Self-Portraits - 12. Pre-Ball

I go straight home after school on Friday. I look in the fridge for a cucumber so I can put slices over my eyes, but we don’t have one. Instead, I have the last strawberry yoghurt.

Upstairs, I lay my suit out on my bed. Mum and Dad bought it for me for my sixteenth birthday. I lay out all my shirts next to it, trying to figure out which one will look the best. Definitely not maroon.

On my phone, I look up what shirt to wear for school dance. After much deliberating, I decide to play it safe and go with a plain white shirt. Classic, the internet reassures me.

Then I realise I don’t have a tie. Whenever I need one, I just borrow one from Dad, but Dad’s not here anymore, so I call him.

He answers after the first ring. “Is everything alright?”

“Um, yeah,” I say. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well ... because ...”

I realise why. I’ve never called Dad while he’s at work before. For a weird second, him not living here anymore feels normal.

“I just need to borrow a tie for the Ball tomorrow night,” I say. “Can you bring one in the morning?”

“Oh – of course. Which one do you want?”

“Um ... I don’t know ...” There were a lot of photos on the internet of black ties, but I’m worried if I don’t have any colour, I’ll look like a piano. But if I go with a colourful option, it might look, well, gay.

“I’ll bring a few options,” Dad says.

“Okay, thanks!”

“See you in the morning. Any special requests?”

“For the ties?”

“No, for breakfast.”

“Nah, just bacon and eggs.”

“I could try pancakes or something.”

“No!”

I need at least one thing in my life to be consistent.

*

I’m halfway through making a paprika chicken and yellow rice dish when Mum comes home from work.

“What a week!” she declares from the hallway. I hear her sniff. “Whatever that is, it smells divine!”

We have dinner while Mum tells me about a meeting she had with the chancellor of the university, who she describes as “a big man baby”.

After dinner, we decide to watch a movie. After scrolling through hundreds of titles, we agree to watch a documentary about marine mammals. It only costs three dollars to watch it without ads but Mum goes with the free option.

“That way we can have tea and toilet breaks,” she points out.

And so begins another cool Friday night at home, this time with Mum, watching dolphins diving and leaping and making awesome synchronised patterns in their pod.

During the first ad break, Mum asks, “So, Vicky’s not going to get herself expelled tomorrow night?”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “They’re just going to … protest.”

Mum sighs. “I’ll feel better once it’s over. Got your outfit all sorted?”

“Yeah. I called Dad, he’s bringing over some of his ties tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes, smart thinking.” Mum sips her tea. “We’ll invite them both over soon.”

I turn to Mum, startled. “You mean, Dad and … her?”

“I suggested it this week. I thought she could join him here tomorrow morning, but he thought we should give you two a bit more time. And by you two, he just means Vicky, of course.”

“You want to invite Maggie here? To the house?”

“She’s been here before, years ago, when she first started working at the hospital. Oh – it’s starting again.”

The documentary is back on – now we’re onto sperm whales. I want to ask a million questions, but I have to wait until the next set of ads.

But when the next ads come on, Mum says, “Loo break!” before I can ask another question, and she disappears.

By the time she returns, the documentary’s starting again. I’ve never been so desperate for ads in my life.

Finally, the ads come on again.

“Mum, when was Maggie at the house?” I demand.

“When she first started working at the hospital,” Mum says. “I heard that a new counsellor had moved to town for the job, and that she was lovely but didn’t know many people. So I popped my head into her office one day to introduce myself, then I invited her over for dinner.”

My brain’s struggling to process this. “So … what? You introduced Maggie to Dad?”

“I suppose so, yes. Obviously I wasn’t trying to matchmake when I invited her, but I certainly saw the potential, even that first night. Your dad didn’t want to admit it, at first. Men can be stubborn.”

“You mean … you wanted him to …”

“Oh, I’ll always be very fond of him,” Mum says. “After all, we made you two, didn’t we? But yes, it was time to move him along. It took a bit of persuading for him to get to know Maggie better – and even more persuading to get things moving. He really wanted to see you and Vicky through high school before we changed anything. Perhaps that was his odd little attempt at compromise: if it wasn’t death do us part, but at least until the offspring leave home.” She gives a little chuckle. “But then, speaking of offspring, the baby sped things up. Maggie can’t be in that house alone with a newborn. Your father’s perfectly capable of night feedings and changing diapers.”

My head’s spinning. Mum not only knew about Dad and Maggie – she masterminded the whole thing.

I had it wrong, thinking she was in denial. I also had it wrong, thinking she’d rushed through to acceptance. Mum was probably going through the stages of grief ages ago – denial, anger, acceptance – and I had no idea.

