Self-Portraits - 19. Cruel

The next Monday, Maggie has the baby. It’s three weeks early. I’m in Calculus when Dad texts me the news. After school, Vicky and I head to the hospital to meet our newborn half-sibling. But when we walk into the ward, it’s Mum standing next to Maggie’s hospital bed, holding the baby. Maggie looks like she’s been through a car wash but she’s smiling. The baby’s tiny, purple, squashed and asleep.

“What are you doing here?” Vicky asks Mum. “Where’s Dad?”

“He’s rushing around getting everything sorted,” Maggie explains. “Your mum’s very generously come to teach me what on earth I’m supposed to be doing.”

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Mum says.

“So what is it?” Vicky demands.

“What is what?” Mum asks.

“The baby, obviously. Boy, girl, or other?”

“She’s a little girl,” Mum says.

“Yes!” Vicky pumps the air with her fist. “I hope she’s just like me.”

Maggie smiles. “I think I’d like that.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Mum tells Maggie. “Do either of you want to hold her?”

Vicky screws up her face. “No, thanks. If she has a poop explosion on me, I’ll vomit.”

“I’ll hold her,” I say.

Mum passes me the bundle. I look down at her microscopic features. I wonder what high school will be like for the little bundle in my arms.

I hope it’s better for her than it’s been for me. That’s my first thought. But then, almost straight away, a sensible voice in my head says, Come on now, it hasn’t been that bad.

“Have you chosen a name yet?” I ask.

“We have.” Maggie glances towards Vicky. “We actually chose the name you suggested – Olivia.”

*

Three weeks pass of my strange busy life.

I finally finish David Copperfield. He marries Agnes, who’s actually a fairly boring character. All she did was chores and take care of her father. I share this opinion with Mrs Bristol, who points out that being boring is vastly underrated.

I go to Dad and Maggie’s nearly every day after school, to help out with baby Olivia. I start changing a couple of nappies, which isn’t as gross as I thought it’d be. Vicky refuses to engage in any nappy-related activity, but feasts on sordid details from Maggie about the birth.

I also take Maggie and baby Olivia to Bad Hats rehearsals, because Harriet lives around the corner.

“I think I caught a glimpse of you a month or two ago,” Maggie tells Harriet, the first time they meet. “You were vanishing over my back fence.”

“You must be mistaken,” Harriet says, breaking eye contact.

Ironically, the music always helps Olivia get to sleep. Maggie falls asleep once, too. Harriet, Penny and Benny don’t take it personally.

At home, giant strips of canvas hang from the walls, splattered with my disturbing artwork. I move on from screaming faces to general scenes of violence – a girl thrusting her fist into a boy’s face, two kissing boys being impaled in the bony branches of a tree, a group of partygoers drowning in a cocktail glass of acid.

*

I think about Nicholas less and less. Thanks to Harriet, I only see him a couple of times each week. It’s always from a distance and usually paired with the white-blonde hair of Stu. Glimpsing Nicholas still hurts but now it’s a small pinprick, not a rusty sword through the chest.

“You’ve made a lot of progress,” Harriet says one lunchtime, when I tell her what I’ve noticed. “The less you think about Nicholas, the more you’ll be able to focus on our English assignment.” She slides her textbook across the table. “I think you should look at this quote. It’s about the three vices Betsy wants David to avoid. That’s the quote you should use in your assignments, because you can use it to discuss a lot of the characters.”

I read aloud. “Never be mean in anything; never be false; never be cruel. Avoid those three vices, Trot, and I can always be hopeful of you.”

I copy the quote into my own English book. I think about it for a minute. I don’t think I’ve been mean. I’m pretty sure I haven’t been cruel.

But false – that one’s harder to deny. I have been false. With Nicholas, with Stu, with my parents.

When I point that out to Harriet, she disagrees.

“You are the least false person in this entire school,” she says. “Everyone else is obsessed with fitting in, but you’ve always been you.”

“You’re just being nice,” I say.

“No, I’m not,” she says. “Because I’m the least nice person here. Now, let’s have ten solid minutes of silent homework time, okay?”

*

Then one Friday afternoon, I’m forced to think about Nicholas again.

After the final bell, I pop into the boys’ bathroom and spot some fresh graffiti above the urinal.

NICHOLAS AND STU ARE HOOKING UP

It must be brand new, because it wasn’t here two hours ago.

Perhaps it was only a matter of time. After all, they had their first kiss at a party full of Crampton students, so who knows how many other opportunities they’ve had to be spotted.

I take out a permanent marker to change it, but I can’t think of anything. The word NICHOLAS is especially difficult. My pen hovers over his name but I’m drawing a blank. I could change it to MICHOLAS. I could also change the ARE to AREN’T, but somehow I don’t think that either of those options will help disguise the secret.

