Self-Portraits - 10. Rock Stars

I float through Friday on cloud nine. I smile at everyone. Most people don’t notice, but I get high fives from Chris and Dale. In English, I’m sticking my hand up more than Harriet to answer questions about David Copperfield’s early adulthood and I don’t care when Darren calls me a nerd. I’m even glad to see Mrs Hansen and thank her for her daft criticism of my attempt at drawing 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 definitely 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, “School can be so much fun once you start applying yourself!”

Harriet leans across the desk. “You are 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 physics, but I can’t concentrate on homework.

“Hey, Harriet?”

She looks up, impatient. “What now?”

“I really 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, please 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 sorry,” I whisper. “I’ll behave better, I promise.”

But I don’t. I can’t stop talking and giggling. The look on Harriet’s face makes me laugh even harder. 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 one and a half friends, and Vicky, because she’s exhausted from her protest planning. So, for the first Friday in forever, my sister 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 taking girls so you can be at the Ball together.”

“Nicholas and I are taking it slow now,” I say. “We’re not labelling ourselves as definite boyfriends. He doesn’t think it’s smart to come out until after we’ve left school and, to be honest, I think I see his point now. The whole thing is a lot 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 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. Her toenails are 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.

“Dial your volume down, dear,” Cheryl says.

“Mum, why do you look like that?” Vicky demands.

Cheryl smirks. “It’s amazing what a Friday afternoon beauty treatment can do for us old crones, isn’t it? Of course, it helps that your gorgeous mother had a rather nice body to begin with. She has such a nice bum!”

“Oh, PUKE!” Vicky cries. “You look RIDICULOUS.”

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. A red-hot man-eater is born!”

“You’re going to make me 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—”

“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?”

“Vanessa 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 slap on some smiles and say please!”

“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.

Paul Watson has lots of grey in his hair and drives a truck with Paul Watson Pools printed on the side. Whenever he’s picking up Vanessa after school, he always calls my name and waves. He always seemed, well, nice.

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 shut.

*

Cheryl gives Mum a lift to Paul’s house, leaving Vicky and me home alone on a Friday night. We drag blankets down to the TV, only to find we’ve been kicked out of all our streaming services. Dad set up the account and neither of us know the password.

“I bet he did this vindictively,” Vicky hisses.

“I’m sure he didn’t,” I say. “I’ll text him.”

“No!” Vicky’s stubborn. “We don’t need Netflix. Let’s just find something on one of the channels.”

So we watch two episodes of The Simpsons, then the 6 o’clock news.

“Are we losers?” Vicky asks, while we’re updated about stock-market prices.

“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 hot 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 where Mum is – or what she’s doing – and I want to keep it that way.

We watch more TV while we eat our enormous greasy dinner.

Vicky is texting Stu 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 and they’re totally in love with him. And who can blame them? He’s great, don’t you think?”

“He’s very friendly,” I agree.

Vicky types a text back to him, passes me her phone to de-grease, and picks up the hamburger. “You know,” she says, with her mouth full, “if things weren’t getting better between you and Nicholas, I would be telling you to go for Stu.”

I haven’t thought about Stu in that way. We are similar in some ways (well, one way in particular) but 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. “He might have an outdoor spa 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 hot tub.

“We are not going to sleep until she gets back!” Vicky decrees. “That woman is going to get a serious interrogation. Let’s wait for her in your room.”

We transplant ourselves to my bed. 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?” Her eyes are already closing.

“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, a neighbour’s lawnmower is whirring. Vicky blinks at the daylight.

“Breakfast’s waiting,” Mum says.

I can smell bacon and coffee. “Did Dad get here early?”

“It’s after ten o’clock. He’s been here for an hour.”

At least Mum looks more like herself than she did last night. She’s not wearing make-up and she’s back in a t-shirt and her baggy floral shorts.

“You were supposed to take the first watch,” Vicky whispers at me as we shuffle downstairs.

