Self-Portraits - 16. The Self-Portrait

Just when I think the day can’t get any more surprising, I finally get a text message back from Nicholas.

Hey, his message says, I’m so sorry we haven’t talked all week. The ball night was a terrible experience and it’s been a terrible week. I need a serious dose of normal. Can we please 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. Moxies in 30?

Perfect

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 with a coffee when I turn up. He sees me, grins, jumps up, and hugs me in front of the entire café. Although, to be fair, there are only four other people, one of whom is a baby.

“I can’t tell you how good it is to see you,” he says.

“It’s so great to see you too!” My heart sings. “Are you alright? What’s been going on?”

“Go get yourself a coffee,” he says, turning me around and nudging me in the direction of the counter. “Then I’ll tell you everything.”

I order a latte as fast as I can. Because it’s quiet, the coffee comes over within a few minutes. I sip the frothy layer and say, “Alright, I’ve had some coffee. Now, talk!”

“Okay.” Nicholas slumps forward, puts 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 owe you a massive apology.”

“Oh – well – no, not really—”

“I’d been drinking since lunchtime,” he says. “Lisa and Darren and, well, everyone, really, we had so much wine. I can hardly even remember the Ball itself. I remember seeing you there, but honestly, I was basically in a blackout.”

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

“But then what happened with Carrie,” Nicholas says. “You must’ve seen that, right? Or at least heard about it?”

“Um, yeah, I saw you two kissing …”

“What the fuck was I doing, kissing a girl? I can only think she started it, and I was so wasted that I just went along with it. And yeah, I know we went to the Ball together, but it was only as friends. At least that’s what I thought.”

Relief washes over me.

“I’m obviously not attracted to her at all, or any girls.” He laughs sheepishly. “As you know. Girls are good to have as friends, but that’s it. Real girls, I mean, not that turnip Harriet Hayes. No offence.”

I remind myself that Nicholas doesn’t know Harriet yet. I’ll get a chance to tell him more about her later.

“I felt like such an idiot the next day,” Nicholas continues. “It was the worst hangover I’ve ever had. Then this week has been a nightmare. Carrie keeps texting and waiting for me outside my classes and wanting to hang out all weekend. Even today she’s been texting me about Lisa’s party tonight. I don’t know what to tell her. She thinks I’m into her because we kissed at the Ball.”

“But 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 …” So he doesn’t remember.

“You were probably the only one who wasn’t kissing anyone.”

“Probably.”

“You need to go out and have fun again. And not with your parents, or Harriet’s.” He reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “Oh my god. I know what you should do. Come to Lisa’s 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 and you can make sure Carrie doesn’t trap me.”

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?”

I laugh. “No.”

“Great, so you’re coming. We can get ready at my place.”

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.

Finally, he wants me.

*

On the way to Nicholas’s house, I text Mum to tell her I’m going out with Nicholas.

Have fun, she replies, just as my phone battery runs out.

Walking into Nicholas’s house feels like walking into my second home. I love the smell of their leather furniture and his mother’s high-end perfume that’s always lingering.

His parents are out. “Golfing, of course,” Nicholas rolls his eyes.

His bedroom is the same: his bed unmade, his shoes kicked all over the floor, and the TV on his wall muted but playing music videos on an endless loop. I was worried he might’ve changed his room to match his new life, but it’s the same. He’s the same.

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, but I don’t tell him that.

“You’re no help!” He laughs. “God, I’m acting like Lisa. She tries on about six million outfits each time she goes out. That’s why we were so late to the Ball.”

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

“Won’t you get in trouble?” I ask.

“My parents never notice anything,” he mutters. “They won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Outside, the sky’s getting dark and the streetlights sputter on. The bottles in Nicholas’s bag clink.

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

“Yeah, of course, it’s a party. Anyone can turn up.”

We turn down a wide driveway, with a swimming pool on one side and a tennis court on the other. Lisa’s house is enormous. You could fit four of ours into it.

Nicholas knocks on the door. There’s music pumping inside. Lisa squeals with excitement and throws her arms around him.

“You fuck-knuckle!” She kisses him on the cheek. “I was starting to think you’d flaked!”

Then she sees me and smiles.

“Could you believe Mrs Hansen this week?” she says, as if we’ve picked up the middle of a conversation. “All that fucking rubbish about self-portraits being windows not mirrors. She is seriously insane. Oh my god,” she looks in Nicholas’s bag, “is that Chardonnay? You know I love Chardonnay. I am gonna get so fucked up.”

