watson’s Jacuzzi.

“We are not going to bed until she gets back!” Vicky decrees. “That woman is going to get an interrogation. Let’s go wait upstairs.”

We transplant ourselves to my bedroom. Vicky wraps herself up in my blankets and rolls onto her side. She texts her friends for a while, then yawns and puts her phone down.

“Can you take the first watch?” she slurs. Her eyes are already closed.

“Okay,” I yawn, because yawning’s contagious.

Within seconds, Vicky’s snoring.

Within minutes, so am I.

*

Vicky and I are woken up with Mum in my doorway, gently cooing, “Rise and shine, Sleepyheads.”

The sun’s bright through the window, and from outside, there are lawnmowers, cars, balls being kicked around in backyards. Vicky blinks stupidly in the sunlight. She’s drooled all over my pillows.

“Breakfast’s waiting,” Mum says.

I can smell bacon and coffee. “Is Dad here already?”

“It’s after ten o’clock.”

Ten o’clock?

“He’s been here for an hour.” Mum smiles. She looks more like herself than she did last night. Her hair’s messier, she’s not wearing make-up, and she’s wearing her normal clothes – just a t-shirt and baggy shorts with flowers on them.

Vicky and I zombie-shuffle downstairs.

“You were supposed to take the first watch,” she mumbles.

“I couldn’t help it,” I insist. “All that food put me in a coma.”

Nevertheless, our appetites have returned and Dad’s breakfast looks amazing. Vicky barely says two words – she’s still half-asleep.

“Did you two Sleepyheads party last night?” Dad says.

“No,” I say. “I think we were just tired from a busy week at school.”

Dad seems jittery and nervous. Then I remember why. He’s promised that he’ll tell Vicky everything today – now. I become tense immediately. Suddenly, Mum’s date is the furthest thing from my mind.

“Er, so, kids,” Dad says, glancing anxiously at Mum, who simply smiles and nods, the picture of serenity. “There is something I want to talk to you about. It’s, er, about where I’ve been living.”

Vicky’s head snaps up. She’s wide awake now. My knuckles go white, gripping my knife and fork. Mum can tell I’ve gone tense, so she rests a calming hand on my shoulder. Telepathically I urge her to direct her calming efforts at Vicky, not me.

“I’m living at a house in Chrysthanea Place,” he says. “It’s not far from work, so that’s convenient. But, ah, but the thing I wanted to tell you was about, er, who I’m living with.”

I can almost hear Vicky ticking like a time bomb. Five, four, three …

“I’m living with someone,” Dad goes on. “A woman. We’re, er, together. Her name is Maggie and—”

… two, one, zero …

“How DARE you!” Vicky shouts. “How dare you leave your wife and children and tell us that only three weeks later you’ve met and moved in with someone else? It’s a lie. You’ve been seeing her for longer than that! You were cheating! That’s what I’m putting on your gravestone! Here lies a rotten cheater!”

“No,” Dad splutters. “Vicky, listen, it wasn’t – um – I didn’t—”

I do feel sorry for Dad but this scene was inevitable. I should intervene, but truthfully, I’m scared of Vicky too.

“It’s okay, Vicky,” Mum says. “It isn’t a new arrangement. Maggie has been a part of things for a while.”

Vicky gets to her feet, too quickly. Her chair tips over as she spins around to face Mum. “You know about the Red Woman?”

There’s a brief pause.

Dad frowns. “You know about her too?” He looks at me, wondering whether I knew she knew.

It’s getting too hard to keep track of all the different layers of secrets.

“Richard and I went to the hospital on Day ONE!” Vicky bellows. “We saw you out the front with her! Day ONE, you guys! Day ONE! But you both … you both …”

Vicky’s struggling to figure it all out.

“They’re having a baby, too,” Mum says, as calm and clear as a still lake.

Any remaining colour drains from Vicky’s face. Then she looks at me, and the colour rushes back in, bright pink.

“You,” she hisses at me. “You knew.”

I don’t say anything.

“This is fucked!” Vicky shouts. “Completely fucked. When will the lies end? Seriously, tell me, all of you – there have been lies, so many lies in this stupid family. Hey, in fact,” she glares at me, “why not bring out all the secrets, Richard? Why not make sure Dad knows everything?”

Now it’s my turn to go red.

Surely, she won’t tell him about me …

She turns to Dad.

“Mum had a naked swim with Paul Watson last night!” she shouts. “The pool cleaner! And she didn’t bring anything to change into or swim in, and she didn’t swim in her clothes, did she?”

Dad turns to Mum. “Paul Watson? Remind me …”

“The fucking pool guy!” Vicky shouts.

“Oh, he installed the Barnetts’ pool,” Dad says. “Remember that one? It had rocks and a waterfall. You kids swam in that when you were younger, before the Barnetts moved away.”

“I’d forgotten about the Barnetts’ pool,” Mum says. “It was beautiful.”

Vicky’s spluttering with rage. She turns back to Dad.

“So, you’re having a baby with this woman?” Vicky demands.

“Um, well, um … yes,” Dad says.