But the good news is, she really is happy, and that’s the most important thing. So if Mum and Dad are happy, what’s there to be weird about?

“If Dad’s nervous about bringing Maggie here,” I blurt without thinking, “maybe Vicky and I can go there for breakfast?”

“I think that’d be really nice,” Mum says. “You’ll both really enjoy getting to know Maggie. And you’ll be a great big brother again.”

I still have questions but, on the screen, we’re back in the watery blue ocean.

“Ssh,” Mum says, “it’s back on!”

*

At breakfast the next morning, Mum makes the suggestion, as if it was her idea.

“I thought you could both go to Maggie’s tomorrow morning,” she suggests brightly.

Dad doesn’t say a word. It’s obvious they’ve already discussed it. Wow, Mum really doesn’t waste time.

“Would you be coming too?” Vicky asks Mum.

“Not tomorrow,” Mum says, “but eventually, absolutely, I will.”

Vicky snorts.

“It’ll just be breakfast,” Mum says soothingly. “I’m sure Maggie would love to hear all about how things go at the Ball tonight.”

“Fucking breakfasts!” Vicky spears a bit of bacon on her fork. “That’s all we ever do.” I don’t see her complaining about the food itself, though.

“It’ll be okay,” I tell her.

Vicky declines the invitation again. “Nope. Not coming.”

She finishes a second helping of bacon and eggs, then asks to be excused.

“I’ve got a lot to organise. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m also going to the Ball tonight and I’m singlehandedly hosting a pre-ball party.”

“I thought you and Richard were doing it together,” Mum says.

Vicky rolls her eyes. “I can’t count on you three to help me with anything. You all just want to sit around like blobs.”

After Vicky leaves, Mum and Dad ask me what she’s got planned for tonight.

I raise my hands in surrender. “Are you trying to get me assassinated? All I’ll say is that she’s not planning on breaking any rules.”

Dad and I clear the table, then go for our weekly bike ride.

“I told your mother,” he says when we’re down by the river, “it’s too soon to invite you kids round. Much too soon.”

“Maybe,” I say, “but maybe not.”

I’ll go to breakfast, even if Vicky doesn’t.

*

When I get back from the bike ride, Vicky’s already setting up for the pre-ball party. She’s in the living room dragging furniture across the carpet. She opens the doors to the back garden, in case there’s any “spill over”. Does she seriously think that many people are going to show up? She puts her speakers on a windowsill and starts making a playlist on her phone. For about an hour, I help her choose songs.

I keep looking at my own phone. No messages, no calls.

By lunchtime, I still haven’t heard a word from Nicholas.

Vicky’s phone doesn’t stop buzzing. She’s given her number to everyone joining the protest. I swallow nervously. Maybe forty people are going to show up.

The house phone rings. I snatch it up, in case Nicholas is using it to call me, but it’s Rosemary. She’s calling to talk to Mum. It rings again, but it’s Cheryl, wanting to know if Rosemary’s called to talk to Mum.

By 2 o’clock, I can’t wait any longer. I send a text message to Nicholas.

Happy ball day! Let me know where to go and what time!

I try to pass the time by reading David Copperfield, but I can’t focus on it. I keep looking over at my phone, as unresponsive as a corpse.

Vicky’s in and out of the living room, talking on her phone, and shouting at Mum every time she asks a question. Around 3 o’clock, Vicky starts getting ready.

At three thirty, my phone finally dings. I grab it so fast I nearly drop it.

But it’s not Nicholas. It’s Harriet: I hope tonight goes well.

At 5 o’clock, Vicky is ready. She’s wearing a simple blue dress and has put the tiniest bit of mascara on. She looks good, but she hasn’t brushed her hair.

“I have!” she claims. “Well, I tried.” She looks me up and down. “Don’t you have to start getting ready? When are you leaving?”

Back in my bedroom, I call Nicholas.

He answers on the first ring. In the background, there’s laughing, music, a champagne cork popping out of a bottle.

“Don’t spill it, you fuck stick,” Nicholas says to someone else, laughing. “Hold on,” he says into the phone. “I’m just going somewhere quiet.”

The next room is echoey, probably a bathroom.

“Oh my god, okay, hi,” he says. “Sorry, I saw your text, but it’s just been hectic – um – where are you?”

Where am I? For a moment, I wonder whether Nicholas already told me where to be, and I’ve forgotten.

“Um, I’m at home,” I say uneasily.

“Cool, cool.”

“So, um, what’s the plan?” I ask.

“There are no plans,” Nicholas says.

“Oh, okay. Where should I come then?”

“I have no idea,” Nicholas says. “It’s a total mess. I’ve got no idea where I’m going to be and when. Um ... let me think ...”

