Self-Portraits - 11. The Self-Portrait

 

All week, I only see Nicholas from a distance. I see him with Carrie twice. The first time, they’re sitting on a bench and sharing a can of coke. The second time, he’s making her laugh about something and she puts her hand on his shoulder.

Friday afternoon comes around quickly. I still haven’t spoken a word to Nicholas since the Ball.

“What are you doing this weekend?” Harriet asks at lunchtime. “Apart from moping around over Nicholas?”

“I’m not moping,” I lie.

“Come over to my place tomorrow night,” Harriet says. “Benny and Penny have this new board game, The Adventurers of Deimos, and it needs four players.”

As the only thing on my social horizon, it’s not exactly what I would’ve hoped for, but it’s better than nothing.

“Okay.”

“Come at seven. Dads will order pizza for us.”

It still seems weird to me how casually Harriet says Dads. Then I think, maybe one day Nicholas and I will have a daughter who calls us Dads too.

*

Mum and Vicky are both out that night, so I have an hour-long bath, watch TV, then get ready for bed. Mum comes home when I’m brushing my teeth.

“Hi sweetheart.” She comes into the bathroom and sits on the closed toilet lid, to remove her shoes. “Did you have a good day?”

“Yes, thanks,” I say. “Where were you tonight?”

“I was at The Fish with Rosemary and Cheryl,” she says. The Fish is a small cocktail bar in town. I realise Mum’s a little bit drunk again. “Where’s your sister?”

“Out,” I sigh. Everyone’s always out – except me.

“Well, I’m exhausted,” Mum says. She gets up and kisses me on the cheek. I can smell chardonnay. At least she’s having fun. “Good night, lovie.”

“Good night, Mum.”

Vicky reappears the next morning for the bacon-and-eggs ritual with Dad. Mum’s already up and out of the house, leaving a note to tell us she’ll be gone until lunchtime.

“Where’s Maggie?” Vicky asks Dad, as he hands her the plate.

“Er, back at the house,” Dad says.

“You should bring her next weekend,” Vicky says. She looks at me. “Right?”

“Of course,” I say.

“We’re one big happy family now,” Vicky says. “Us and Mum and Maggie and the unborn child. Hey, will I get to name it? The kid?”

“You will not,” Dad says.

“I like the name Olivia,” says Vicky. “We’ve started Twelfth Night in English and that’s one of the characters in it. I like that name. Olivia. I’ll tell Maggie that’s the name.”

“Olivia is nice,” Dad says. “Very pretty.”

Vicky rolls her eyes. “You’re so old fashioned with names. Girls should have pretty little feminine names and boys should have royal names.”

“Well, have you ever met women who have men’s names?” Dad asks. “There was woman called Jake who used to work at the hospital. It was short for Jacqueline but she just wanted us to call her Jake. She was … She was a – you know.”

“A what, Dad?” Vicky’s trying to pick a fight.

I try to break the tension. “Have some more bacon, Vicky.”

“Fuck the bacon,” Vicky says, but takes it anyway. “Dad? What was Jake?”

I intervene. “Jake was a lesbian.”

“Yeah, exactly, and what is so bad about that, Dad?” Vicky demands. She’s going pink. “Homosexuality is such a joke, right?” There are tears in Vicky’s eyes. “Right? Come on, Dad. Let’s hear one of your hilarious gay jokes.”

“Vicky, don’t,” I say.

“What if your unborn child is a lesbian?” she asks Dad.

Now Dad goes red. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Vicky hesitates for a second, then says, “Well, I am. I’m a lesbian.”

A chill settles over the table.

“You are not,” I tell her.

“I am a lesbian,” Vicky says. “So, Dad, what do you have to say about that? I’m a lesbian!”

“You are not,” Dad says. “We’re not having such a ridiculous conversation.”

“I absolutely am a lesbian,” Vicky says. “I kiss Katie all the time.”

“Only when boys dare you to,” I point out.

“I like it sexually,” Vicky lies.

“Don’t be disgusting,” Dad says.

“So lesbians are disgusting?” Vicky asks. “I just pray baby Olivia is a lesbian, then. I would just love to have a fellow lesbian sister.”

“You’re being impossible,” Dad says.

“You’re the impossible one!” Vicky says. “Oh man, you don’t even know what you don’t know.”

“You are not a …” Dad’s getting angry, too. “You’re not.”

“I fucking well am!” Vicky shouts.

Then, before I know it, I’ve joined in. “No, you’re not, Vicky! Dad, she’s just being stupid!”

“I’m making a point!” Vicky shouts. “Dad needs to be ready.”

“Ready?” Dad echoes. “Ready for what?”

“Ready for me!” I say.

Dad looks at me like he’s only just noticed I’m there. “Ready for you?”

“Vicky’s not a lesbian,” I say. “It’s me. I’m gay.”

