Self-Portraits - 7. The Hangover

In the morning, Dad’s back in the kitchen. I guess Saturday breakfasts with Dad are part of our new separated-parent routine. At least Vicky is a lot less hostile this morning. She digs into Dad’s bacon and eggs with vigour, and gloats about her detentions.

“I still don’t think it’s wise to make enemies of the faculty,” Mum says.

“Yes,” Dad agrees. “You still have two and a half years there.”

“It’s people like you who allowed the Nazis to rise to power,” Vicky says. She learnt about the Holocaust in History last term and has been accusing Mum and Dad of being Nazis ever since. “In fact, you guys would both have been Nazis, let’s be honest. Well, not me. I’d be like the woman who brought Anne Frank food every day.”

“Miep Gies,” Mum says.

“A school dance is hardly comparable to the Holocaust,” Dad says, “and I’d advise you to be careful about making those sorts of comparisons.”

“Oh, what would you know?” Vicky barks, but it’s a friendlier bark today. “I’m a revolutionary now. Like that African American woman who refused to sit at the back of the bus in the sixties.”

“Rosa Parks,” Mum says.

“Again,” Dad says gently, “those aren’t the sort of comparisons you should be making.”

“Whatever, old man.”

“My advice,” Dad perseveres, “is that if you really want to be constructive about change, you need to operate within the system. If Mr Jane says that school dance tickets are a decision for the school board, then that’s where you need to go. Learn their rules and operate within their system.”

Vicky does a huge, theatrical yawn. I sip coffee, nervously wondering if today’s the day that Dad tells about Maggie da Silva, but the conversation doesn’t go anywhere near that topic. I finish half my breakfast and slide the rest to Vicky. Then Dad asks about the bikes in the garage.

“I hate biking,” Vicky says.

“It’s good exercise,” Dad says.

“I think there are spider nests in some of the spokes,” Mum says, “and the tyres will be as flat as pancakes.”

“I’ll take a look,” Dad says. He turns to me. “Richard, why don’t we have a look at the bikes?”

“Sure.”

We pull the bikes out of the garage, disrupting several spider communities in the process. Dad finds the pump and inflates the tyres.

“Let’s take them round the block,” he suggests.

I haven’t been on a bike in at least a year. I find I do enjoy it, even though I probably look ridiculous, with my skinny arms and legs flapping as I go.

“Your back tyre still has a little wobble,” Dad observes. “We’ll tighten it up.”

“Later,” I say. “Let’s keep going.”

We turn onto the bike path that curves along the river. The water shimmers through gaps in the trees. There’s nobody else around and we bike along in silence. For a scary moment, I wonder whether now’s a good time to try coming out again. I try it under my breath, just to see how it sounds.

“I’m gay,” I whisper to myself, under my breath. I realise I can’t simply say it like that. I’ll need to lead into it somehow. “Hey Dad, can I tell you something? It’s not a big deal, but I thought you should know …”

Then I think, what if Dad’s thinking the exact same thing as me? What if he’s biking along behind me, whispering his own conversation.

Look, there’s something you should probably know. The place I’m staying, it’s with someone else. Her name’s Maggie … and, well …

But neither of us say a word until we reach the end of the path. There’s a paddock with a single cow staring at us. We stop and turn our bikes around. There’s an odd pause, a moment where either of us could decide to be brave, to be honest.

“Well,” Dad says.

“Well,” I echo.

“Back the way we came?” he asks.

“Back the way we came,” I say, because it’s the only option.

For now, we both decide to keep our secrets. It looks like cowardice runs in the family.

*

On Saturday night, Vicky goes to her friend Katie’s to watch movies, and Mum goes out for dinner and cocktails with Cheryl and Rosemary. This time, I’m happy to be home alone, because tomorrow morning, I’ll be with Nicholas.

I lay some shirts out on my bed, wondering which one to wear. Blue, black, gingham, maroon? I choose maroon. I even lay out my nice socks, with the polka dots.

