Self-Portraits - 11. Transformation

On Sunday morning, I wake up inspired and determined. We’re off and we’re on, the Bad Hats song went, and when I say I love you, that’s when you’re gone. Nicholas and I have been off for a couple of weeks, but we’ll be back on next weekend. But this time, I’m not just going to sit around waiting for him to come to me. This time I’m going to be the hero of my own life and make it happen.

So before I even go downstairs for breakfast, I get a pen and a notebook, and make a plan. There are still six days before the Ball. That’s six days to build some bicep muscle and better shoulders. I might even be able to get some definition in my tummy. I sit at my desk all morning, planning my work out. I’m going to go on a run every day. I’m going to go for a bike ride every second day. I’m going to do sets of sit-ups and push-ups twice a day.

As I write my list of exercises, I realise the irony. I opted out of Games this year, but this list of exercises is basically what Mr Boyle forces the other Year 11 boys to do twice a week.

After a light breakfast (sliced oranges and one slice of peanut butter on toast), I put my plan into action and go for a run. I put on my old Games shorts and the t-shirt with hamburgers on it. I’m only halfway down the street when it starts raining.

That’s okay, I tell myself. A bit of rain never hurt anyone.

By the time I get to the end of the street, I’ve gotten a bad stitch and the rain has started coming down in icy sheets. I can hardly see my own hand in front of my face.

I should go home. There’s no point exercising if I catch a cold. Besides, I’ve run at least one kilometre, so that’s a good start. I’m warming up.

By the time I get home, I’m a block of ice, so I need to run a hot bath to thaw out.

After my bath, I start my push-ups, but they feel like a pair of toothpicks trying to lift a truck. I can’t even do a half-push-up. I’m also feeling dizzy from my hot bath.

I try sit-ups, instead. After three, my stomach muscles are incredibly sore. That’s a good sign, though. It means it’s working.

I decide to have lunch and read another chapter of David Copperfield. I fall asleep on the couch.

That night, I stand in front of the mirror and lift up my t-shirt. There aren’t any abs yet. I try flexing my skinny arms. Nothing there either, but that’s okay too. My transformation has only just begun.

*

On Monday morning, I get to school early so I can wait for Nicholas at the front gates. The assembly bell gets closer, but there’s no sign of him. I’m wondering if he’s home sick with a cold – and whether I should text him to ask if he needs me to bring him anything – but then I spot him. He’s one of the last almost-latecomers trickling through the gates.

I rush over to him. Up close, he looks like he hasn’t slept at all. His shirt is wrinkled and untucked.

“Hi!” I say brightly.

“Hey,” he says.

“How was your weekend?” I ask.

He winces. “Turn down the volume.”

“Oh, sorry,” I lower my voice to a whisper.

“Weekend was good.” He yawns. “Too good, probably.”

I laugh and he winces again, then the assembly bell rings.

“I almost pulled a sickie today,” he mutters. “I really don’t wanna be here.”

“Me neither,” I say, as we walk towards the hall together. “Are you looking forward to the Ball this weekend?”

“Yeah. Thanks again for getting those tickets. I owe you big time.”

“No worries! Happy to help!”

Once we’re in the hall, Nicholas says, “See ya when I see ya,” and goes over to Darren Park.

“Yes,” I say under my breath. “Yes, you will.”

*

At lunchtime on Monday, all I want to talk to Harriet about is The Bad Hats. I’ve become their number one fan. I want to know everything.

“Where did that name come from?” I ask.

“Benny suggested it. I’m not sure it means anything, to be honest.”

“How do you write your songs?”

“I don’t know. It’s different every time. Usually we just play around with chords or melodies until the words fit.”

“Well, what’s it like being on stage?”

Harriet is not a forthcoming rock star.

“That was only our fifth live performance,” Harriet says. “And, as a matter of fact, we made some errors. Benny mixed up the verses in the second song. If you’d been listening carefully, you would’ve noticed that those two verses made no sense at all.”

“But what was it like up there? Could you see anyone in the crowd, or was it too bright?”

“I don’t know.” She’s got her nose stuck in David Copperfield and doesn’t even seem to be listening to me properly. “I could see some people.”