“So …” Vicky tries to process what this means. “I’m having another brother?” She’s disgusted by the idea. “Another brother to lie to me?”

“It might be a little girl,” Mum says.

“Either way,” Vicky snaps, “I’ll hate the baby. I promise you, I will hate this stupid fucking child, even more than I hate all of you right now.”

She storms out.

Only this time, she slams her own bedroom door.

*

Vicky goes to spend the rest of the weekend at her friend Katie’s house. Mum calls Katie’s mum to make sure it’s okay that Vicky’s there, then agrees to leave her to her rage for the weekend.

In the afternoon, I stare into my closet, wondering what to wear for Harriet’s concert. My parents went to an opera once, and Dad wore a bowtie and Mum wore pearls. I decide to wear a blue shirt and black jeans.

Around four, Mum calls out that she’s going to a “get together” at Rosemary’s. I poke my head out my door, to see if she dressed up again, but she’s back to her normal self. I wonder if Paul Watson will be at Rosemary’s “get together”. If Mum likes him, then I hope he is there, but I also decide I don’t want to know too much about that. They can swim without any clothes on, but only if I don’t have to hear about it.

*

The Arcade Hall is an ancient theatre, badly in need of a fresh coat of paint, both inside and out. The foyer smells like toilet cleaner and has posters from shows that were on twenty years ago. But there are a lot of people here – and they’re wearing normal clothes, t-shirts, jeans, running shoes. I’m glad I didn’t wear a bowtie. Everyone’s getting drinks from a small bar in the corner – bottles of beer, plastic cups of wine.

Harriet was right about one thing: I don’t know any of these people.

But then, on the far side of the foyer, I see Mr Hayes. Harriet’s dad is holding a beer, looking big and jolly. He’s with his friend Kevin, the one with the glasses – the gay one. I’m wondering whether I should go over to them and say hello. I feel awkward in social situations – and Mr Hayes is a bit weird – but then I see something that makes my blood turn to ice.

Mr Hayes puts his arm around Kevin’s shoulders and kisses him on the cheek.

Mr Hayes is having a gay affair with his gay friend Kevin.

I don’t know what to do. Harriet’s dad doesn’t take his arm away from Kevin. It’s outrageous – Mr Hayes, conducting a gay affair at his daughter’s music recital!

Just when I think it can’t get any worse, I see Mrs Hayes, short black hair and red lipstick. She’s returning from the bar, with two plastic cups of wine.

She’s about to see her husband with Kevin. The foyer’s spinning around me. There’s going to be a scene.

Poor Harriet. Welcome to the Divorced Parents Club.

Mrs Hayes locks eyes on her husband. I wait for her face to change, for anger to cloud over, but nothing happens. She keeps moving, towards them, holding out one of the wines.

Mr Hayes still has his arm around Kevin. They both see her coming.

Kevin reaches for the wine, smiling. “Thanks, Amy,” he says.

It takes me a long moment to process what I’m seeing.

Slowly, it all clicks into place.

Kevin looks more like Harriet than anyone. The glasses, the serious face, the blue eyes.

And Amy doesn’t really look like Harriet at all. Her hair’s too black to be real – it’s been dyed that colour. Amy isn’t Harriet’s mother. She isn’t Mrs Hayes. She doesn’t even live at that house. I just saw a woman at the barbeque and assumed she was Harriet’s mother.

Harriet’s parents are Mr Hayes – Barry – and Kevin.

I’ve barely got this straight (or gay, rather) when they see me watching them, my mouth gaping open.

“Yoo hoo! Richard the Lionheart!” Barry calls out, waving me over.

Of course Barry’s gay, too. I can’t believe I didn’t realise.

I move across the foyer like I’m sleepwalking. I fix a smile to my face. Barry’s arm stays around Kevin.

“Isn’t it delightful of you to come!” Barry says. “Harriet told us you’d be here. She tried to stop us from coming, you know. But we’re so proud, aren’t we, Kev?”

“He had a few beers at dinner,” Kevin tells me. “It is nice of you to come, though.”

“Hello, sweetheart,” Amy says, kissing me on the cheek with her sticky lipstick. “I also had too much to drink at dinner.”

“Would you like a drink?” Barry asks.

“No, thank you,” I manage to croak.

“Come on, have some wine!” Amy pushes her plastic cup at me.

“No, thanks.”

“Don’t be a loser!” Amy giggles. “You have to have a drink.”

“Richard is underage,” Kevin says. “Not only does he not have to drink, he shouldn’t.”

It’s all too much to take, so I’m relieved when the theatre doors swing open, and everyone starts drifting into the hall.

“Oh, quickly, let’s get in!” Barry says. “I don’t want to miss her! They’re up first.”

“Please behave,” Kevin begs him. “If they think you’re too drunk, they might not let you in.”

As we line up, I notice that the sounds coming from inside the theatre are not what I expected. There’s no warming up of string instruments, no tuning of the brass section, no quiet whispers from the audience. There’s a thumping sound. Drums. Then the throbbing hum of a bass guitar.