I have a long hot bath, then I get into bed and read some more David Copperfield. I start to fall asleep and drop the enormous book on my face, which wakes me up, so I read the chapter where he marries Dora Spenlow.

On Sunday morning, I arrive thirty minutes early. Moxies Cafe is filled with small tables, mismatched chairs, and the only good coffee in town. I’ve never been here so early before and it’s empty. I don’t want to sit by myself for thirty minutes, so I walk around for a bit. The streets are quiet. Nothing’s open yet so I window-shop for twenty minutes.

I go into the café five minutes early. There are a few people here now, husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends, sitting happily with their latte bowls and newspapers.

That’ll be Nicholas and me in a few minutes.

I wonder whether I should order something or wait for him. Lattes and chocolate log on me. That’s what he said. But maybe I should order it for him now, so it’s here waiting when he arrives.

Yes, that’s what I’ll do.

I go up to the counter and order it.

I check the time on my phone. Three minutes to go. I can hardly sit still. I want to look relaxed when he gets here. I try concentrating on breathing. In, two, three, four, out – no, I can’t, I’m too excited. My heart’s thumping, my hands are trembling.

Then it’s one minute to go, then it’s seconds, three, two, one – ten o’clock.

Right on cue, the café door swings open.

I sit up straight. I smile.

But it’s not Nicholas – it’s Stu. Sizzler Stu.

He sees me staring and smiling like an idiot. He’s wearing a woolly hat and gloves. He grins at me, says, “Be with you in a sec,” then goes up to the counter. “Latte to go, please, Steph,” he says. Of course he knows her name. He’s already made friends with the Moxies girl I’ve been ordering from for years.

Then he comes over. “Sizzler Boy! How are ya?”

“Good, thanks.” I’m too nervous to joke with him.

Stu leans over and sniffs me. “You smell good.” He whispers, “Are you waiting for a date?”

“No!” I say in a high-pitched voice. “Just catching up with a friend.”

“Well, you’ve scrubbed up nice,” Stu says. “I love that shirt. What do you call that colour? Crimson?”

“It’s maroon,” I say firmly.

“Well, you’re dressed better than me, that’s for sure.” Stu flicks the name badge pinned to his chest. “I’m about to go to my second-ever lunch shift at Sizzler’s. Kill me now.”

I give a wobbly smile. “Good luck,” I say, but one eye’s back on the door.

It’s two minutes past. I don’t want Nicholas to walk in on me talking to another guy – especially not a gay one.

“Actually, I saw your sister last night,” Stu goes on. “I went to Lambchop Hill with Lisa Meadows and all of that group. It’s so nice up there, with view, and the stars and stuff. But then Lisa got this guy to drive us all to some guy’s party – Mark Something.”

“Marcus Cruikshank,” I say.

“Marcus!” Stu clicks his fingers. “You really do know everyone. But yeah, Vicky was there!”

So much for her telling Mum she was just watching movies at Katie’s.

“I talked to her for ages. I told her how much I admired her for standing up to Mr Jane about the Ball tickets. We even talked about protesting!”

Stu practically reenacts the entire conversation for me. He does an impression of Vicky’s impression of Mr Jane.

“She is seriously funny,” he says. “You should’ve gone with her last night!”

“I don’t make a habit of partying with my sister.” I sound snobby but I don’t care. I want him to leave before Nicholas walks in.

“You should,” Stu says. “She’s fun. I’d give anything to have a cool sister. I’ve only got a brother, he’s six years older, and we do not get along.”

“Oh, okay.”

“He’s an all-round dickhead. Always borrowing money off our parents and never paying it back. Like, thousands.”

Steph the waitress appears with my order. “Two lattes, and a chocolate log.” She has a takeaway coffee, too. “Here you go, Stu.”

“Thanks Steph,” Stu says to her. He grins down at my order. “Breakfast of champions.”