“Could you see me?” I ask hopefully.

“No.”

“Oh. Could you see your Dads?”

“Can we please focus on our homework?” she snaps. “I haven’t even started my Biology homework and it’s due first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Relax,” I say. For a rock star, Harriet is way too worried about her schoolwork. “You’ve got all of tonight.”

“No, I don’t,” Harriet says. “I have my piano lesson from four thirty to five thirty, then dinner, then we have a band rehearsal from seven. Lunchtimes are the only times I have free to get homework done.”

So that’s why Harriet is always in the library at lunchtimes. It’s not because she’s an A-plus nerd with no friends. It’s because she’s a rock star.

I do my best to be silent and let Harriet do her Biology homework in these precious moments of free time, but I can’t resist. I whisper, “You might actually be the coolest person in the whole world.”

“And you might have lost your marbles,” she replies, without looking up.

*

When I turn up to Art, Mrs Hansen is arranging a small wooden manikin on a stool. She twists his arms and legs into a jaunty pose and explains this week we’re going to start experimenting with the human form.

Marcus Cruikshank isn’t happy that our model is a small wooden man. “No nudes?”

“We cover nudes in Year 12,” Mrs Hansen says. “Today, we will start building our skills in capturing the human form. Sketchbooks, everyone!”

The noise of the class fades and I spend a relaxing hour sketching the little wooden man.

My relaxation evaporates in my final class (Chemistry). Next to me, Darren is laughing and calls Lisa over to look at something on his desk. I can’t see what he’s pointing at, because his Chemistry book is in the way. Lisa looks at it, then squeals and slaps him on the arm.

“That’s not funny.”

He sniggers. “Maybe it was already here when I got here.”

“You are such an asshole.”

“Settle down, everyone.” Dr Monagle writes Intermolecular forces on the blackboard. “Open your books to Chapter 12.”

Lisa goes back to her desk and Darren slides his book over – and I see what Lisa was looking at. Fresh words have been carved onto the desk.

STU

IS

A

FAG

It feels like I’ve been punched in the stomach. I’ve been an idiot, thinking everyone liked Stu – and that nobody seemed to care about him being gay. Darren’s been nice to his face, but this is what he really thinks. This is what they’d all think about me, too. For a minute, I’m not even sure I’m breathing. Even when I realise I am still breathing, I’m not taking in a word Dr Monagle is saying. I open my book but not to the right page.

I don’t take in a word for the whole class. My eyes keep drifting to those four words Darren scratched into his desk.

Eventually the final bell rings and the lab empties, but I don’t move. I can’t leave those words there.

“Glued to your seat?” Dr Monagle asks, chortling to himself.

“Um, no.” I pretend to scribble something in my textbook. “I’m just making sure I’ve written down the homework correctly.”

Fortunately, Dr Monagle doesn’t think it’s strange that a student is taking this long to write Complete activities 12.19-12.23.

“Take as long as you need!” Dr Monagle takes a tray of beakers and test tubes into the storage cupboard behind the lab.

I slide over to Darren’s seat and begin scratching black pen over his words. I have to squash in a lot of extra letters and write extra words at weird angles to make it fit, but within a few minutes, I’ve changed it to:

STARS AND STRIPES

IS THE

USA

FLAG

Dr Monagle’s still in the storage cupboard so I find my blue pen and red pen and quickly draw the flag. It’s not until I’ve finished that I realise I’ve accidentally drawn the Union Jack.

*

I haven’t seen Vicky since she stormed out of the house on Saturday morning, vowing to hate Maggie’s baby forever. She stayed at Katie’s until this morning. But today Vicky is waiting for me at the gate. I assume it’s to shout at me for not telling her about Maggie and the baby, but it’s as though Saturday morning never happened.

“We need to have a pre-ball party,” she informs me.

“Um ... what?”

“I was texting Stu about it all weekend. For the protest, everyone needs to arrive at the Ball at the same time, so we need a place for the bus to pick everyone up from. Stu can’t have a pre-ball party at his place, because his homophobic brother is there.”

“But I – but you – wait, did you say a bus?”

“Yes, a bus. We’ve got forty-four people participating. That’s twenty-two couples.”

