Self-Portraits - 14. The Black Eye

When I wake up, I hope last night was a bad dream, but then I re-read the text I sent Nicholas at twenty minutes past nine last night. Hey! Where did you go? Still no reply.

Harriet’s sent me a new message. How was it?

I type It was fun. Then I change it to It wasn’t fun and send it.

I go downstairs to messy house. The living room is littered with empty wine bottles and lipstick-rimmed glasses. There are sticky patches of spilled cocktail on the coffee table, the shelves, and the kitchen counter.

But I know Vicky is responsible for some of the mess: her Ball shoes have been kicked off in the kitchen, a biscuit packet has been torn open and devoured, and there’s a bowl of vanilla ice-cream, abandoned and melting on the counter.

At least I know she got home safely, hopefully without much more kissing of Darren Park.

I take the bottles out to the recycling bin, as quietly as I can. I stack the dishwasher and turn it on. I wipe down all the sticky surfaces.

Mum makes a sheepish appearance at nine, shielding her eyes against the light.

“You two need to get ready for your breakfast,” she mumbles. “Your dad’s on his way over to pick you up. I’m, ah, not feeling … um, you’d better go and wake up … um … whatshername ...”

“Vicky?”

“Um … yes … go and wake up … I’m just, ah … yes …”

My hungover mother shuffles back to her dark sanctuary.

I go to Vicky’s room and knock. There’s no response. Slowly I open the door. She’s sprawled across her bed in the shape of a chalk-outline crime scene, still wearing her dress.

“Hi,” I say gently. “Are you awake?”

She groans at the sound of my voice. “No, I’m asleep. Go away.”

“Dad’s coming to pick us up soon. We’re having breakfast with him and Maggie.”

“I told you, I’m not meeting the woman Dad cheated on Mum with.”

“He didn’t cheat,” I say. “Mum knew about it the whole time. She wanted them to get together.”

“Stop, I’m going to vomit.”

“Because of what I said, or because you drank last night?”

“Both. I feel so rotten. I tried bourbon for the first time.”

“Where did you get alcohol from?” I ask, even though I think I know the answer.

“None of your business.”

“Well, you need to get up. We’re going to Dad and Maggie’s.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

I open her curtains. She groans louder.

I go to her closet. “What do you want to wear?”

“I’m not getting changed for that home-wrecking bitch.”

“Well, you can’t go to breakfast in your Ball dress.”

She opens one eye and smirks. “Why the fuck not?”

*

Dad comes over to pick us up.

Vicky crawls into the back and lies down, still in her dress.

“What’s wrong with her?” Dad asks as I get in the front seat..

“She’s got a hangover,” I tell him,

“A hangover?” Dad gasps. “She drank alcohol? She’s only fifteen years old. She can’t have alcohol. What did your mother say about this?”

“Mum doesn’t know yet,” I say. “She’s got an even bigger hangover.”

“I’m only gone for a month and suddenly everyone’s getting hangovers?”

“Well, I don’t have one,” I point out.

Vicky puts her hands over her ears. “Can you both shut your mouths?”

That’s when I notice that the knuckles on her right hand are slightly red.

“What’s that on your hand?” I ask her. “Did you fall over?”

She quickly hides her right hand behind her left. “It’s nothing.”

When we get to Maggie’s house, Vicky follows Dad and me into the house, barefoot in her Ball dress. As we make our way through the overgrown garden path, she swats the wind-chimes and dreamcatchers out of her way.

Even though it’s my fourth time at 14 Chrysanthea Place, this is the first time I’ve been inside (and, I realise, the first time I’ve actually been invited). There are half-burnt candles, houseplants in various stages of wellbeing, and framed affirmations hanging crooked on the walls.

Maggie greets us in her kitchen, her stomach looking bigger than ever beneath an apron.

“Good morning, Richard – and, ah …” She sees Vicky’s dress and laughs. “What do we have here?”

Vicky attempts a glare at Maggie, but she can’t muster it.

“I was too hungover to get changed,” she mutters, “so it was either this or nothing.”

“Well, it’s beautiful – and it’s lovely to meet you, even if you are a little under the weather. Coffee should be a good start.”

