Self-Portraits - 1. Not Coming Out

Mum, Dad. I’m gay.

I’m gay. I’m gay. I’m gay.

Even the word itself sounds gay. It falls away – there’s no hard consonant at the end, no confirmation that you’ve finished. Not like faggot. But with faggot, you’ve got the opposite problem – the end is too hard, like a punching a brick wall.

Maybe I can use another word.

Mum, Dad. There’s something I need to tell you. I’m a homosexual. No, I shouldn’t say ‘sexual’. I don’t want to make them think about sex.

What other words are there? Queer, poofter, pansy, ponce. Dad once called a gay character in a film “fruity”, so maybe I could say that. Mum, Dad, I’m fruity. I’m your gay little strawberry.

Part of the problem is that my parents have never met a gay person before. Their friends and colleagues and distant relatives are straight. Our neighbours are straight. I’ll be the first gay person they’ve ever met. As their firstborn child and only son, that’s a lot of pressure.

Maybe I should come at it from another angle, by telling them about me and Nicholas. Nicholas, sweet funny Nicholas, with his cute elfish face, always-warm hands, and his fresh laundry smell. Nicholas, with whom I share thousands of personal jokes, hundreds of secrets, and – in the last three months – no less than nine kisses.

He doesn’t want to say anything to his parents yet, and I respect that, but maybe it’ll burst out of me tonight. Mum, Dad, we’re in love!

Nicholas and I haven’t even said the L-word to each other yet, so I probably shouldn’t say it to my parents. But maybe I could say something like, Mum, Dad, you know my friend Nicholas? Well, he’s not just my friend, he’s my ... he’s my ... he’s my what?

He’s my boyfriend. Isn’t he? I know he hasn’t used that word, no matter how many ways I’ve hinted at it. But technically, I shouldn’t call him my boyfriend. But Nicholas, the boy who has been my best friend for eleven years, is definitely more than a friend. So, who cares what word I use, because the truth is I am in love.

“You’re overthinking it,” my sister Vicky says.

I turn my attention away from my mirror, where I’ve been practising what I’m going to say at dinner this evening. Vicky has gotten into my bed and is twisting all the sheets around her legs.

“You’re unmaking it again!” I protest.

“If you overthink it, they’ll overthink it,” she tells me for the tenth time. “If you’re chill, they’ll be chill.”

Lately, Vicky has made my bedroom her after-school hang-out spot because “Mine is messy”. She gets into my bed, unmakes it, and leaves toast crumbs on the sheets. In fact, it was while she was lounging in my bed one afternoon, a few months ago, that I decided to tell her. I revealed that, not only was I gay, but that I had kissed Nicholas several times.

Vicky doesn’t know what it’s like to be in love. She’s a year younger than me and has never had a boyfriend. Perhaps in a year’s time, when she’s sixteen, she’ll have one. But probably not. The boys at Crampton Collegiate are terrified of her. Vicky shouts, swears, chews her fingernails, and pays no attention to her hair, the unruly blonde mop that we both inherited from Dad.

At least I try to comb mine.

* 

Dinner is at six o’clock every night. Mum has a short list of rules and dinnertime is where most of them come into force. We must all be at the table at six o’clock. No TV, no phones. And we must eat everything on our plates. I’m a fussy eater but luckily Vicky’s a human waste disposal, so we smuggle pieces of food underneath the table.

“So, how was school today?” Mum asks.

“Shit,” Vicky replies.

“Boring,” I agree.

“That’s good,” Mum says. She doesn’t always listen to our answers. She’s in charge of the education department at the university so, by six o’clock in the evening, her brain is usually overflowing. “Have you finished your homework yet?”

“Almost,” I lie. She thinks I’ve been upstairs doing homework, but that’s the last thing on my mind tonight.

Dad hardly says a word at dinner. He inhales his food in about two minutes then sits back, looking exhausted. He’s always famished by six o’clock because work is always too busy for him to have lunch. He’s in charge of the medical supplies for a hospital and he’s a micro-manager. He always says, “If you need something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself.”

On the surface, tonight looks like every other night. But my heart is racing and Vicky keeps staring at me, wondering if I’m really going to follow through with it.

Mum, Dad, I keep saying in my head, I’m gay.

Now all I need to do is say it out loud. The only sound is the clinking of knives and forks against plates. Now is my moment.