“It’s not just for me.” I can’t stop myself sounding irritable.

“Fair enough. Well, catch you tomorrow, Sizzler Boy.”

Now that he’s leaving, I feel a bit bad about being impatient. He was only being friendly. I force myself to smile.

“Good luck today, Sizzler King,” I say.

By the time Stu has gone, it’s six minutes past ten, and there’s no sign of Nicholas. No text message about running late. I try to calm myself down. I remind myself that he’s always running late to things. It’s just been a long time since we met each other out somewhere. Usually, we go everywhere together, so if he’s late, then we’re both late.

I force myself to relax, which I manage to do about two percent.

*

Another ten minutes pass. I’ve almost finished my coffee. His is going cold. The chocolate log sits in the middle of the table like an enormous poo. I’m not sure what to do with his coffee. Should I order another one for him now? Or should I wait for him to order it when he gets here?

What if he sees this coffee? He might insist on drinking the one I already bought for him – he’s too nice not to. So should I quickly finish his? If I do that, I’ll have to order another one when he gets here, which will be my third coffee, and they’re not small.

But I don’t see any other option. I drink his lukewarm coffee then take the two empty mugs back to the counter. I feel even dizzier, light-headed, so I have a forkful of chocolate log. I get a blob of cream on my face then wipe it off with a napkin.

It’s nearly ten-thirty. Nicholas is always late, but he’s never this late.

A cold trickle of dread begins to run down my spine.

He’s not coming.

Maybe I got the details wrong. Maybe he didn’t say Moxies. Or maybe he didn’t say ten o’clock. Maybe he said ten thirty. In that case, if he’s running late for ten thirty, then he’ll be here in about five or ten minutes. Maybe he even said eleven.

If I send him a text message to check, I could end up looking like an idiot who can’t follow simple instructions. But what’s the alternative? Will I stay here all day? Will I just sit here ordering lattes for the next six hours?

I’m on the verge of a panic attack, when the door swings open, and in he walks. The relief crashes over me like a wave.

But straight away, I can see that he’s not his normal self. He’s wearing an old hoodie. He’s got bed hair and his eyes are bloodshot.

“Fuck me sideways,” he groans as he drops into the chair. “I am dying. I am so fucking dying. I nearly couldn’t get out of bed. It took me ten minutes just to get my shoes on.”

“Oh my god, are you okay?” I ask.

“Coffee. I need coffee.”

“Of course!” I jump up and order another two lattes.

When I get back, Nicholas is nibbling a bit of chocolate log on a fork. He makes a face and drops the fork back on the plate. “Nope. It’s too soon. Not ready for solids yet.”

“Are you okay? What happened?”

“I don’t even know,” Nicholas says. “We had a few beers at Lisa’s around five o’clock. Then her parents came home so we took a bottle of bourbon down to that playground on Morris Street. Then a bunch of people left for some crappy gathering up on Lambchop Hill, but I stayed. The last thing I remember is going down the slide backwards.”

“Are you … hungover?” I whisper. As far as I knew, Nicholas has only ever had a single light beer, or a glass of wine.

“Obviously I’m hungover,” Nicholas grunts. “It was wild. I don’t even know how I got home.”

“Did your parents say anything?”

“I didn’t see them. They were out golfing when I woke up, thank fuck.”

I guffaw like an idiot. I can’t help myself. I can’t believe how much I’ve missed his voice, his way of telling stories. I tell him I want to hear every detail about the night, but truthfully, I want to hear every detail of the last ten days. What’s it like being back in Games? What’s it like being friends with Darren Park?

Do you miss me?

But I don’t say much at all. The lattes arrive and he tells me all about last night. I hang on every word, eating it all up. I laugh at his description of Lisa Meadows falling down a flight of stairs in her house, her dress going over her head. I gasp at his story about Darren and Marcus Cruikshank having an impromptu bareknuckle boxing match at the playground.