“Oh, fuck yes.”

“Language,” Dad warns, but Maggie just laughs some more.

We sit down around the kitchen table. There’s coffee, tea, juice, chocolate croissants, and an enormous bacon and egg pie.

I’m grateful that Vicky is too unwell to be as cruel to Maggie as she had planned. But it also helps that Maggie’s so easy-going.

Vicky tells Dad and Maggie about her successful protest. Maggie’s really impressed with what Vicky and Stu managed to pull together. Dad doesn’t seem particularly interested until Vicky mentions Molly from the newspaper. Then Dad’s not happy at all.

“Will the newspaper mention you by name? By surname?”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“Well, I don’t think they need to put your surname in the article,” Dad says. “It’ll go on the internet. Maybe I’ll call the paper. You’re a minor. They really should be getting parental approval if they’re interviewing you.”

“You better not call anyone, old man!” Vicky says. To Maggie, she says, “Don’t let him stick his nose in, alright?”

Maggie raises her hands. “Don’t look at me, I’m just on coffee duty this morning.”

Vicky holds out her empty mug gratefully. Maggie refills it, then changes the subject to how to prevent hangovers.

“Now, the best thing I’ve learnt,” she tells Vicky, “is to alternate each drink with water. You never feel like water, but just throw it back as quickly as you can, then get back to your real drink. That’s the best way to prevent it, but of course, if you’re anything like me, then you skip one water, then two, and before you know it, your plan’s gone down the toilet and you just know you’re going to wake up with a terrible hangover. But one really helpful thing to do before you go to bed is just make yourself be sick—”

“Oh, don’t tell them that,” Dad says.

“It’s true!” Maggie insists. “Sometimes it’s best just to make yourself be sick.”

“Really?” Vicky grins. “Do you just make yourself be sick?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve done it a few times,” Maggie says. “Once I was at a dinner party and I’d had so much red wine, so I went into the garden and made myself throw up, not only the wine but the entire meal.”

Vicky loves this. “Okay! The next time I drink, I’m going to sick it all up before bed.”

“You should just drink more water,” Dad says.

“Nope, I’m going to make myself throw up, and there’ll be nothing you can do to stop me!”

Dad spends the rest of the morning arguing with Vicky. I just sit there eating bacon-and-egg pie, drinking coffee, and thinking: So, this is what my new family looks like?

*

Back home, Mum’s still in bed, in the dark. I bring her a cup of tea. She asks how breakfast was, but then stops me mid-sentence and asks me to finish telling her about it later. Upstairs, Vicky’s already fallen asleep in my bed, still wearing her dress.

There’s still no word from Nicholas, but Harriet’s texted me back. What happened?

I start typing, but when I realise how much I’ll have to write to explain it, I just write: It’s hard to explain over text. Want to meet at the playground?

Apologies, we are only just starting rehearsal, because Benny was late. I can meet you when we’re finished.

No, that’s okay, I’ll just tell you everything at tomorrow. We can get kicked out of the library again Have a good rehearsal!

Vicky wakes up from her nap and seems to be over the worst of her hangover. I take the opportunity to ask her about kissing Darren.

“So, last night,” I say.

“What about it?”

“Darren Park.”

Vicky closes her eyes and groans.

“You kissed him.”

“Says who?”

“Says me. I saw you.”

“You saw nothing. Leave me alone.”

“I thought you hated him.”

“I do,” Vicky says passionately. “God, I really do.”

“I saw him take Nicholas’s hipflask,” I say. “So, he gave you some alcohol, then took advantage of you.”

“As if! Look, Darren is a horrible person, but I kissed him.” She sighs. “Lisa Meadows had just ditched him to go to some party. They had this whole fight right in front of me. She tried to get the hipflask back, but he said he was keeping it, so as soon as Lisa had walked off, I asked him for a sip. Then we just talked for a minute and then ... yeah.” She frowns. “If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t have kissed him, that’s for sure.”

I cross my arms. “Okay, so what happened to your hand?”

She pulls the duvet over her face. “I don’t want to talk about last night anymore.”