This time, the silent chill isn’t broken. Vicky looks from me, to Dad, to her bacon. Dad’s mouth just hangs open.

“I can’t stand any more of your stupid fighting,” I say. My voice doesn’t sound like my own.

I stand up – it feels like I’m standing on someone else’s legs, too – and I walk out.

*

I’m on the bike, pedalling faster than ever.

I can’t even remember getting on the bike, but I’m already down by the river. Everything feels different. The air feels colder, the river sounds different. There’s nobody else down here. Just me.

I get all the way to end of the bike track. I get off the bike and let it tip over. I don’t know what to do. I can’t go back home. I can’t go home ever again. My heart’s pounding. I pace up and down the bike path, wondering what to do, and wondering what Dad’s doing. Is he going to call Mum?

How did I let it happen like that? I fretted and worried and planned about coming out the right way, then that happened.

Then, coming down the bike path, I see him. Dad’s gotten on the bike and has followed me all the way down here. I wanted to get away, I needed to escape, but he’s got me cornered.

“You went like the wind!” Dad’s gasping for air as he reaches me. “Jesus.”

I don’t know what to say. I keep pacing. Dad comes to a stop on his bike.

“You mustn’t let your sister provoke you like that,” he says. “She just wants a reaction from us, that’s all.”

“Provoke me?”

“She was trying to provoke me, not you. You mustn’t let a thing like that get you upset.”

“A thing like what?”

“Maybe I should’ve talked to you about it sooner. Told you not to worry. I just wanted to let you take your time.”

“What are you talking about?”

Dad has a funny sort of half-smile. “I saw you and Nicholas, months ago. At the bottom of the driveway.”

“The driveway?” My head’s spinning.

“Yes. I certainly don’t kiss my friends like that.”

So he’s known. He’s known for months.

“Does Mum know too?”

Dad shrugs. “We haven’t spoken about it, with everything that’s been going on, but I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to worry about it, either.”

We stand in silence for a moment.

“So, as I say,” he says, “don’t let your sister upset you. Alright?”

“Alright,” I mumble.

“Shall we go back?” he asks. “At half the speed, please. I’m an old man.”

*

Just when I think the day can’t get any more surprising, I get a text message from Nicholas. I haven’t had a text message from anyone in weeks.

Hey, his message says, it’s been a mad week. I need a serious dose of normal. Can we hang out this afternoon?

I want to ask him a million things – and tell him a million more – but all I write back is, Yeah, of course.

He replies at once. Can you be at Macy’s in fifteen?

Yeah, of course, I say.

I’m his dose of normality. I’m his comfort zone. I’m what he needs.

*

This time, I don’t have to sit and wait around for Nicholas to arrive – he’s sitting there when I turn up. He’s already got a coffee. When he sees me, he smiles, and gets up, and moves towards me and, in front of the entire café (even though it’s only four other people), he hugs me.

“It’s so good to see you,” he says.

The waitress comes over for my coffee order, then I ask, “What’s been going on?”

He slumps forward, his head in his hands, and groans. “So much drama. I can’t deal with it. Ever since the ball …” He looks up sheepishly. “Yeah, so the ball. I feel like I owe you an explanation about all of that.”

“Oh – well – no, not really—”

“I’d been drinking since lunchtime,” he says. “Lisa and Darren and, well, everyone, really – they were all over at my place and we had, like, five bottles between us there, then even more champagne at the pre-ball parties. I can hardly even remember the ball itself. I remember seeing you there, but honestly, I’m hazy on the details.”

“Oh …” Does that mean he doesn’t remember our kiss?

“But with Carrie,” Nicholas says. “You must’ve seen that – or at least heard about it.”

“Um, yeah, I saw you …”

He laughs. “I mean, what the fuck was I doing? Kissing a girl? I can only think she started it, and I was too wasted to do anything about it. I mean, when you’re that drunk, kissing’s just kissing, right?”

That explains why he was kissing her. “So you don’t like her, like that?”

“Fuck, no!” He shudders. “I couldn’t be less attracted to Carrie, or any girls at all for that matter. I mean, they’re good to have as friends. Real girls, I mean, not that turnip Harriet Hayes.”

I remind myself that Nicholas doesn’t know Harriet yet. I’ll get a chance to tell him more about Harriet Hayes later. He’ll like her as much as I do, once he gets to know her.

“I felt like such an idiot the next day,” Nicholas says. “It was the worst hangover I’ve ever had. All week at school has been like a bad dream. Carrie keeps calling and wanting to go out and I don’t know what to say.”

“It was just a kiss.” As I say it, I want to burst out laughing with relief. Of course it meant nothing. “Everyone was kissing everyone at the ball.”

“Did you kiss anyone?”

“Um, well …” So he doesn’t remember.