I take a deep breath.

Vicky’s eyes are fixed on me.

I exhale. It’s now or never.

“Mum,” I say.

Mum looks at me. Am I imagining it, or does she look annoyed?

“Dad,” I say.

Dad looks up from his plate. He has dark circles under his eyes.

Here goes nothing.

“I’m gay,” I say.

Or at least, my mouth has formed the words, but they do not land the way I expected. At first, I can’t figure out why, so I say it again.

“I’m gay.”

Again, the words don’t seem to land.

Then I realise that Mum had spoken over me – both times – and Dad and Vicky are now staring at her. Nobody is looking at me. Nobody has heard me. There’s blood pounding in my ears. I’m beyond confused. What happened? What went wrong?

“Sorry – did you say something?” I ask Mum.

Dad’s mouth is open. There’s half-chewed broccoli in it. Vicky’s hand, cold as ice, grips my wrist.

“Oh my god,” Vicky says to Mum. “Are you fucking serious?” Vicky looks at Dad. “Dad? What the actual fuck?”

“What? What’s going on?” I say. “Did you guys hear what I just said? Mum, what did you say? Vicky, what did she say?”

Dad puts down his fork and closes his mouth. “We were going to wait until the end of the year to do it.”

“Do what?” I demand.

Mum puts her also-cold hand on my other wrist. I now have two cold female hands on me.

“We were at least going to wait for you to finish school,” Mum tells me. “We didn’t want to place any stress on you for your final exams next year. That’s why we were going to wait until then.”

“And I suppose stress for my final exams don’t factor in?” Vicky barks.

“That’s years away, sweetheart,” Mum says. “The divorce will be ancient history by then.”

But I’m gay, I think. Didn’t anybody hear me?

Then what Mum said hits me.

“Wait a minute,” I say. “Did you say divorce?”

“Yes,” Mum says. She turns to me. “Your father and I have been speaking about it for a while now. We are separating at first, but we will get a divorce.”

“This is fucking bullshit!” Vicky says.

“It is,” I add.

I look down at my plate. I can’t take another bite. I put down my knife and fork.

“I’m not finishing this,” I say. “I’m never eating another thing again in my life.”

“That’s not realistic,” Mum says.

“I’ll finish yours,” Vicky says. Nothing could ever ruin her appetite.

She exchanges her empty plate for my near-full one. I just sit there, my head spinning. I only manage to hear bits and pieces of what Mum’s saying.

“Dad will be moving out … you’ll both probably find that not that much will change for you, day to day … the two of us are basically just good friends at this point … it’s not really fair on the two of you if we stay together …”

“Fuck fair!” Vicky shouts, spitting little food missiles over the table.

Mum keeps trying to calm her down by saying things like, “I know this is a bit of a shock,” and “Please don’t shout with your mouth full.” Dad sits there in silence.

I need to get away from the table for a moment and gather my thoughts, so I start putting plates in the dishwasher. My movements are zombie-like, on autopilot. By the time I’ve finished cleaning the kitchen, everyone’s left the table. Vicky’s stormed off to my bedroom, to scream into my pillow. I leave her to that and go into Mum and Dad’s room. I’m not going to shout like Vicky. That won’t get us anywhere.

I’m simply going to talk them out of this silliness.

* 

But when I walk into their bedroom, there’s already a suitcase open on their bed. Mum and Dad are at the wardrobe, taking out clothes on coat hangers.

“You need to get some more white shirts,” Mum says. “Look, this one is frayed at the cuff. Do you have enough clean socks?”

“I’ve got my tennis socks,” says Dad.

“But you can’t wear those with your work shoes,” Mum says.

“I don’t see why not.”

This doesn’t sound like a conversation between a couple who are splitting up. It sounds like Dad’s going on a business trip for two nights.

From the doorway, I blurt, “You can’t leave tonight!”

Dad looks at me nervously, then at Mum. For a second, he looks doubtful, he looks like he might be able to be persuaded. Stay for me, I want to say, but it sounds weird.

“I’m sorry, darling,” Mum says. “I know it’s a surprise, but you’ll understand in the long run. It’s best to get this bit over with now.”

Did she call it a surprise? The new sneakers I got last week were a surprise. The tub of chocolate ice-cream Vicky found at the back of the freezer, the B plus in yesterday’s Calculus test – those things were a surprise. Dad walking out of here forever is not a surprise. It’s a shockwave.