Inside the theatre, coloured lights are swinging across the stage, where there’s a drummer, thrashing drumsticks. In the centre, there’s a tall skinny guy with his hair spiked, holding a guitar, strumming it, nodding his head in time to the beat.

All the seats have been removed – the entire floor is a giant empty space – and everyone’s spilling down towards the stage.

This is not a piano recital. This is a rock concert.

Barry starts skipping, dragging Kevin by the hand.

“There she is!” Amy calls out, pointing.

The light beams are moving too fast for me to see who’s on the stage. I’ve seen a drummer, at the back of the stage, but that’s not Harriet. The tall skinny guitarist at the microphone, but that’s not Harriet either.

Then I see a third person. Someone standing at an electric keyboard, also with a microphone. This person has a wild mass of spiky dark hair, heavy eye-shadow, dark purple lipstick, dressed all in black.

“I did her hair and make-up,” Amy tells me. Then she screams, as loud as she can, “Go, Harriet! Woohoo!”

That can’t be Harriet.

A large loud crowd forms all around me. The reverberations from the drum and guitar are rattling my skull. I’m squinting at the girl at the keyboard, trying to tell if it’s really Harriet, or if Amy’s just drunk.

Between head-nodding and strumming, the guitarist leans into the mic. “Hello everyone,” he says, in a deep voice, and a spotlight hits him. With a jolt, I recognise him. It’s Benny. “Thanks for coming out … We’re opening tonight, we’re happy to be here to get things started. We are The Bad Hats … thanks … okay … one, two, three, four …”

The entire stage is illuminated, under bright yellow lights, and the crowd cheers.

The keyboard girl is Harriet. She looks like a rock star. And the drummer is Penny, Benny’s twin.

Harriet starts pounding the piano keys, Penny thrashes the drums, Benny plays the guitar like someone in a music video. Suddenly my silly mix-up with Harriet’s parents seems hilarious. My stupid mixed-up life seems hilarious.

“Woo!” I scream. “Go, Harriet!”

Benny starts singing. His voice is amazing – so much deeper than I expected from such a skinny guy.

“We were like queens when we turned sixteen,” he sings. “Cared about everything, we thought we had dreams, but no …”

Harriet’s smashing the piano keys like she’s some kind of Elton John. Then, to my astonishment, she leans into the mic, and starts harmonising with Benny – in a voice that does not belong to the irritated girl from the library.

“We thought we had it all,” they sing, “we thought we wouldn’t fall, we flew too close to the sun, then fell to the ground, in front of everyone …”

The first song finishes, to thunderous applause and cheers. The second song’s a slower ballad, with an amazing piano solo from Harriet – more praise from the crowd. The third – and final song – is called Get You Back, and it’s about someone determined to get back with their ex.

“We’re off and we’re on and off and we’re on,” one line went, “and whenever I love you, that’s when you’re gone.”

It’s about Nicholas and me, I think. We were together, sort of, then we were apart – but now we’re talking again, he wants to make sure we can be together at the Ball next weekend. Wherever he is right now, while this song is playing, I have this feeling that he’s thinking about me too.

I don’t want the song to end, but when it does, I’m screaming along with Harriet’s dads, with Amy, and with the enormous crowd that’s pooled behind me.

I haven’t even realised that I’m dancing, until the song’s over. I scream and cheer like a maniac, but what I’m really screaming is, Who the hell are you, Harriet Hayes? You’re a rock star with two dads, and your music is like lightning in a plastic cup!

But best of all, I selfishly think to myself, you’re my friend.

*

After The Bad Hats leave the stage, Barry, Kevin, Amy and I go straight out into the foyer to wait for Harriet. Inside the theatre, the next band is playing. It’s a group of men with beards, all howling and growling into the mic.

While we wait for Harriet, the four of us gush about how amazing she was.

Ten minutes later, Harriet comes into the foyer. Her hair’s brushed back in a ponytail, her face is washed, her glasses are back on, and she’s wearing a grey hooded jumper. She does not look like the rock star she was only moments ago.

Harriet does not look pleased that we’re waiting for her, but she doesn’t get a chance to say a word, because we all smother her, screaming praise at her.

“You’re amazing!” I say, when it’s my turn. “Seriously, Harriet, that was one of the greatest things I’ve ever heard in my life. You’re a rock star! The three of you – it was insane. I can’t believe you let me believe you were in some kind of classical music group playing a harpsichord!”

Harriet frowns. “Are you on drugs?”

“On the drugs of your music. And,” I lower my voice for this, so the adults can’t hear, “that last song, it was crazy, but it was like Nicholas was here. Not, like, here in the theatre, but that we were somehow connected, wherever he was during that song. Does that sound insane?”

“Yes, it does,” Harriet says.

“I’m going to get him back,” I tell her. Nothing feels impossible tonight. “Next weekend, at the Ball, just like your song says, I’m going to get Nicholas back.”

Harriet looks like she’s thinking about saying something, but then her Dads seize her. They lift her up on their shoulders and carry her around the foyer.

“Put me down!” she cries, but they ignore her.