“You were probably the only one who wasn’t kissing anyone.” Nicholas sighs. “You need to do more things. Do more fun stuff.”

“Yeah … probably.”

He reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “Oh my god. I know what you should do. Come to Lisa Meadows’ party with me tonight!” His eyes light up. “It’s going to be amazing – everyone will be there. You can see what an actual party is like.”

I fill with fear and excitement. Excitement, at going somewhere with Nicholas. Fear, about going to a party.

“Um …”

“What else were you going to do tonight?” Nicholas demands. “Hang out with your sister?”

“No.”

“Great, so you’re coming. We can go back to mine now to get ready.”

He wants me to come back to his house. He wants me to go to a party with him, in front of all his new friends.

He wants … me.

*

Nicholas’s bedroom hasn’t changed. It looks the same – colourful and messy – and it smells the same, like fresh laundry. For some reason, I’d expected everything to be different, to match his new life.

I sit on his bed while he tries on different t-shirts. Everything looks good, and I tell him so. It also looks good each time he pulls a t-shirt off.

“You’re no help,” he laughs. “Lisa Meadows tries on about six million outfits each time she goes out. That’s why we were so late to the ball.”

When we leave for Lisa’s, Nicholas grabs two bottles of wine from the garage fridge.

“Won’t you get in trouble?” I ask.

“Nah, my parents never notice anything,” he mutters.

Outside, the sky’s getting dark, and the streetlights sputter on.

“Will it be okay that I’m coming?” I ask Nicholas.

He rolls his eyes. “It’s a party, grandma. Anyone can turn up.”

Lisa Meadows lives in an enormous white house. We go down a wide driveway, with a swimming pool on one side and a tennis court on the other.

Nicholas knocks on the door. There’s music pumping inside. Lisa actually squeals with excitement when she sees Nicholas. She throws her arms around him.

“You fuck-knuckle!” she says and kisses him on the cheek.

Then she sees me. For a terrifying second, she has a blank look on her face, but then she smiles.

“Can you believe Mrs Hansen this week?” she says, as if we’ve picked up the middle of a conversation. “All that fucking rubbish about the internal eyesight. I’m like, kill yourself, you daft hippie! Oh my god,” she turns back to Nicholas, “how much booze did you bring? We are gonna get so fucked up again.”

*

There’s about twenty kids from school all crammed in the kitchen. The kitchen counter is covered in bottles and glasses. Nicholas leads me into the thick cloud of deodorant and perfume. The combination of high-pitched voices and music is deafening. I recognise everyone, but most of them I’ve never said a word to. There’s Darren Park, with his nearly-faded black eye. Carrie Green stares at Nicholas as soon as he enters. Nobody seems to pay much attention to me, which is a relief.

“Do you want some of my wine?” Nicholas asks me as he pours himself a large glass.

“Oh, no, thanks,” I say. “I’ll just have water.”

Nicholas rolls his eyes. “If you’re going to be lame, don’t let anyone know you’re not drinking. Here, use this cup. If anyone asks, I gave you some gin and tonic.”

We jostle into the kitchen with the rest.

“Sizzler Boy!” a familiar voice calls out.

It’s Stu. He waves and pushes through the kitchen. He’s got a glass of wine.

“It’s actually amazing,” he says, “how many places you seem to be! Are you, like, Mr Popular, or something?”

Nicholas overhears Stu, and laughs. “You think Richard is popular?”

Fortunately, Nicholas gets distracted by Lisa before he can reveal to Stu just how much of a loser I am.

“I’ve been wanting to catch up with you all week,” Stu says. “Ever since the ball. I want to apologise. I was being so annoying, asking all those questions. I just get curious. But you’re obviously a loyal kind of guy – you don’t gossip, and that’s a good thing.”

“No, it’s fine,” I say. “I was in a weird mood.”

Stu nods. “Yeah, Vicky and I kind of got you caught in the middle of our thing, which also wasn’t cool of us. I hope you and I can still be friends, if I promise to be a lot less annoying?”

“You’re not annoying at all,” I say, truthfully. “You’re friendly.”

“I’m just trying to make friends,” Stu says.

“Well, you can count on me, Sizzler King!” I say.

Tonight I’m on top of the world and I can’t think how, in a million years, I ever thought of Stu as anything but a great guy.

*

Stu ends up being quizzed by Darren Park and some of the other guys. They tell him they’ve never met a gay guy before. Their questions are idiotic but Stu doesn’t seem to mind.

“So, when it’s two guys together,” Darren asks, “how do you decide who’s the boy and who’s the girl?”

“We flip a coin,” Stu answers.

“How can you tell if a guy plays for your team?” someone else wants to know.

“By the colour of his handbag.”

I stand next to Nicholas, while he talks to his cool new friends. As I listen, I realise that he’s become Mr Popular in their group. They laugh at everything he says, they ask him questions, and wait with bated breath for his answer. I’m truly happy for him and I’m happy that these people can see in him what I’ve always seen.

