Self-Portraits - 2. Adrift

The tips of his pointy ears are pink from the cold, but I know his hands will still be as warm as two slices of toast. But of course I won’t touch him – not here, in front of everyone – so I just inhale his clean laundry smell.

“So, did you do it?” Nicholas asks. “Did you tell your parents?”

“Well, I tried,” I say. “But they didn’t hear me. What happened was—”

“Thank God.” Nicholas breathes a giant sigh of relief. “I almost called you last night to try to stop you. I think you really should reconsider doing what I’m doing, just wait until next year. After our final exams.”

Yesterday, I was determined to tell my parents but now, after the hand grenade they threw across the dinner table last night, everything’s up in the air. And I like the idea of continuing to keep Nicholas my warm, cosy secret.

“You’re probably right,” I say. “At dinner last night, Mum—”

“There’s something else.” Nicholas looks down, uncomfortably. “I’ve been thinking, there’s a chance you might’ve gotten the wrong idea here. I know we’ve kissed a few times, and that’s been nice, but we’re not, like, dating. You know that right?”

I open my mouth but have no idea what I’m going to say.

I think about how, on Friday night, Nicholas slept over, and had his arms around me all night. In the morning, he told me that my sleep drool was cute and then he picked the crusty bits out from the corners of my eyes. I tried to brush my teeth to get rid of morning breath before we kissed again but he said he would kiss me even if I had eaten a whole meal of garlic and onions. I think about how, for the Year 11 Ball next month, we’ve been planning to hang out at my place, eating lollies and watching every horror movie about a school dance we can find. (There are a lot.) And even though we’ve agreed not to go to the Ball, I’ve secretly fantasised about the two of us going, dancing in matching tuxedos.

I thought Nicholas and I were together. Or kind of together. But I don’t admit that. What comes out of my mouth is a lie.

“Yeah, of course,” I say. My face feels like it’s on fire.

“Okay, good. I just wanted to make sure. And I don’t want anyone else getting the wrong idea, either ... so I’ve opted back into Games.”

My jaw drops. Games – what normal schools call PE – is a cruel and unusual punishment at Crampton. For years, I dreaded changing into that singlet and those shorts. I dreaded the other boys’ laughter every time I tried to throw or catch or kick a ball. When I was lucky, they all ignored me. When I wasn’t, Darren Park kicked soccer balls at my head.

When it finally stopped being compulsory this year, Nicholas and I opted out, and signed up for Art instead. Art is the only class we’ve had together this year.

“But you hate Games,” I say.

“I never hated it as much you. And do you realise how it looks? You and I are the only two Year 11 guys who quit Games this year. We may as well be painting pink unicorns on our backpacks.”

“Marcus Cruikshank does Art,” I remind Nicholas.

“Only because he got hairline fracture playing rugby.” Nicholas takes a deep breath. “Yesterday, Darren Park made a joke about me and you sleeping over at each other’s places all the time. A whole bunch of people were listening. Then he asked why we opted out of Games. He didn’t say anything, but everyone knew what he meant.”

This doesn’t surprise me. Darren Park is very short but very mean.

“I panicked,” Nicholas says. “I lied about hurting my knee long-distance running during the summer holidays, but I pretended it’d just gotten better and said I’d already opted back in for Games from this week.”

“But it’s ...” My brain’s racing to think of reasons why this is wrong. “It’s getting so cold outside. The Art studio is warm.”

Nicholas looks around to make sure nobody’s listening, then leans in. “Don’t you get it? We’ll become total outcasts if they find out. It’ll just be the two of us hanging out for the next two years. Is that what you want?”

Yes, I think. That sounds like a lot of fun.

“We should both keep it to ourselves, at least until school’s over,” he says. “And we should probably start hanging out with other friends, instead of just with each other all the time. Even just for a little while, okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. My mouth feels numb. “Of course.”

“Great.” Nicholas exhales and smiles, relieved. “I love that we’re always on the same page.”

The assembly bell rings.

“See ya when I see ya,” Nicholas says. That’s how we always say goodbye, but the gaps between seeing each other were never very long. But now our signature farewell feels like it’s gouging out a piece of my flesh. But I’ve got no choice; I have to say it.

“See you when I see you,” I say.

Nicholas turns and jogs over to Darren Park and his friends. A big rowdy group with untucked shirts who love boasting about how much alcohol they drink on weekends. Nicholas and I have spent the last three years making fun of them, but now he wants to hang out with them. He even wants to go outside with them, to run around in the rain twice a week.

I stand there, not sure what to do. Last night, it felt like one of my arms had been amputated. Now it feels like I’ve lost a leg. I don’t snap out of it until the headmaster Mr Jane shouts at me to get a move on.