“They’re still saying some shit about us,” Nicholas says.

“What? Who’s saying what?”

“Just dumb jokes. Darren and all them. Sometimes they call you my boyfriend. Like, where’s your boyfriend, that kind of thing. Not as much as before, but still a bit. But I think they don’t really believe it anymore, so that’s good.”

“Oh, good,” I echo.

Nicholas glances at my shirt. “Although wearing a purple shirt doesn’t help.”

I look down at it, alarmed. “Purple? It – it’s maroon.”

He pulls a face. “It’s just a bit bright. You should stick to neutral colours – black, grey, navy. Actually, that reminds me. We were all talking about the Ball last night and what we’re wearing. Are you still thinking of not going?”

“Um, well, yeah ...”

Has he forgotten our plan? Watching movies under the same blanket, making ourselves sick on junk food?

“Because Lisa Meadows asked me last night,” Nicholas says.

My eyes go wide. “Really? Oh wow. She’s so beautiful.”

“Yeah, but Carrie Green told me Lisa only asked me because Darren was there, and they’re in a big fight, so I don’t know. Carrie said she’d go with me if I wanted and I think that’d involve a lot less drama.”

Nicholas has just named two of the most popular, beautiful girls at school, as if it was nothing. Of course it doesn’t surprise me that they both asked him. He’s the best-looking boy at school by about a billion per cent. And I’m the one lucky enough to be sitting here with him now.

“You should think about taking a girl, too,” Nicholas says. “I heard about Vicky’s two detentions after she fought with Mr Jane about it. Darren was calling her a lesbian last night and made some stupid joke about how the gay gene probably runs in your family. He was just joking, but still, she’s not doing you any favours. I really think it might be a good idea to ask a girl.”

“Oh. Well, maybe.”

Nicholas checks his watch and groans. “I’m still dying over here. I’ll have to crash.”

“Oh, yeah, of course. You had a crazy night.”

“It was so much fun though. The bits I remember.”

“That’s so cool.” You’re so cool, is what I really mean.

Outside Moxies, Nicholas pulls his hood over his head and gives me the grin I’ve missed so much.

“See ya when I see ya,” he says.

“See ya when I see ya!” I say.

*

I practically skip and twirl all the way home.

Mum’s buried under paperwork in her office and Vicky’s still asleep, so I make us all toasted sandwiches for lunch. Mum drags herself away from work and Vicky practically floats out of bed, towards the smell of melted cheese.

After lunch, we sit in the living room and play Scrabble. Vicky loses two games in a row and accuses Mum of cheating.

“ACUMEN is a word, I promise,” says Mum, who is 50 points ahead of us.

I plan to let Vicky get a few more points than me, but then I can’t give up the opportunity to play ZINC for 45 points. Nothing can go wrong for me today!

After lunch, the house phone rings. It’s for me.

“It’s a girl,” Mum says, with a funny look on her face.

“A girl?” Vicky also has a funny look on her face.

I’ve probably got a funny look on my face too. I don’t really know any girls. I take the phone.

“Hello?”

“Penny said she saw you at Moxies Café this morning,” says the girl on the other end.

Penny? Who’s Penny? And who is this?

“She said you were with a boy. She described him to me. It sounded like Nicholas. Was it Nicholas?”

I’m silent for a moment. Then I realise. “Harriet? Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me,” she says impatiently.

“How did you get my home number?” I ask.

“All the parents get a contact sheet,” Harriet says, “and I didn’t have a mobile number to text you.”

“Oh. Right. Well ... um, what’s going on?”

“That’s what I’m calling to ask you,” Harriet says. “Were you with Nicholas this morning at Moxies?”

“Well, yes but ... why are you ...?”