I don’t say much, but Nicholas keeps touching me, in tiny ways. He puts his hand on my shoulder. His fingers brush mine. We steal tiny glances and share secret smiles. We can’t be together here, of course, I understand that, but he’s letting me know he’s thinking about me. He’s sending me signals. Things are starting to get back to normal.

Then Lisa Meadows herself turns to me and, again, acts as though we’re in the middle of a conversation that we never even started.

“Show me your rage,” Lisa says, in Mrs Hansen’s quivering voice. “Ugh, I’ll show you my rage, you airy fairy bitch. Have you finished your self-portrait yet? I only started mine last night but, oh my god, I look so stupid in it. I can’t draw hair and I swear to god, I don’t spend five hundred dollars of my parents’ money every month to look like I have hair like a pile of wet seaweed.”

It’s fun to be talking to the coolest girl in school. Plus, Lisa is funny. We do impressions of Mrs Hansen for a while. Lisa’s slurring her words and swaying a bit, so I can tell she’s had a bit to drink. After she’s finished her wine, she stumbles away to find another bottle. I turn back to Nicholas, but he’s not there.

Maybe he’s just gone to the bathroom.

I go to the bathroom, but it’s vacant. I top up my cup with water from the basin.

In the lounge, Carrie and Georgia Johns have started dancing. There’s no sign of Nicholas in there, either.

Back in the kitchen, Darren Park and some of his friends are having some kind of beer drinking contest.

The back door, leading onto the patio, is open. Maybe he just wanted some fresh air.

I go outside.

The back garden is enormous and beautiful. There’s a gazebo in one corner and a gurgling fountain in another. The hedges are trimmed to perfection.

I hear a noise. A whisper, a small giggle.

Someone goes, “Ssh.”

I walk around the side of the house, where there’s bushes and a narrow path leading down to the tennis court.

Lisa’s got such a nice house, I think.

I take a few steps into the bushes, then freeze.

It’s Nicholas, only a few feet away, and he’s not alone.

He’s kissing someone.

My first thought is that it’s Carrie again – but it can’t be Carrie this time. I just saw her inside.

Then I see the glint of an earring.

It’s Stu.

Nicholas and Stu.

I take a step back. A twig snaps under my foot.

“Shit!” one of them says and they spring apart.

“Oh – no, it’s okay – it’s just Richard.”

They laugh, their eyes shining in the dark.

I say something like, “I didn’t know where you went,” then I turn around and go back into the house. Back into the perfume cloud. In the kitchen, I see a bottle of vodka sitting on the counter, right next to the glasses. I pour a splash of vodka into the glass. It’s as clear as water, only thicker, and, when I lift it to my mouth, the fumes hit me. It stinks of whiteboard cleaner.

I put the glass down without taking a sip.

Beside me, Darren Park and a few of the other guys are talking loudly. Too loudly. Lisa grabs Darren’s hand and shouts, “Come dance with us, you fuckers!”

I shouldn’t be here, I realise. I’m invisible. At the same time, I stick out – I’m out of place. I have to get out, right this second.

I make my way out of the house and back out onto the street.

This isn’t like last week at the ball, where I shuffled home feeling disappointed.

Now, something is happening to me. Physically.

Out on the street, I start sucking in air like there’s not enough of it. I nearly fall onto the pavement. I’m making a horrific noise, grunting and groaning.

I half-walk half-run down the street. It feels like the footpath is cracking and crumbling beneath my feet. I feel like the planet’s breaking into pieces, floating up into the air in chunks, meteorites in reverse, and soon there’ll be nothing left.

*

Somehow I get home. All the lights are off. Mum and Vicky are asleep, or out.

I can’t go to bed. I won’t sleep.

I’ve stopped making the noises but if I don’t do something they’ll start again. I can feel them coming up in my throat. I have to do something.

The next thing I know, I’m in the garage, unrolling a giant piece of canvass. Dad bought me a roll of canvass last year to paint on but it’s the first time I’ve used it. I roll out an enormous sheet of it, bigger than anything I’d ever painted on before. It has to be big because it has to keep me going.

I get brushes and cans of paint – some tiny pots, some large buckets – and I start prying them open.

The first brushstroke, black and thick and right across the centre, is all wrong. It looks like a scar.

Good. I don’t want it to look right. I want to paint the worst picture, the ugliest picture. I want Mrs Hansen to hate it.

It’s a while before I realise I’m painting a face. The eyes are bloodshot, the mouth is a gaping abyss, the neck tendons are straining. The face is surrounded by smaller mouths, all open and screaming too, with red jagged teeth.

It’s a boy screaming, but it’s not until sunrise that I understand whose face I’ve painted. It’s a self-portrait. I’m the one screaming. It’s me.