And so, with only one leg and one arm, I hop towards assembly.

*

In the hall, I slide down a hard uncomfortable bench. All around me, hundreds of voices babble away. I need to make sense of what just happened. It’s against the rules, but I pull my phone out and scroll back through messages from Nicholas, to see if I missed anything.

Last week, during Art class, I texted him: Is that gum in Marcus’s hair

Na, he replied. Just wax i think

LOL, I said. I thought it was gum

On Sunday, I wrote: Are we still going to Moxies later?

Yep get me a latte if you get there first

Okay, see you at 3!

“Phones away!” a voice bellows.

I look up, terrified that I’m in trouble twice before the day’s even begun, but the Games teacher Mr Boyle is shouting at a group of Year 9 girls on the other side of the hall. I quickly put my phone away, just as Mr Jane is striding up to the lectern.

It takes Mr Jane three stern warnings for everyone to simmer down. I half-listen to what he’s saying. The school board has agreed to spend thousands of dollars on a new grandstand, so even more of us can stand in the rain to watch our classmates play sports. Then he announces the results from yesterday afternoon’s rugby game, so I clap politely. The soccer team are invited up the front to receive certificates, so I clap some more. I don’t really feel like clapping but, before the Easter break, Mr Boyle caught Nicholas and I not clapping and scolded us for “not showing respect to your peers.”

After assembly, I let myself be carried along in the current of bodies towards English. I take my usual seat at the window. Since yesterday, someone has written on the windowsill:

YOU’RE A FAG

I make sure Mrs Bristol’s back is turned, then use my pen to change it to:

YOU’RE AN EAGER LEARNER

I don’t feel like an eager learner right now, though. Today I may as well be underwater.

At one point during the lesson, I realise everyone is looking at me.

Mrs Bristol’s at the front of the class, smiling. “Earth to Richard?”

She taps the blackboard, where she’s written the first line from David Copperfield. Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. We were meant to start reading it last night, but I didn’t.

“Based on what you’ve read so far,” Mrs Bristol asks, “do you think David Copperfield will turn out to be the hero of his own life?”

“Um, yes.” My face turns red. “I mean, Charles Dickens decided to name the book after him, so, um, yes, I think he’ll be the hero.”

There’s a couple of laughs from around the room – hopefully with me and not at me. Mercifully, Mrs Bristol moves on to Harriet Hayes, who’s got her hand in the air, and gives a perfect answer.

At lunchtime, I don’t know what to do. Nicholas and I have met behind the cricket pavilion at lunchtime every day for the last three and a half years. When I get there today, there’s only the group of Year 9 girls, practising their dance routine. Nicholas can do a very funny impression of the dance, which is even funnier when they see him do it.

Today, Nicholas is nowhere to be seen.

Out the front of the pavilion, I scan the field.

I see him on the far side, by the fence, with Darren Park and his friends. They are kicking a soccer ball back and forth. Nicholas uses his forehead to hit it back. Wouldn’t that hurt?

Those boys are always doing stupid things, though. Lighting their own farts. Belly flops off the highest diving board at the pool. Riding their bikes down muddy steep hills.

Nicholas said we need to hang out with other friends, so that’s what he’s doing. It’s what I agreed to do, too. The problem is, I don’t have other friends. I wouldn’t even know how to make other friends.

I walk around. The school grounds are depressing and ancient. It always feels haunted, but today I’m the one haunting it, drifting around invisibly. Everyone sits in their usual groups, in their usual spots. The Year 10 soccer team are aggressively kicking a ball against the side of the school hall, even though Mr Jane always shouts at them not to. Out the front of the hall, the As You Like It cast are practising their lines and occasionally ducking when a soccer ball comes their way. The gaming nerds are sitting outside the library, all on their phones. The popular girls are always on the picnic tables in the centre of the courtyard where they can be stared at. Everyone fits in somewhere. Yesterday, I fitted in with Nicholas. The two of us were always attached. Dr Monagle, my Chemistry teacher, would call us a diatomic molecule. Now I’m an atom adrift.

Then a voice calls my name. “Richard!”

It’s Vicky, with her friends, outside the science lab. She’s holding out a pot of yoghurt.

“I accidentally took a boysenberry,” she says. “Give me your strawberry.”

And so I eat my lunch with my sister and her friends. They’re blonde, loud, and never stop talking. Today, Vicky is the centre of attention, as she goes over last night’s events. I’m mostly ignored while I eat my bacon sandwich and Vicky’s boysenberry yoghurt.

“Oh my God,” Vicky’s friend Katie says for the tenth time. “So, like, where do you think your dad went last night?”