Forty-four? On Friday night, it was only fourteen. In three days, it’s multiplied.

“You promised Mum you wouldn’t get into trouble,” I say.

“We won’t. We’re sticking to all the rules. But we need to have a pre-ball party. Do you and Nicholas already have one to go to?”

I haven’t thought about that. I haven’t talked to Nicholas since last week, but I’m going with his date’s cousin, so we’ll be going to a pre-ball party together. I explain this to Vicky.

“Can’t you come to our party instead?” she asks. “Because Mum might not let me have a pre-ball party unless you’re there. I mean, it’s technically your Ball, not mine.”

“I have to go to the same one Nicholas is going to,” I say. “I’m taking his date’s cousin.”

“Well, what if we tell Mum we’re co-hosting? You don’t have to do anything, except let Mum think you’ll be there.”

“I really don’t want to lie more than I already am,” I say.

“You were perfectly happy lying to me about our unborn sibling,” Vicky says without hesitation.

I sigh. “Fine. I won’t tell Mum that I won’t be at your pre-ball party.”

As soon as one lie ends, another one begins.

*

On Tuesday, I want to ask Nicholas about the pre-ball party, but every time I see him, he’s kicking soccer balls to Darren Park, or with Carrie Green, looking at something on her phone. I get a chance to talk to him again on Wednesday, when I catch up to him on his way between classes.

“Hi, Nicholas!” I say far too enthusiastically.

He grins. “Oh, hey.”

“How are you?”

“Tired as fuck,” he says. “We had a few beers up Lambchop Hill last night. Bad idea on a school night.”

I laugh like it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.

“I’d better get to physics,” Nicholas says. “Even though it’s the shittiest place to be with a hangover.”

“Oh – I just wanted to ask you about the pre-ball party.”

Nicholas looks blank.

“You know, like where we’re going before the Ball,” I say.

“Oh. I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.” He shrugs. “We’ll go to someone’s place. Maybe Carrie’s, if her cousin Marta’s staying with her. I’ll tell you what the plan is when I know it.”

“Okay, great!”

Mr Jane shouts at us from across the courtyard. “Get to class! No dawdling!”

“See ya when I see ya,” Nicholas calls over his shoulder.

“See you when I see you!” I call back.

*

I keep doing short sets of sit-ups. My stomach muscles ache constantly. I attempt more push-ups and eventually manage to do about two half-ones. I manage three runs down the street and back, although I do end up walking the last stretch each time. Still, it counts.

“Everyone is losing their minds over this dance,” Harriet says when I tell her about my progress. “You should hear some of the nonsense the girls are coming up with. In the girls’ bathroom yesterday, I overheard Lisa Meadows telling everyone that she tried to make herself throw up her dinner on Sunday night, to make sure she can fit into her dress.”

“Well, it’s not like the Ball’s the only reason I’m trying to get in shape,” I protest. “I was thinking about starting to jog anyway.”

But deep down, I know Harriet’s right – we have all gone a bit mad. It’s all I hear anyone talking about in class. Girls show each other photos of their dresses. Lisa tells everyone she’s planning to spend three hours every night lying down with cucumber slices over her eyes. Guys talk in low voices about whose dad they can steal beer from. Everyone’s going to a pre-ball party. I hear my sister’s one mentioned by people I don’t even know, and that makes me nervous. Mum doesn’t know the real reason for the pre-ball party at our house – and she doesn’t know I’m not going to be there. It’s weird to imagine some of my classmates, who I’ve barely spoken to, sitting in our living room.

There are after-ball parties, too. Darren Park is having the biggest one.

“Obviously we won’t be able to drink much at the Ball,” I overhear Chris and Dale talking, “but Darren’s after-ball will be epic.”

“I’ve also heard some people are thinking of going up Lambchop Hill and having a bonfire.”

“Oh, we should bring those fireworks your uncle gave you.”

I find myself daydreaming about going to an after-ball party with Nicholas. He’ll be pretending to be Carrie’s date, and I’ll pretend to be Carrie’s cousin’s date, but really, we’ll be there together. There’ll be secret smiles, holding hands in the dark, the glow of bonfire, the dazzle of fireworks, and – I’m sure of it – our next kiss.