Self-Portraits - 5. The Nicholas Bug

In the morning, Nicholas is waiting for me at the front gates.

It’s been exactly one week since we last spoke. A week since we even made eye contact. Straight away, my hopes lift, my heart lifts. Our eyes meet and he gives me a half-smile. A single ray of sunlight has broken through the clouds. I try to hold back and only return the half-smile he gave me, but I automatically break into a big stupid grin.

“Hi!” I say.

“Can we talk?” he asks.

“Yeah!” I can’t keep the excitement out of my voice. “Let’s talk! How are you?”

“Not great.” His eyes dart from side to side; there are too many people around. “Let’s go over there.”

He points to the staffroom. Nobody hangs out there before the first bell. It’s one place we won’t be overheard.

“What’s wrong?” I ask when we’re alone.

Nicholas isn’t smiling at all now. “I only heard last night. My mum heard it from Katie’s mum, who heard it from Katie, who heard it from Vicky.”

“Heard about what?”

“Your parents splitting up,” he says. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. It was only a suggestion, what I said about us hanging out with other friends for a little bit. You didn’t have to agree to that. You should’ve said something, you should’ve told me what happened. I feel so guilty that I wasn’t there for you.”

He cares about me. He’s always cared about me. He would’ve been there for me if he’d known. This past week of complete loneliness has been my fault.

“You shouldn’t feel guilty …”

“This is one of your biggest problems. You act like you don’t want to make any trouble for anyone, but it always makes things worse. I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking about how horrible the last week’s been for you, and how I probably made it a million times worse. You didn’t have anyone there for you.”

“Oh, no, I’ve been okay—”

“No, you needed me, and I let you down.” He takes a deep breath. “But I don’t want to get into a stupid fight about it. What’s done is done. Now I just want to make it up to you. Forget what I said last week. I was wrong.”

I blink at him. “You mean ... we should come out?”

“No!” Nicholas looks at me like I’m insane. “Not that. The other thing I said.”

“You’re opting out of Games again?” I say hopefully. “You’ll come back to Art?”

Nicholas sighs impatiently, then laughs. “No, you goose. The stuff I said about us not hanging out. That was stupid. And I didn’t say, like, let’s never hang out again. This weekend, I am six hundred per cent here for you.”

My heart balloons inside my chest. Nicholas is back.

“Let’s meet up on Sunday morning,” he says. “Moxies Café, ten o’clock. Lattes and chocolate log on me.”

“That sounds perfect,” I say, and it does. It really does.

The assembly bell rings and we start heading towards the hall together. The last week feels like a bad, sad dream that I’m waking up from.

“Oi, Nicky boy!” Out the front of the hall, Darren’s waving his phone in the air. “Come look at this video. You’ll shit!”

Nicholas gives me an all-too-familiar look, the one that says this guy’s an idiot. I laugh. I’ve missed that look.

“This should be interesting,” he mutters. “See ya when I see ya?”

“See ya when I see ya!” I reply.

This time, I know it’ll be soon.

*

After assembly, I’m in such a good mood that, when I pass Stu in the corridor, I say, “Hey Sizzler King.”

“That’s King Sizzler to you,” he says with a wink.

Even Darren Park can’t put me in a bad mood. At the start of English, he accidentally-on-purpose bangs his copy of David Copperfield into the back of the head.

“Oh, sorry,” he grunts.

“That’s alright,” I say brightly. “I suddenly feel like I understand the themes of wealth and class so much more now.”

For a second he doesn’t know what to say but then he fixes me with his trademark glare and mutters, “Loser.”

Then Harriet Hayes marches up to my desk. “Thanks for dropping off my book.”

“No worries.”

“I apologise if my dad was weird,” she says. “Of course, you don’t have to come over tomorrow.”

I surprise both of us by saying, “Actually, I’d like to.”

I blame the Nicholas Bug. It’s infected me. I feel giddy. For a moment, I even consider giving Harriet a hug. Instead, I just grin at her. Harriet stares at me.

“You’re weird today,” she concludes, then goes back to her desk.