Eventually I decide to just scribble over the entire thing. Nicholas and Stu aren’t worth hanging around after school for.

But then I pause.

Because why should I cover it up? After all, it’s not untrue. And Nicholas is not my problem anymore.

I put the permanent marker back in my bag. I head towards the school gates and don’t think of Nicholas again for the rest of the night.

*

On Saturday afternoon, Vicky goes to stay at Katie’s for the night (hopefully not hatching anymore schemes to overthrow Mr Jane) and I join Mum, Rosemary and Cheryl for a night on the town, because I’m still not trusted to be left alone for too long. I tag along to the local theatre with them and we see a silly play about a wedding that goes wrong. I laugh a lot, but the three of them are practically screeching, thanks to the bottle of wine Cheryl smuggled in under her coat.

During intermission, I check my phone. There’s one new message. I assume it’s Harriet, but to my surprise, it’s a message from Nicholas’s number. Just: Can you call me? A month ago, I would’ve dropped everything for him. I would’ve run out of the theatre and called him. But now thinking about Nicholas just makes me feel tired. I don’t reply. I put my phone back in my pocket.

After the show, we try to get a table at Lume, a fancy restaurant near the theatre, but a snooty man in a bow tie sniffs the alcohol on their breath and informs us that they’re fully booked. Rosemary suggests we just go to Sizzler’s.

“That ten-dollar voucher is still burning a hole in your purse,” she reminds Mum.

Cheryl swats Rosemary on the arm. “We can’t go Sizzler’s! Be sensitive. That’s where you-know-who’s new boyfriend works.”

The three of them give me worried looks, wondering how I’ll cope if Nicholas’s boyfriend turns out to be our waiter.

“We’ll find somewhere else,” Mum says.

I promise them all I’m way too hungry to worry about running into Stu. It turns out not to matter anyway: Stu isn’t our waiter. I catch a glimpse of him through a haystack, flashes of white-blonde and ear studs as he rushes back and forth from the kitchen, but then the menu gets my full attention.

We order and I settle onto my hay bale and listen to the tipsy conversation swirling around me. Then the food arrives and I forget about Nicholas completely. My entire world consists of the Squealing Hog burger, followed by a piece of Chocolate Gravy Cake the size of David Copperfield.

I’m halfway through the cake and wishing Vicky was here to help me when my phone dings. I pull it out and glance at it.

Nicholas again. Please. It’s important.

I roll my eyes. It won’t be important. I have no desire to call him, but I figure I should call Harriet, in compliance with the terms and conditions of The Nicholas Plan.

I tell Mum, “I’m just going to get some fresh air.”

Rosemary points at my cake and laughs. “I told you not to try to eat that entire thing on your own!”

“I’m fine, I’ll be a few minutes.” I push the chair back and head out the saloon doors, onto the street.

There’s a drunk-looking guy slouched on the bench right outside the restaurant. I move a little further down the street as I call Harriet.

“How was the play?” she asks. It sounds like she’s in the middle of eating too. “Dads went last night and loved it.”

“It was okay, but that’s not why I’m calling.” I quickly tell her about the two messages from Nicholas. “I ignored the first message and I think I’m going to ignore this one too. I can’t imagine what could possibly be important.”

“Well, it’s completely up to you at this stage,” Harriet says. “Whatever you decide, it sounds like you’re at a fairly low risk of relapsing.”

She’s right about that. There’s nothing Nicholas can say that will reignite my obsession. I don’t even want to reply to these messages. And, after all, how many of my messages did he ignore?

“Not responding is a perfectly valid response,” Harriet reassures me. “Call me back if you want to keep talking it through.”

“Thanks!”

We hang up and I start heading back inside. As I pass the drunk guy outside the entrance, he lifts his head, and I realise it’s Darren Park. He looks seriously unwell. His eyes are bloodshot and wet.

“Darren?” I say cautiously. “Are you alright?”

He blinks at me with dawning recognition. “Richy ... Richy Bitchy ...”

Darren stands – he’s very wobbly – and spreads out his arms like he’s about to hug me. Surely that can’t be right?

But it is.

He puts his arms around my waist and rests his head on my chest. I try not to cough on the alcohol fumes. And then it gets even stranger.

He starts to cry.

This is an embarrassing situation, but luckily there aren’t too many people around right now.

“I’m so sorry, man,” he sobs. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Sorry?” I ask. “What do you have to be sorry about?”

“For calling you a faggot,” he slurs up at me. His breath makes my eyes water. “That was wrong of me. Your sister was right to sort me out at the Ball. You’re not a faggot. I know you’re not. I’m sorry.”