*

About twenty kids from school are all crammed in the kitchen, in a cloud of deodorant and perfume. The countertop is covered in bottles and glasses. The combination of high-pitched voices and music is deafening. I recognise everyone but I’ve never said a word to most of them. Darren is swigging straight from a bottle of whiskey. His black eye has faded into a spotty yellow colour. Carrie clocks Nicholas as soon as he enters, rushing towards him with a large glass of wine. Nobody seems to pay much attention to me, but that’s a relief.

“Do you want some wine?” Nicholas asks me.

“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, take this glass. If anyone asks, you’ve got a 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 crowd towards me. He’s got a glass of wine too.

“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 hoping I’d catch up with you,” Stu says. “I want to apologise. I was being so annoying at the Ball, 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, your questions were fine,” I say. “I was in a weird mood.”

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

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

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

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

*

Stu gets quizzed by some of the guys. They tell him they’ve never met a gay person before. Their questions are idiotic, but Stu doesn’t seem to mind.

“So, if Crampton changes the rules,” Darren says, “and you’re allowed to bring a guy to the Year 12 Ball next year, how do you decide who asks who?”

“I don’t really know,” Stu says. “I guess it’s just whoever asks first.”

“And what about in the bedroom?” Darren smirks.

Stu laughs. “What about the bedroom, Darren?”

“Well, like ... how do you know who’s the boy and who’s the girl?”

“Oh, we flip a coin,” Stu answers.

“But how can you even tell if a guy plays for your team?” Marcus Cruikshank wants to know.

“Usually by the colour of his handbag.”

Darren and Marcus are laughing in a friendly way, but I can’t help thinking about what they wrote about Stu on the science lab desk and in the boys’ bathroom.

I stand next to Nicholas, while he talks to Lisa. Carrie’s on the other side of the kitchen; they haven’t said hello yet, but she keeps looking over. As I listen to Nicholas and Lisa chatting, I realise that he’s become Mr Popular in their group. Lisa laughs at everything he says. She asks him questions and listens attentively to his answers. 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 briefly puts his hand on my shoulder. His fingers brush mine. We steal tiny glances and share secret smiles. This is how we used to be. Things are starting to get back to normal.

Then Lisa 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 wavering voice. “I’ll show her my rage if that’s what she really wants! 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 don’t spend five hundred dollars of my parents’ money every month at the salon to draw hair that looks like a pile of wet seaweed.”

It’s fun to be talking to the coolest girl in school – and 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 in the bathroom.

I walk around until I find a bathroom, but it’s empty. I top up my glass with water from the basin. I pull my phone out to text him, but then remember that it’s dead.

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

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

The back door is open, leading onto a large terracotta tile patio. Maybe Nicholas went to get some air.

I go outside.

The lawn and hedges are trimmed to perfection. There’s a gazebo and a gurgling fountain. I walk around admiring some of the Meadows’ marble sculptures. There’s nobody out here.

But then I hear a noise. A whisper, a giggle.

I walk around the side of the house, past a row of perfectly spherical bushes. I follow a narrow path leading down to the tennis court.

I take a few steps towards one of the round 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, my shoe scraping loudly, and they spring apart.

“Shit – oh, wait, it’s okay,” Nicholas says. “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 inside. Back into the loud deodorant cloud.

Darren is shouting some stupid chant. Too loudly. Lisa grabs Darren’s hand and shouts, “Stop showing off and dance with me, you fuck!”

They stumble past me, Darren bumping into me painfully.

I shouldn’t have come. I’m the invisible ghost. I don’t belong in this group. I have to leave, right this second.

I make my way out of the house, down the driveway, past the tennis court and swimming pool, and back out onto the street.

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

This time, 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 crazy noise, a sort of low groan.

I half-walk half-run down the street. It feels like the footpath is cracking and crumbling beneath my feet – like the planet’s breaking into chunks, floating up into the air, meteorites in reverse, like 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. If I sit still for a second, I’ll shatter into pieces.

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, dragging out the canvas roll Dad bought me when I enrolled in Art at the start of the year. I unroll it and cut out an enormous sheet, 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 Dad used on his model airplanes, some large buckets from when we repainted my room – and I start prying them open.

The first brushstroke is all wrong, right across the centre.

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. I turn it into the handle of a knife, which is plunging into a man’s chest.

I hang that up, then cut a second sheet of canvas – even bigger than the first. This time, I use the biggest brush to paint the words I AM SO STUPID as large as I can. Then I use a smaller brush to paint I’M SO PATHETIC in the gaps. Then I find a black permanent marker and write I’M SUCH A LOSER in even tinier writing. Then I just smear colours over the words until the entire sheet is covered in a purplish brown slime.

For my third sheet of canvas, it takes me 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 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.