*

Between English and Calculus, I pop into the boys’ bathroom. Above the urinal, someone’s scrawled:

LISA MEADOWS IS A

SLUT

I’m not sure if that’s true or not, but I am sure it’s mean. I take out a pen and, with a few well-placed scribbles and some extra letters, it becomes:

LISA MEADOWS HAS A

BEAUTIFUL HAIRSTYLE

At least now it’s factual.

*

At lunchtime, Harriet and I walk to the library together.

“Your dad told me you play the piano,” I say. “Actually, he said you tinkle the ivories. That means piano, right?”

Harriet looks at me sharply, to see if I’m making fun of her. When she’s satisfied that I’m not, she says, “Yes, that means piano.”

“How long have you been playing for?” I ask.

“A while.” Her tone of voice tells me she doesn’t want to discuss her extracurricular activities right now.

We don’t say another word until we get to the library.

Before we go to our separate tables, Harriet turns to me and says, “If you come to my house tomorrow, there’s one condition. You have to promise not to make fun of my parents.”

“I promise.”

Harriet’s concern does make me wonder, could her mother be even more peculiar than her father?

*

On the walk home from school, I tell Vicky the good news.

“But you’re not seeing him until Sunday?” she says. “It’d be great if he was staying over all weekend. It’s been so depressing at home this week.”

“Nicholas and I are easing back into it,” I explain. “He was hurt that I didn’t tell him what happened. I let him down.”

Vicky frowns. “It was the other way around, my dude.”

“Well, we let each other down, then.” I wave my hand. “That’s all going to be in the past.”

Nicholas and I going to start rekindling our spark this weekend, I’m sure of it. He was practically in tears this morning. You don’t get that emotional unless you’ve got feelings for someone.

When we get home, Vicky puts music on and we have an impromptu kitchen dance, then I start making dinner.

When Mum gets home from work, she joins in, even though Vicky tells her she’s the worst dancer on the planet.

You wouldn’t guess that this time last week, our family had imploded.

Is it possible to feel happy so soon after your parents separate?

Or are we all in denial?

*

At Friday’s assembly, Mr Jane actually has the Year 11’s attention for once, when he announces tickets for the Year 11 Ball will go on sale on Monday. Each year, there’s one dance for the Year 11s and one for the Year 12s. Tickets are $60 each, on sale from the secretary’s office. Only it’s not really $60, it’s $120, because you can only by tickets in sets of twos. And a Crampton Collegiate Ball is not any old school dance. It’s a ritual, a relic of the past, with strict rules and etiquette. You have to register yourself and your partner with reception. You have to agree to a dress code and you have to agree to abide by the Crampton Collegiate “standards of behaviour”. And most cringeworthy of all, you have to formally introduce yourself and your partner to the headmaster when you arrive.

Everyone knows the rules, but Mr Jane rattles them off anyway. Suit and tie for boys, knees and chests fully covered for girls. No alcohol, before or during. No inappropriate physical contact. This gets a few giggles.

Mr Jane repeats the double-tickets-only rule. No single tickets. Then he says, “Now, listen, gentlemen, you will need to register your partner’s name when you get your tickets – your female partner’s name. No silliness with putting down your mate’s name.”

Mr Jane thinks boys will be better behaved if they’re there with girls, instead of in a big rowdy boy-group. He’s probably right.

All around me, there’s a buzz of excitement. I know there’s a good chance that Nicholas will want to go to the Year 11 Ball now, but I can’t stop myself hoping that he’ll change his mind and want to do our original plan: a sleepover at my place with horror movies and junk food. But I know he’s become close with the cool kids, who will definitely be going, and I respect that. He’s good-looking enough that most girls would say yes if he asked them.

After assembly, I start heading to the Chemistry lab, when Vicky catches up to me. Her cheeks are bright red.

“Can you believe that bullshit about the Year 11 Ball?” she says.

My mind’s already on polyatomic molecules. I’ve already forgotten what Mr Jane said. “Um ... what about it?”

“He specifically said boys can’t bring boys!”

“So what? You’re not even going.”

“But you could!” She’s getting loud. Kids passing us are looking. “You and Nicholas could go together, if you wanted to.”

“But we probably don’t want to,” I say, “so there’s no problem. This has nothing to do with you.”

“It could! A Year 11 could ask me. Boy or girl!”