I grant her mercy and go back downstairs. For the rest of the day, Mum and Vicky stay in bed, and the house is silent. So is my phone.

At four o’clock, I finally give in and decide to send Nicholas a text message. It takes me about twelve drafts before I settle on one to send.

Hey, I just wanted to make sure you got home safely last night?

I have a long bath, convinced that if I can stay in the bath for one hour, Nicholas will have texted me when I get out.

But he hasn’t.

At dinnertime, I make toasted sandwiches for my invalid family, which they eat in bed.

I don’t hear a word from Nicholas, but I think about him until I go to bed.

*

The protest is on the front page of Monday morning’s newspaper. The headline is Brave Students Protest Gay Dance Ban.

There’s a big photo of the couples holding hands, walking towards the hall. There’s also a great close-up picture of Mr Jane looking like he’s bitten into a lemon. Vicky is mentioned by name – The protest was coordinated by Year 10 student Vicky – but her surname isn’t included. Dad will be relieved about that. Mum’s relieved too, because the protest happened without Vicky getting expelled. The last sentence in the article is Crampton Collegiate has been contacted for comment.

When we get to school, a Year 9 girl marches up to Vicky, holding up the article on her phone. “Is this you?” she demands.

“Yeah, it is,” Vicky says.

“Cool.” The girl marches off.

It becomes obvious very quickly that the protest is the biggest piece of gossip from the Ball. Everyone’s seen the article. As I head towards assembly, I overhear two Year 11 girls talking.

“I heard those two actually are together – like they said they went as part of the protest, but they’re total lesbians!”

“Oh my god, can you imagine? Tragic.”

The school hall has been restored to normal for assembly. I look around for Nicholas. I spot him on the far side of the hall. I exhale with relief – at least I know he’s alive. But my relief is temporary, because he’s sitting with Carrie, their heads close together. I stand there, staring, until someone bumps into me from behind.

“Move!” a Year 12 boy barks at me.

I stumble forward and slide down a bench towards Harriet. I shuffle pass Darren Park, trying to avoid bumping knees, but I can’t help noticing his face.

He has a black eye.

It all clicks into place, like a quadratic equation. Kissing multiplied by alcohol equals grazed knuckles plus black eye. Find the common denominator.

What hasn’t my sister done lately?

*

In English, someone asks Darren how he got the “shiner”.

“I dunno,” he says. “I was way too drunk. Probably fell over.”

I can tell he’s lying, by how loud his voice gets, and how fake his laugh is.

Lunchtime can’t come fast enough and, this time, even Harriet has no intention of doing homework. She wants to know every detail of the night. When I explain why I think Vicky’s the one who gave Darren the black eye, Harriet nods in approval.

“On principle, I’m a pacifist,” she says, “but I’m glad someone finally punched him.”

Then I tell her about Nicholas going from kissing me behind the stage, to kissing Carrie in front of everyone. Harriet sighs.

“That was tacky,” she says. “Very tacky.”

“Well, he had been drinking a lot.”

“Of course he had. Alcohol makes him less afraid of who he is. But then he woke up sober and was probably terrified that he kissed you in the school hall.” She points to the dark screen that is my phone. “That’s why he hasn’t replied to your messages.”

I think about what Nicholas said to me, behind the windmill. All day, I’ve been thinking about seeing you … You’re the best guy I’ve ever met … I don’t want to lose you … If he was drunk when he said it, does that mean that was his true self coming through? But if so, does that mean his feelings for Carrie are also true?

Harriet and I mull this over.

“You two!” The librarian pokes her stern head around the corner. “The library’s not for your little catch-ups. Out!”

Once again, Harriet and I are banished from the library. We sit on a bench outside.

“I still want Nicholas,” I say. “I want him to be my boyfriend.”

Harriet frowns. “Right.”

I pause, then say, “You must think I’m an idiot.”

“A little bit,” she says, “but you’re less of an idiot than the majority. And as inconvenient as it is to be evicted from the library, I must admit that you’ve made lunchtimes a lot more interesting.”

*

In Art class, Mrs Hansen announces our next module.

“Self-portraits,” she declares.

Everyone grumbles, including me. Right now I feel like a frumpy scarecrow.