I’m so taken aback that I say, “That’s okay, you don’t need to apologise.”

He lets go of me and takes a step back, swaying on the spot. “You going in there?” he nods at the Sizzler’s entrance.

“Yeah, I’m having dinner with my mum and her friends,” I say. “Are you sure you’re alright out here?”

He makes a wet hiccupping noise. “Yeah, I’m waiting for Stu to finish his shift. Been waiting for ages. I gotta have a word with him too. I’ve been wrong about so many things.”

Alcohol truly is the strangest thing in the world. It’s sent Darren Park on a bizarre apology tour.

“I’m sure it can wait until tomorrow,” I say. “Or even Monday at school.”

Darren burps and it turns into a big wet gagging sound. “I’m gonna be sick,” he groans, grabbing my shirtsleeve.

There’s an alleyway on the other side of Sizzler’s, so I half-drag half-carry Darren over there. It stinks of fish skins and rotting veggie peels, which is a better place to vomit than directly in front of the Sizzler’s entrance. We get there just in time. Behind a dumpster, he drops to his knees and retches up a load of brown watery puke.

“I always feel so much better after a chunder,” he mumbles, wiping his lips.

But then he lies down on the ground.

“I really don’t think you should do that!” I cry.

There could be broken glass here, but Darren just makes a strange purring sound, like he’s curling up on a comfortable mattress, instead of cold hard concrete. I have no idea what to do. I don’t want to get him in trouble, but I also don’t want to be responsible for him falling and splitting his head open on the footpath. Basically, I’m too scared of Darren to get a grown-up and I’m too scared of grown-ups to leave Darren on his own.

“I’m okay,” Darren mumbles. “I’ll rest ... and wait for Stu.”

Suddenly that’s the obvious solution: Stu. I know he’s in the middle of his shift and, sure, I’m not exactly relishing the prospect of asking Nicholas’s boyfriend for help. But Darren did say he was here to see Stu – and he might actually know what to do.

“I’ll go get Stu,” I tell Darren.

I run back into Sizzler’s. In the middle of the restaurant, Rosemary and Cheryl are trying to force Mum to line dance again. I weave between tables and waiters carrying plates of steaks and fries. Stu is nowhere to be seen.

After a minute, our waitress sees me looking around and asks if I’m looking for the bathrooms.

“No, I’m looking for Stu,” I say. “He works here?”

She smiles and points over my shoulder. “Literally right behind you.”

I turn around and there’s Sizzler Stu, carrying a stack of plates. He grins when he sees me.

“Sizzler Boy in his natural environment!” Stu starts to laughs but then stops. “Uh oh, you don’t look like a happy clam. What’s wrong?”

As quickly and quietly as possible, I tell Stu that Darren’s drunk, vomiting, and becoming unconscious in the alleyway. “He said he’s waiting for you to finish your shift,” I say. “He wants to talk to you.”

Stu’s puzzled. “What would Darren need to talk to me about?”

“He’s going around apologising, I think,” I say. “He cried and apologised for calling me a rude word. Oh, and he hugged me.”

“Wow, he must be absolutely wasted.” Stu whistles. He thinks for a second. “Okay, I’ll bring him a cup of coffee and some food. I bet he hasn’t eaten anything all day. That whole group always drinks on empty stomachs. Darren can eat something, sober up, apologise to me for whatever he needs to apologise for, then go home and sleep it off.”

“Thank you,” I breathe, feeling a weight off my shoulders. Stu was the solution after all. “I owe you big time.”

“What are Sizzler Kings for? I’ll see you out there in a minute.”

Stu takes the plates through the swinging kitchen doors and I run back out to the alleyway. Darren’s fast asleep, snoring.

“Darren?” I say gently. “Can you sit up?”

I nudge his shoulder. He opens one eye and mumbles, “I’m gonna rest.”

I uselessly try to lift him. “Please sit up. I found Stu. He’s going to bring you some food and coffee.”

Darren makes a strange sound, between a grunt and a laugh, then mumbles, “Stu and Nicholas are hooking up.”

I go cold all over. “What did you say?”

He opens both eyes. “You heard. Don’t play dumb, Richy Bitchy. You’re the one I saw yesterday, writing that exact sentence on the toilet wall.”

Oh, no. No, no, no.

“After the bell, I was having a cigarette. Well, trying to light one but my lighter was being shit.” He pulls himself up into a sitting position, leaning against the dumpster. “I heard someone come in. I looked, to make sure it wasn’t Mr Jane, and there you were, writing on the wall. Nicholas and Stu are hooking up.”

“I didn’t write that.” My voice sounds so small and feeble.

“I saw you, Richy. The pen was in your hand.”