Someone who sounds like Lisa Meadows shrieks with laughter and bangs on the door, shouting Nicholas’s name. “Come look what Darren did!”

“Okay, okay, coming!” he shouts. To me, he says, “Look, everyone’s being super flaky. I’ll just meet you out the front at eight. Okay?”

“The front …?”

“Of the hall.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Sorry, this is just so disorganised – Lisa, fucking hell, I’m coming!”

And with that, he hangs up.

*

It’s fine, I tell myself. Pre-ball parties aren’t a big deal.

And it’s not like Nicholas is bailing on the Ball itself. The girls we’re taking are cousins, so we’re still going to be there together.

I start getting ready. There’s plenty of time for a bath, but Vicky’s friend Katie arrives and the house is getting too loud for me to relax, so I have a shower instead. I comb my hair, even though I know it’ll stick up at the back as soon as it dries.

Up in my room, I put on twice as much deodorant as usual. I put on my shirt and suit, then try on each of the ties Dad brought. The colours look nice, but I can’t decide on one, so just go with black. Black suit, black shoes, black tie, white shirt – classic, says the internet, but also a bit boring.

I go back into the living room, where Vicky and Katie are vigorously complimenting each other on how great they look. Katie reassures Vicky that her hair isn’t that bad. The playlist is already blasting and Vicky’s put out bowls of potato chips and jugs of mocktails.

Katie tells me I look really nice, and not like a piano at all.

“Thanks,” I say. Then I feel like a massive loser when I add, “I might hang out here for a bit before I meet Nicholas.”

Vicky’s ecstatic to hear it. “Oh, thank you thank you thank you! That’ll help me keep Mum out of here. I’ll text Stu, he’ll be happy. He’s so nervous about tonight.”

I swallow. Who isn’t?

*

Stu doesn’t look nervous. He turns up on the doorstep wearing a light blue suit. He really does look like he’s a different species. He’s had his hair re-dyed an even brighter, whiter blonde.

“Hey, Sizzler boy,” he says when I open the door. “You’re looking so sharp! Glad you could join us.”

“I’m not joining the actual protest,” I say quickly. “I’m only hanging out here at the house.”

He grins. “Hey, we’re just lucky to get any time with Sizzler boy!”

He’s carrying a humungous bag of food from Sizzler’s: popcorn chicken, big slices of pizza, meatballs, jalapeno poppers, mozzarella sticks, and more.

They arrange the food in bowls and platters. Vicky, Katie and Stu are talking non-stop.

Mum comes in to try to help but Vicky shouts at her to go away. Stu smooths things over by handing Mum a Thank You card for letting them have their pre-ball party here. There’s even a $10 Sizzlers voucher. Mum is so impressed you’d think he’d handed her a cheque for a million dollars.

At six o’clock on the dot, the guests start arriving and the house gets even louder. Despite Vicky’s optimistic predictions, I thought there’d be twenty people, at the most, but there end up being fifty Crampton students in my house. Some of them I’ve never spoken to before and most of them don’t say a word to me now.

The few who do talk to me only want to tell me how amazing my sister is.

“Our school is totally backwards,” a boy I don’t know says. “Your sister’s the first one who’s done anything about it.”

He’s holding hands with a freckled girl who adds, “And it’ll be totally hilarious to see the look on Mr Jane’s face when I turn up as a full lez right in front of him!”

After making me promise to “keep a very close eye on things”, Mum retreats to her bedroom.

Everyone’s behaving quite well, considering the fact that they’ve gathered to stage a rebellion. Chris and Dale are the ones I’m keeping an eye on – they’re swigging from a hip flask when they think nobody’s watching.

Then Rosemary and Cheryl turn up, with three bottles of wine.

“What are you doing here?” Vicky demands when she sees them.

“That’s not a very nice way to greet guests,” Rosemary says. “I used to change your diapers.”

Cheryl nods. “I got a bit of your poop on a brand-new scarf.”

Some kids overhear this and laugh.

“I’m having a party!” Vicky herds them down the hallway towards Mum’s bedroom. “And you’re not invited! Get gone! Both of you!”

The bus pulls up in front of our house at half past seven. I shuffle along, at the back of the group.

“I’m not part of the protest,” I explain to a girl who asks which boy I’ve been assigned to walk into the hall with. “I’m meeting my actual friends at the Ball.”

I’m the last one on the bus. Everyone sits in their protest-pairs – Vicky and Katie, Chris and Dale, their girlfriends Lacey and Sarah, Stu and a guy called Mark Bell from my calculus class. I sit at the very front of the bus, on my own. It’s not exactly Cinderella’s enchanted pumpkin-chariot, but at least it’s taking me to Nicholas.