“I couldn’t help it – all that food put me in a coma.”

Nevertheless, our appetites have returned. Dad’s eggs are poached to perfection and the bacon is extra crispy this morning.

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

“No,” I say. “I think we were tired from school.”

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

“Er, so, kids,” Dad says, glancing anxiously at Mum, who gives him an encouraging nod. “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. I grip my knife and fork. Mum can tell I’ve tensed up, 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 Chrysanthea 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. A woman. Her name is Maggie and—”

… two, one, zero …

“You cheating pig!” Vicky shouts. “You cheated on Mum! That’s what you’re telling us. That’s what I’m putting on your gravestone! Here lies a dirty rotten cheater. Actually, you don’t deserve a gravestone. We’re going to throw your body to the lions!”

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

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

“It’s okay,” Mum says. “Maggie’s been in the picture for a while.”

Vicky gets to her feet too quickly. Her chair tips over with a crash as she spins around to face Mum. “You already knew?”

“Yes, I did. It’s fine.”

“So, you both ...” Vicky’s looking between the two of them, struggling to make sense of it. “You’ve both been ... so ...”

“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 already knew.”

“N-no, I didn’t,” I say. “I’m just in shock!”

“Bullshit!” Vicky shouts. “You’re lying! When will the lies end? Seriously, all three of you, there have been so many 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 wouldn’t tell them about me and Nicholas …

She turns to Dad.

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

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

“The pool guy!” Vicky shouts.

“Oh, he installed the Barnetts’ pool,” Dad says.

Mum frowns. “The Barnetts? Which pool was that?”

“It had rocks and a waterfall,” Dad says. “The kids swam in it when they were younger, before the Barnetts moved away.”

“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten,” Mum says. “The Barnetts’ pool. Very tranquil.”

Vicky’s spluttering with rage. She turns back to Dad. “So, you’re having a baby with some random woman?”

“Um, well, um … yes,” Dad says.

“So …” Vicky tries to process what this means. “I could be having another brother?”

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

“Either way,” Vicky snaps, “I will 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.

*

I reassure Mum that I’m okay – doubling down on my lie that I only just found out about Maggie and the baby – then Dad and I go for a calming bike ride down by the river.

“I really made a terrible mess of things, didn’t I?” He exhales loudly. “Your mother was right. We should’ve told you everything right from the start.”

“Vicky would’ve had that reaction no matter when you told her,” I point out.

“I suppose that’s true. I’ll try talking to her when we get back.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say. “I think she’ll have calmed down by next weekend.”

“Well, I’ll at least offer to explain.”

“If you want.” Your funeral, I think.

But when we get home, Vicky has fled the war zone to spend the rest of the weekend at Katie’s. Mum calls Katie’s mum to make sure it’s okay that Vicky’s there. The three of us agree to leave Vicky to her rage for the weekend, and Dad leaves.

In the afternoon, I stare into my closet again, this time wondering what to wear for Harriet’s concert. A few years ago, Mum and Dad went to hear a symphony orchestra – Dad wore a bowtie and Mum wore pearls. I look at my shirts and decide to wear the navy one with black jeans.

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

*

The Arcade Hall is an old theatre in need of a fresh coat of paint, both inside and out. The foyer smells like bleach 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 – so I’m glad I didn’t wear a bowtie. Everyone’s getting drinks from a small bar in the corner.

I don’t recognise anyone. I buy a can of coke and stand on my own, looking around.

Then, on the other side of the foyer, I spot Mr Hayes. Harriet’s dad is holding a beer, looking big and jolly. He’s with his gay friend Kevin, the one with the glasses. I’m about to go over and say hello, but then I see something that stops me in my tracks.

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

Oh.

My.

God.

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. I’m shocked that Mr Hayes would conduct his gay affair in the foyer of his daughter’s music recital!