Vicky turns to me. “Fuck, I didn’t even think about that. We don’t even know where our own father slept last night. What if there’d been an emergency?”

I’m not sure what emergency would require Dad instead of Mum, but all I say is, “We can still call his mobile or text him.”

“Not if he gets held up in an armed robbery!” she exclaims. “God, I am so pissed off at both of them. Like, how long have they been lying? They’ve been sharing a bed for, like, twenty-five years. Now I’m all, like, how many of those years were a lie?”

But the truth is, they don’t always share a bed. Dad’s been sleeping in the guestroom a lot lately. He says it’s better for his back.

“I keep thinking, when will the lies end?” Vicky rants on and on. “Are they even our parents? Maybe we’re adopted and we’re really Scandinavian and our so-called parents are planning to send us back to live with our real parents in a war-torn Scandinavian village.”

“I don’t think Scandinavia is war-torn,” Katie points out.

“It will be if we get sent back there!” Vicky declares.

*

By the last class of the day, my eyelids may as well have dumbbells hanging from them.

“My dear!” Mrs Hansen calls out as I step into the warm Art studio. “I was heartbroken to hear that our oh-so-talented friend Nicholas is no longer with us! His sculpture last term was sublime. I was ever-so-curious to see what he would bring to our next module.”

I mumble something as I find a seat. The studio has a chemical smell that Nicholas loves. He even pries open pots of paint to take deep sniffs of it. Why would he give that up just to headbutt soccer balls and risk getting hairline fractures?

Mrs Hansen gets our attention by jangling her bangles. She announces we’re having our monthly “free association” period. We can draw or paint anything we want. Of course, Marcus Cruikshank starts watching clips from rugby games on his phone and Lisa Meadows just keeps chatting to her friend Carrie about the Year 11 Ball next month. I usually use “free association” time to paint, but I’m too tired to muck around with brushes. I open my sketchbook and grab a pencil. My hand starts moving, but my brain slides into standby mode.

The next thing I know, Mrs Hansen’s at my shoulder. “Fascinating!” she says. “Keep up this sort of work.”

I snap to attention, disoriented and terrified that I’ve been asleep in class. But was I asleep? I look down. There’s a drawing in my sketchbook but my vision is blurred. I can’t tell what it is.

“Er, thanks,” I mumble, quickly turning the page.

I look around to see if anyone noticed that I completely blacked out, but everyone’s still on their phones or gossiping.

Mrs Hansen drifts over to Lisa. “What have you been working on, dear?”

Lisa looks up from her phone, which she knows Mrs Hansen would never confiscate in a million years. There’s a blank sheet of paper on her easel and paints untouched by her side.

“I’ve been on Pinterest,” Lisa says brazenly. “Scrolling for inspiration.”

“Good.” Mrs Hansen nods. “Keep contemplating your canvass.”

The final bell rings. By some miracle, I’ve made it through this day in one piece.

“Don’t forget to work on your natural environment pieces this weekend,” she calls as kids start racing for the door. “We’re sharing them on Tuesday!”

I shove my sketchbook in my bag and join the rush, even though I’ve got nowhere to be.

*

After school, Vicky’s waiting at the front gates – but not for me.

“I’m waiting for Katie,” she says. “We’re going to Moxies, but I’ll be home before dinner. Can you tell Mum?”

“Why don’t you just text her?” I ask.

“Oh, I’m not talking to her.” Vicky spots Katie heading towards her in the crowd and waves. “See you at home!”

I start walking, but I’ve only gone two blocks when I realise that the hospital Dad works at is just around the corner. I couldn’t convince him to stay last night, but maybe today I can. At the very least, he can help me try to understand why this is happening.

Or maybe I’m just sleepwalking.

The hospital is a large beige block, with lots of different wings. I head through sliding doors at the main entrance. I pass the information desk, the flower shop, and the cafe with a funny smell. Actually, the entire hospital has a funny smell.

I take the stairs to the medical supplies office. Someone’s left a bunch of blue helium balloons in the corridor, tied to the wrist of a teddy bear. I’m about to step around them, but then I freeze.

Dad’s at the end of the corridor, right beneath the MEDICAL SUPPLIES sign, but he’s not alone. He’s got his arms around with a woman, a woman with long red hair. She’s wearing a purple raincoat and white running shoes.

Then he kisses her.

My father is kissing a strange woman. At his workplace.

I leap back behind the blue balloons and clamp a hand over my mouth. This woman is why Dad left last night, I’m certain of it. In the circumstances, your father’s moving out and we’ll be divorcing. That’s what Mum said. She didn’t say what the circumstances were, but now I know. Dad has a girlfriend. He cheated on Mum.