“Please keep your voice down,” I beg. “I don’t know why you’re so angry about this.”

“Because this isn’t fair.” She glares at Mr Jane striding back to his office. “I’m going to say something to him.”

“Oh, no, don’t!” I plead. “Don’t make a fuss.”

“It won’t be a fuss,” Vicky says, breaking into a run after him. “I’ll just have a respectful conversation. Mr Jane! Excuse me! Mr Jane!”

I chase after Vicky, filled with dread. If I know one thing about my sister, it’s that she’s not capable of a respectful conversation with Mr Jane. Unfortunately, she’s too fast for me and catches up to Mr Jane outside the staffroom.

When he sees the two of us approaching, he sighs and checks his watch. “What is it?”

“Nothing, Mr Jane!” I say. I grab Vicky’s arm. “We just wanted to say, um, that was a – nice assembly. See you in Calculus.”

Vicky yanks her arm free. “No, I want to talk to you about the Year 11 Ball.”

Mr Jane gives her a look that could turn candyfloss to stone. “The Year 11 Ball? The last time I checked, you were in Year 10 and, if you don’t get to your first class, you may find yourself remaining there next year.”

“It’s what you said about boys not being allowed to bring boys as partners—”

“The last time I checked, you weren’t a boy either,” Mr Jane says.

“Or girls inviting girls!” Vicky continues. “If any Year 11s are gay or lesbian and want to invite a same-sex partner, why shouldn’t they—”

“As far as I’m aware, there are no gay or lesbian Year 11s.” Is it my imagination or did Mr Jane just give me the briefest of glances?

Vicky barks out a laugh. “Are you crazy?!”

“You’d better watch your tone if you want to avoid a detention. These decisions are a matter for the school board, not for Year 10 girls.”

“Oh, right, so once again, this a fascist regime – and you’re the leader of the fascists!”

“Right, that’s two after-school detentions.” Then he turns to glare at me. “I suggest accompanying your sister to her first lesson and make sure she doesn’t land herself in any more trouble than she’s already in.”

“Yes, Mr Jane!” I grab Vicky’s arm again and use all my strength to drag her away before she says anything worse. “Are you crazy?” I hiss as soon as we’re out of earshot. “Two detentions! He’ll have to call Mum.”

“I don’t care,” she fumes. “Could you believe what he said? No gay students! I felt like pulling that wig off his head.”

For a moment I’m distracted. “That’s not a wig! Is it?”

“Of course it is! Haven’t you noticed how the parting keeps revolving?”

I drag Vicky to her first class, which is Legal Studies, and then run to mine, which is Chemistry, before the late bell rings. I make it into the ice-cold lab with two seconds to spare. I drop onto my stool and get my breath back.

There was one good thing about Vicky’s altercation with Mr Jane: at least nobody saw it.

*

“Is it true, Sizzler Boy?”

Later that morning, Stu catches up to me between classes.

“Is what true, King Sizzler?” I reply.

“Your sister.” Stu’s grinning. “Did she really shout at Mr Jane about the boy-girl rule at the Ball? That’s so cool.”

My heart sinks. “She didn’t shout at him.”

“Lisa Meadows saw the whole thing. She said your sister got two detentions for calling him a fascist asshole.”

My heart sinks further. “She didn’t say the a-word.”

“So, the rest is true!” Stu howls with laughter and applauds. “Your sister is my hero. I mean, we should protest. This school’s friendly but so backwards. At my last school, you could take whoever you wanted to the dance. You could go on your own, if you wanted, or with friends.”

“Um, cool ...” Why does everyone care so much about school dances?

“I went to the dance with my ex-boyfriend last year,” Stu says. “Nobody cared but, at this school, it’s this major thing. Anyway, tell your sister she’s my hero, okay, Sizzler Boy?”

I nod, but just stand there, as he walks off. I’m numb and dumb.

Sizzler Stu is gay.

I’d attributed his bleached hair and piercing to the fact that he’d moved here from a big city.

But that isn’t what’s stunned me most; it’s how he just dropped it into conversation, in passing, like it’s no big deal. I’ve spent hours thinking about how to tell people. I’ve practised it in front of the mirror.

I can’t ever imagine it not feeling like a big deal.