“But I thought ...” I can’t think of anything compelling to say. “It’s so sudden and ...” It’s like we’re in a movie scene on fast forward. We all need to hit the pause button.

“We’ll have a family meeting this weekend.” Mum gives me a quick hug before she goes back to sorting through Dad’s clothes with him. “Everything will be alright.”

I stand there watching Mum and Dad finishing packing his suitcase.

Then, with an awkward one-armed hug, Dad is gone.

* 

Upstairs, Vicky’s gotten back into my bed. She’s kicked my blankets onto the floor and has made herself a nest of pillows. She’s torn the foil off my last Easter egg but I can’t be annoyed at her right now. Even as shards of chocolate rain down over my pillowcases. All my annoyance is directed at Mum and Dad. Vicky’s angry too.

“Selfish,” she snaps. “That was so selfish. It’s the first time you had something to say at dinner, but they came out instead! Came out with absolute bullshit.” Her nostrils flare. “We don’t have to stand for it. We don’t have to agree to this.”

“Well, I’m not sure it’s about us agreeing—” I begin.

“We’ll both have breakdowns,” Vicky says. “We’ll start skipping classes and smoking and drinking, and then we’ll have to steal bicycles and siphon petrol out of cars just to buy food. Let’s go downstairs and explain that to them. If they know how fragile we are, there’s no way they’ll go through with it!”

I swallow. “They have gone through with it.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Mum helped Dad pack a bag,” I tell her. “He’s gone.”

Her eyes bulge. “He’s moved out already? In the last fifteen minutes?”

“Yeah. They packed his work clothes, his pyjamas, everything. His socks.”

“Socks!” Vicky spits more chocolate.

Mum comes upstairs and stands at my bedroom door.

“How are you two feeling?” she asks gently.

“You already made him leave!” Vicky screams. “The two of you have never even had a fight. This is insane!”

“I know it’s come as a surprise.” There’s that stupid word again. “But I think in a few months, or even months, you’ll feel better.”

Vicky disagrees, at a high volume, and I reach for my mobile phone to check for messages from Nicholas. There aren’t any.

While Vicky rages at Mum, I quickly type a message to Nicholas. Major drama here. Meet you at gates before assembly?  

Within seconds, my phone beeps with his reply: Yep.

I’ve lost Dad but at least I still have Nicholas.

* 

The next morning, Mum tells us we can stay home from school if we want. She says she’ll call and “explain our situation”. She even offers to stay home from work with us. On any other day, Vicky and I would jump at this offer, but we both decline.

Vicky makes it clear she doesn’t want to spend any time with Mum right now. “I need to be around friends, true friends, not a horrible woman who’s lied through her teeth to me for my entire life!”

My response is far more polite. I say, “Thanks Mum, but I think it’ll be good for us to stick to our routine.” But the truth is that I want to be around a true friend too: Nicholas.

And so Vicky and I head off to school looking terrible after our sleepless night. Vicky tossed and turned. I might’ve slept, except Vicky refused to leave my bed and spent the night farting and kicking me every time she rolled over. Her hair is sticking out so much it looks like she stuck her wet fingers in an electrical outlet. I tried to comb mine flat, but the stubborn patch at the back kept sticking up.

“Can you believe Mum wanted us all to stay home together today?” Vicky mutters. “As if we could sit around, playing happy families!”

I don’t point out to Vicky that she’d be ten times angrier if Mum hadn’t offered to let us stay home today.

“And, oh my god,” Vicky grips my arm, “can you imagine the humiliation of Mum telling our private family business to Mr Jane’s secretary? God, this is so awkward.”

Vicky rages the whole way to school. She groans when she sees the iron gates of Crampton Collegiate and the big stone buildings behind it. It may as well be a prison. In our grey uniforms, we look like inmates serving life sentences.

“I’m too tired for this shithole,” she mutters. “Do I have enough time to buy a Red Bull?”

I check the time. “Not really. Five minutes before the bell.”

“Fuck it, I’m going anyway.”

She ducks into the shop on the corner.

I cross the road and join the stampede through the front gates.

And even in a crowd of a hundred kids, all in grey, I spot him. The first good thing I’ve seen this morning – Nicholas.