Reluctantly, I peak around the blue balloons again. The kiss has stopped, thank goodness. Dad goes back into his office. The woman turns around and starts walking. Towards me. I flatten myself against the wall, behind the balloons. Her white shoes squeak past me and down the stairs.

And I decide to follow her.

I want to know more about this woman. Part of me is hoping there’s another explanation. Something far-fetched and unlikely: that was just a friendly kiss with a long-lost cousin. But another part of me just wants to rip off the band-aid.

When I get to the foyer, the woman has already vanished back out the front entrance. I break into a run. I know I’ll lose her if she gets into a car, but she doesn’t. She weaves between cars, across the car park, and onto the street.

I follow her as she turns down one street, then another, to a small cul-de-sac called Chrysanthea Place. Her house is number 14, a small brick cottage with a big front window. There’s a huge worm farm in the front garden. That’s funny; Mum has a worm farm, too.

I kneel behind the letter box as she goes through the front door.

I watch her through the front window as she takes her purple raincoat off. She turns to hang it up on a hook and I gasp. Her raincoat was hiding an even bigger secret.

Dad’s girlfriend is pregnant.

*

I put one foot in front of the other all the way back home.

I’m trying to think of other ways to explain what I’ve just seen.

Maybe Dad was providing the woman with medical supplies. She is pregnant, after all, so it makes sense she might visit a hospital. Perhaps his arms were around her because he was attaching a machine to monitor the foetus. That doesn’t explain the kiss, though. But perhaps it really was just a friendly kiss. A kiss to say thank you for the foetal monitor. Or maybe the woman is a random pregnant friend of Dad’s who stopped by Dad’s work to comfort him, after what happened at home last night – and I arrived just as they were saying a friendly goodbye.

But I know the kiss wasn’t a friendly kiss. It was far too long. There is only one explanation that makes any sense: Dad has a pregnant girlfriend. Is that his baby? My half-brother or -sister? It’s a miracle I’m not collapsing on the pavement under the weight of everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours. My shoes feel like they’re made of concrete and yet my head is like a helium balloon on a windy day.

This time yesterday, I was standing in front of my mirror, worrying about how to come out to my parents and fretting about whether Nicholas was officially my boyfriend yet. Now, my family’s falling apart and I don’t even have Nicholas to talk to about it.

Mum says you always feel better after a cry. I squeeze my face up and try, but nothing happens.

I get home two minutes before Mum.

“Just you?” she says. She heads towards the kitchen with a tote bag of groceries.

“Just me,” I confirm. “Vicky’s gone to Moxie’s with Katie.”

“I thought Nicholas might be over for dinner,” Mum says.

It’s Thursday; he often comes over after school on Thursdays, and chats with Mum like they’re friends. Nicholas has even managed to get semi-enthusiastic conversation out of Dad.

“He isn’t coming over tonight,” I say.

“He’s so funny,” Mum says. “He always makes us laugh.”

Another piece of me is gouged out. Nicholas is perfect.

“We’ll all be alright though,” Mum says. “It’ll just be a bit of an adjustment.”

It takes me a second to realise she’s talking about Dad, not Nicholas.

“Luckily you’re so resilient,” Mum says. She’s got no idea. I feel like I’m about to tip over sideways.

I offer to help with dinner.

“No need, darling,” Mum tells me. “Too many cooks spoil the broth.”

“We’re having broth?”

She laughs. “No, I’m making that veggie lasagne you like. How was school?”

“Fine,” I say. “How was … um …”

I try to think of a way to ask my mother how she is. I realise that in all my sixteen years, I’ve never asked her that very basic question. She’s always been here to make sure I’m okay, not the other way around. This makes me feel bad, but after the day I’ve had, I’m getting used to that feeling.

Although I have to admit that Mum doesn’t seem upset. She hums a song and opens a can of chickpeas and scrolls a recipe on her iPad. Dad’s left her for his pregnant girlfriend, but it looks like it’s just another Thursday for her. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism. Maybe she’s in deep denial. Denial’s the first stage of grief, isn’t it? Carrying on like everything’s fine.

I look up stages of grief on my phone and confirm that denial’s the first stage. Then I see the second stage is anger. I fall into a rabbit hole on my phone, reading all sorts of unpleasant things about grief and divorce.

Vicky comes home fifteen minutes before dinner’s ready, but she doesn’t come into the kitchen to say hi to Mum. She stomps up to my bedroom and slams my door. She comes down at six o’clock sharp.

“How was Moxies?” Mum asks.

“Fine,” Vicky grunts, then turns her focus entirely onto the veggie lasagna.

My sister is already in the anger stage of grief. I really don't want to think about how much angrier she'll be when she finds out the whole truth.