Just when I think it can’t get any worse, I see Mrs Hayes, with her distinctive short black hair and dark red lipstick. She’s returning from the bar, carrying 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, I think. Welcome to the Divorced Parents Club.

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

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

Kevin takes two of the wines. “Thanks, Amy.”

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

Slowly, it all clicks into place.

Because Kevin looks more like Harriet than anyone. The glasses, the green eyes, the sensibleness.

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 there 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 Fifth!” Barry calls out, waving me over.

Of course Barry is gay. 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.

I’ve never seen two men touch each other in public before. They don’t look worried or scared or self-conscious. Nobody’s staring at them, either. It’s the most normal thing in the world.

“It’s 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 too many wines 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 many wines at dinner.”

“Would you like us to get you some wine?” Barry asks.

“No, thank you,” I manage to croak.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“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 opening the showcase!”

“Please behave,” Kevin says sternly. “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 a brass section, no quiet whispers from an 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 recital. This is a rock concert.

As we join the crowd, I squint to see who’s on the stage. The light beams are moving too fast but I’ve spotted a female drummer, who is not Harriet. There’s a skinny male guitarist at the microphone, so that’s not Harriet either.

But 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 eyeshadow, dark purple lipstick, and dressed in black.

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

No. That can’t be Harriet.

A large loud crowd forms all around me. The drumbeat reverberates through the floor and into my skull. I’m still squinting at the girl at the keyboard.

When a huge crowd has gathered, the guitarist leans into the mic.

“Hey everyone.” A spotlight hits him. With a jolt, I recognise that 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 …”

Benny’s first chord hits like a lightning bolt. The drummer (who I now recognise is Penny) begins thrashing her sticks. The entire stage is illuminated, under bright yellow lights, and the crowd cheers.

Under the bright lights, I realise the keyboard girl is Harriet after all. She’s pounding the piano keys and it’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.

Suddenly my silly mix-up about Harriet’s parents seems hilarious.

My whole silly mixed-up life seems hilarious.

“Woo!” I scream. “Go, Harriet!”

Benny starts singing.

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

Then Harriet leans into another microphone and starts harmonising with Benny, in a voice that does not belong to the girl from the library.

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

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

“We’re off and we’re on and off and we’re on,” Benny sings in the chorus, “and when I say I love you, that’s when you’re gone.”

It could be about Nicholas and me. We were together (well, sort of) then we were apart, but then we reconnected and now he’s making sure we can be together at the Ball next weekend. Wherever he is right now, while this song is playing, I have a 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.

When 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 cup!

And best of all, you’re my friend.

*

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

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

“She writes all the songs, you know!” Barry tells me.

“Wow!” I exclaim.

“Well, technically, the three of them write the songs together,” Kevin corrects him.

“I didn’t say they didn’t!”

“That was your implication.”

Eventually 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.

“Good job!” Amy shrieks. “You were incredible! You were like Lady Gaga up there!”

“That third song is so good,” Barry says. “I love the changes you made in the third verse.”

“The changes were in the second verse,” Kevin says.

“I didn’t say they weren’t!”

“You are amazing!” I tell Harriet, when it’s my turn. “Seriously, that was one of the greatest things I’ve ever heard in my life. You’re a rock star! All three of you, it was absolutely brilliant. You let me think you were in some kind of classical music group! But,” I lower my voice, 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 to be my boyfriend.” Nothing feels impossible tonight. “Next weekend, at the Ball, I’m going to ask him.”

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.

*

Back home, I decide to send Nicholas a text message before I go to sleep.

I keep it simple: I hope you’re having a good weekend!

I hit send and I’m filled with a warm glow.

Within seconds, he replies: You too!

And I realise how stupid I’ve been. I’ve been sitting around waiting for Nicholas to come back to me. For weeks, I haven’t been doing anything about it. But The Bad Hats have lit a fire inside me. I feel like I could run a marathon right now – so long as Nicholas was waiting for me at the finishing line.