She sighs impatiently. “Two Wednesdays ago, I saw you talking to him before school and it looked like a break-up conversation to me. Since then, you’ve been at the library at lunchtime every day, walking home alone, reading ahead, and doing your homework. Based on this, I assumed that you and Nicholas had been dating but now you’re not. But this morning, you were seen together at Moxies. So, if you’re back together, does this mean you’ll go back to not doing your homework?”

I could be imagining it, but she almost sounds hopeful.

“Um, no, I think he’ll still hang out with Darren Park and that group at school. We’re not … I mean, it’s not …” I trail off.

I’m not sure what to say. Harriet knows about Nicholas. She knows about me.

Did I just come out to Harriet Hayes?

“I didn’t think anyone knew,” I say eventually. “I didn’t think anyone knew any of it.”

“Don’t worry,” Harriet says. “Everyone else is too caught up in themselves to notice. I’m uncommonly perceptive.”

“Oh. Okay.”

After a pause, Harriet asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“About what?”

She sighs again. “About Nicholas, of course.”

Yes, I do. Of course I do. Nicholas is all I want to talk about.

*

I meet Harriet at the Morris Street playground, because it’s halfway between her house and mine. It’s also where Nicholas was drinking last night. Sure enough, there’s an empty bourbon bottle at the bottom of the slide, crushed beer cans littered everywhere, and a few cigarette butts. I put the bottle and cans in the bin, then use a folded leaf to pick up all the cigarette butts.

“Are you picking up rubbish?”

I’m still not used to seeing Harriet without glasses or her hair down. She’s wearing a green jumper. I’m not sure I would’ve recognised her. She’s brought a packet of sour worms.

“Do these have good flavonoids?” I ask her, taking a purple one.

“No,” she admits, “but I suppose the intense acidity could act as a stimulant.”

We sit on the swings, chewing worms, and without much prompting, I tell her the entire story of Nicholas and me. I start from the day we met, a pair of four-year-olds both wanting to play with the same blocks at kindergarten, and I go all the way up to this morning at Moxies Café. I manage to squeeze the past eleven years into less than five minutes.

It’s strange how easy it is to talk to Harriet – especially when I think that, a week ago, we had barely exchanged two words. But talking to her is so easy that I also end up telling her about my parents’ separation.

“So, you’ve been going through all that,” Harriet says, “and Nicholas said he wanted to be there for you, but turned up thirty minutes late? And he even didn’t send you a text?”

“Well, he nearly couldn’t come,” I say, “but he forced himself to get there, like he promised. He’s got this whole new life, but he’s still fitting me into it.”

Harriet swings thoughtfully for a bit. “Maybe he’s scared. You came close to coming out – not a small thing for someone at an old-fashioned school like Crampton – and that scared him? Maybe that’s why he pulled away.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“So, what now?” Harriet asks. “Are you going to get together?”

“I hope so,” I say, “but it’ll have to be slow. To be honest, I’m just happy I’m talking to him again. This morning was just like old times, the two of us at Moxies, making each other laugh.”

“That’s good,” Harriet says. “Just don’t ever let yourself be a doormat.”

“Yeah, of course,” I say. “Nicholas would never treat me that way.”

“He’d just abandon you during the worst week of your life.”

“I didn’t tell him what was going on,” I say. “That was my fault. He didn’t know it was the worst week of my life.”

“Is it weird at home, without your dad around?” Harriet asks.

I think about that. “It’s not that weird. Mum seems totally fine. Sometimes I worry she’s in denial, but other times I think she’s skipped right to acceptance. And it actually feels like I’m spending more time with Dad, in a weird way. We’ve been having these breakfasts every Saturday. He comes over and makes bacon and eggs and tries to, like, talk to us. Then yesterday he and I went for a bike ride for the first time in years.”

I deliberate for a few seconds, before deciding to go ahead and tell Harriet about Maggie da Silva and the baby. She’s so shocked that half a green sour worm falls from her mouth.

Now Harriet Hayes knows all my secrets. She knows more about me than anyone else.

How did that happen?