“A self-portrait can teach us a lot about ourselves.” Mrs Hansen holds up a poster of Vincent Van Gogh. “You see, self-portraits aren’t about how we see ourselves when we look in a mirror. A self-portrait is a chance for us to see ourselves through a window.”

Lisa Meadows rolls her eyes and whispers something to Carrie, who sniggers.

For the next hour, I try to sketch my own face. The ears are too big and the nose looks like a piece of cheese. I’m not learning anything about myself by doing this, except that I’m not a very attractive person.

*

After school, Vicky goes to Moxies with her friends to gossip about the Ball, so I walk home on my own. A car slows down as it goes past me. From the passenger seat, a young guy leans out.

“Hey!” he shouts.

I look up as the car rolls past. I’ve never seen this guy before in my life.

“FAGGOT!” he shouts.

There are peals of laughter from inside the car, and they speed off.

*

Back at home, I chop some veggies for dinner. I’m taking out some steaks to defrost when the phone rings. Of course, I’m hoping it’s Nicholas.

It isn’t.

“Hey,” says a friendly but unfamiliar woman. “Is that you, Richard?”

“Yes.”

“Hi, it’s Molly,” she chirps, “from the paper. I got your number from Stu.”

My blood freezes. Why is she calling me?

Thankfully, she’s not.

“I just wanted to let your sister know,” she says, “that your headmaster Mr Jane has agreed to speak to me this week, so I’ll probably be printing a follow-up story.”

“Oh.” My stomach sinks. I thought this whole thing was over. “Okay. I’ll tell her.”

“The story’s getting momentum,” Molly says. “There’s probably window for further action.”

Further action? What if this goes on forever? I get off the phone as quickly as I can.

When Vicky comes home from Moxies, I go to meet her in the hallway, but the first thing I say isn’t about Molly’s phone call.

“You punched Darren on Saturday night,” I say. “That’s why your knuckles were red yesterday.”

“I don’t remember.” She avoids eye contact.

“You know he’s got a black eye.”

“I wish him a speedy recovery.” She pushes past me. “What’s for dinner?”

“You can’t keep getting in trouble.” I follow her back into the kitchen. “You’re on thin ice with Mr Jane, and Mum and Dad practically had kittens over your protest thing.”

Vicky opens and closes pantry doors, looking for a snack.

“You don’t need a snack,” I say. “Dinner’s twenty minutes away. Tell me what happened with Darren.”

Vicky finds a half-eaten packet of biscuits, leftover from her Saturday night binge.

“I’m not going to talk about this,” she says, “so either change the subject or shut up.”

“Fine.” Reluctantly, I tell her about Molly’s phone call and the follow-up article she’s writing.

“Cool.” She sits on the counter chomping biscuits and texting. “I’m already talking about what to do next with Stu.”

“What to do next?” I’m annoyed, mostly at myself for thinking Vicky would just let this go after the protest was over. “You made your point, you got your article, what else can you do?”

“That’s what I’m figuring out.”

“Please don’t do anything that could get you in trouble,” I plead, but she disappears into her phone.

I resume chopping veggies. My mind wanders and I think about the guy in the car who shouted the f-word at me this afternoon. And I wonder what made it so obvious.

“Can I ask you a question?” I say to Vicky.

“So long as it’s not about Darren,” she crumb-spits at me.

“It’s not.” I tell her about the guy in the car who shouted FAGGOT to me. “So, what do you think gave me away? It wasn’t my voice, because I didn’t say anything.”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because I just want to know.”

“There’s nothing obviously gay about you. Although,” she adds, “there’s also nothing obviously straight about you either.”

“Well, he must’ve noticed something as he drove past,” I insist. “Could he tell from my walk? Or is it my posture?”

“I seriously doubt it,” Vicky says.

“Well, what could it be then?” I ask. “Could it be my haircut? Do I get it cut too short?”

“Fine, you win. I didn’t want to say anything before, but it’s your face.”

“My face?”

“Yes.” She chews. “You have a homosexual face.”

“I have a what?”

“Stop asking stupid questions,” she says, “or you’ll only get stupid answers.”