“That’s because I was going to cross it out, but ...”

“But you didn’t. Because you know it’s true.”

I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

“Nicholas has been lying to Carrie,” Darren says, “leading her on for weeks. He’s been lying to everyone. I got changed in the same fucking room as that faggot.”

“You shouldn’t use that word,” I say weakly.

“If someone’s a faggot, they’re a faggot. That’s what I told Nicholas tonight. I called him and he denied it, but I said, why would Richy Bitchy make that up?”

Oh, God. That’s why Nicholas asked me to call him. What have I got myself into?

“So now I gotta talk to Stu,” Darren slurs. “That’s why I’m waiting. Gotta let these faggots know we’re not gonna put up with them and their fucking lies.”

“No, you should go home,” I say, my heart pounding. “Can your brother pick you up?”

Right then, a door in the alleyway swings open.

“Yoohoo! How’s the patient?” Stu appears, holding an enormous takeaway coffee cup and a cardboard box with grease stains. “A little birdie named Richard told me you’ve overdone it again, my friend.”

Darren’s face darkens. His bloodshot eyes narrow. “I’m not your friend.”

Stu’s reaction is not what I expect: he clucks his tongue like Darren’s a preschooler having a tantrum. “Someone’s a grumpy drunk tonight.” He bends down, holding out the coffee and food.

First Darren takes the coffee. He pops the lid off, tips the coffee out, then lets the cup clatter to the ground. Then he takes the box, opens it, and empties French fries straight into the puddle of coffee.

“That was wasteful.” Stu stands up with a sigh, turns to me and shrugs. “Well, we tried.”

With an oddly high-pitched shout, Darren leaps to his feet and charges towards Stu. He tackles Stu against the wall and his hand goes around Stu’s neck.

I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can only watch.

“Shut the fuck up!” Darren snarls, flecks of spit flying at Stu’s face. “Stay the fuck away from me or I’ll break your faggot face!”

Darren lets go. Stu slides onto the ground, coughing. Darren turns and staggers right past me, down the alleyway, vanishing around the corner.

I rush over to Stu.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” I ask.

Stu rubs his throat. “That came out of nowhere.” He’s trembling.

It did and it didn’t, I think. “He was so drunk,” is all I can think of saying.

Stu looks at me strangely. “So, obviously he didn’t want to apologise?”

“Yeah, obviously not,” I agree.

Stu gets to his feet. “I’ve never seen him like that before. He’s a total psycho.”

“Should I call someone?” I ask.

“No,” Stu mutters. “I’m in shock, not in pain. I’d better go back in.”

“You’re going back to work?”

Stu shrugs. “What else am I meant to do?”

“I’ll at least clean up that.” I point at the coffee-soaked fries.

“Suit yourself.”

Stu heads back inside. I start cleaning up the mess, thinking to myself: What have I done?

*

Back at the table, there’s no way I can take another bite of cake. I don’t even want to bring it home with me. The taste of it in my mouth makes me sick. Mum knows something’s wrong, but she thinks I’ve just overeaten.

After dinner, we stand outside Sizzler’s, while Rosemary and Cheryl nag Mum to join them for cocktails at The Fish.

“Oh, I don’t know, I’ve got a big to-do list for tomorrow,” Mum says, “and I should really get Richard home. He doesn’t look good.”

“Richard is a grown man who ate too much cake,” Rosemary says. “He doesn’t need his mother chaperoning him to bed! Do you, Richard?”

I can tell Mum wants to go. I promise her I’m happy to walk home alone. They all plant lipsticky kisses on my cheek, then stumble down the road away from me, wobbling on heels and shrieking with laughter.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, I call Nicholas’s number. I need to explain myself. But he doesn’t answer. I send him a text message. Call me back.

The minutes pass and Nicholas still doesn’t call.

I type a text message to Nicholas. I promise I didn’t tell Darren anything. But I don’t hit send. Because if I’m honest, that’s what I wanted yesterday, when I left the graffiti there. I wanted someone to see it.

I delete the message and write a new one. I promise I had no idea what was going to happen. But I don’t send that either. Because I know what Darren’s like.

I delete that message too and put my phone back in my pocket.

All the way home, I have the same conversation in my head, in a loop. I never wanted this to happen, says the first voice. Yes, you did, says the second.

By the time I get home, the seed of guilt in my guts has grown to a full spiky plant. I get into bed, curled up in a ball. I’m still awake when Mum gets home, but I stay in bed with the lights off.

Finally, I fall asleep, but I dream I’m down that alleyway, listening to Stu choking and Darren shouting, but I’m not doing anything about it, just watching and listening.

Because I’m not the hero of my own life; I’m the coward.