Out: A Schoolboy's Tale

by David Brining

  16: We found love (in a hopeless place)

  CERTAIN now of my emotional and sexual orientation, the possibilities it brought excited me even though Ali's teen-angst confusion was exhausting. He hadn't phoned me since that afternoon. Anyway, the spooktacularly lovely Leo (ha ha) was now in the frame, so, as well as the upcoming play and music competition and Christmas, I returned to school in a fairly bright mood, you know?

  I didn't see Ali on Monday. He missed Choral Society and ''Away with him, away, cru-u-u-cify…'', which Fred dismissed as ''exciting as a bucket of cold sick,'' but on Tuesday, smart in his charcoal suit, he took house assembly, reading from Proverbs 15: ''A soft answer turns away anger, but a sharp word makes tempers hot. A wise man's tongue spreads knowledge, stupid men talk nonsense. The eyes of the Lord are everywhere, surveying evil and good men alike.'' Then he recited St Augustine's Prayer, ''Watch, dear Lord, with those who cannot sleep and those who weep this night,'' led the usual mumbled Lord's Prayer, ''Our Father, who art in Heaven,'' recorded our Games choices, snapped at North for mocking Paulus' usual swimming choice and reminded us of Wednesday's rehearsal. He seemed tired and didn't speak to me at all, just gave me this like curt nod. Shit. Was I really that unsettling? ''Watch, dear Lord, with those who cannot sleep.'' Anyhow, me and Leo went to a cubicle in the Sports Centre toilets and kissed till the bell went. Man, it was like having some epileptic eel in your mouth. Best of all, Games was cancelled – thick fog, ha ha – so I got to slack off in the lecture theatre with 100 other Fifth Formers while Wade and Ogden showed some video of the Rugby World Cup and Maxton and me did our homework and played Slaps, which was great till, getting a five-slap penalty, he smacked my hands red-raw and made me yelp so Oggie caught us, moved us to the front and made us write 'Rugby is game for men, slaps is a game for kids' 100 times, the bulbous-nosed twat.

  So we reached Thursday's Double Chemistry. I was on the back bench with Maxton, Stewart and Gray. Next to us were Lewis, Collins, Arnold and Burridge, doing an experiment with acid and carbonates whilst Barney was writing 'The Rise of Freon' on the board.

  ''What's that, sir?'' I called.

  ''Nothing for you, Mr Peters,'' he replied. ''It's for Lower Sixth Chemistry in Context.''

  ''Sounds like a film, sir,'' I said. ''Rise of Freon, The Decline and Fall of Freon, Son of Freon, Freon and the Freon Empire… you could get a franchise out of it.''

  Barney grunted like a constipated frog whilst Maxton called me a twat and Stewpot Stewart, deciding on another experiment, tipped a ton of calcium carbonate into the concentrated sulphuric acid.

  ''It just fizzes a bit and lets off gas,'' he explained, replacing the glass stopper.

  Sure enough, it began to fizz, releasing this thin white gas.

  ''That's that, then,'' I said, giving the stopper a brisk, hard smack.

  ''What did you do that for?'' said Stewart, pushing his stool away in alarm. ''Get the stopper out, you spaz. If the gas builds up, it'll explode.''

  Muttering 'oh shit', I kind of heaved at the stopper. It was stuck fast.

  ''Give it here, you wimp.'' Maxton, grabbing it from me, tried to screw it out whilst Stewart chose to coax it with obscenities. Lewis and Arnold were struggling not to laugh.

  ''Oh, Peters,'' choked Lamp-post Lewis, ''You're such a spastic.''

  Behind Barney's back, Stewart stealthily returned the bottle to its shelf. ''Don't worry,'' he whispered, ''I've hidden it among the others.''

  I broke into this silent fit of laughter, cramming my fist in my mouth. Behind me, the others started too. Paulus, Harrison and Crooks were staring at us so Gray slipped over to appraise them. Pretty soon the whole class was shaking quietly. The situation only cooled when Lewis took a hand in things.

  Stewart had moved to the bench-end so he could see the board better. Behind him, Lewis took a squeezy bottle of distilled water, slid the nozzle into Stewart's blazer-pocket and started filling it up. I collapsed into another fit of giggles and nudged Maxton, who spluttered into his handkerchief. Lewis squeezed the bottle again. Arnold and Collins were purple-faced whilst Gray was wiping tears away. I was laughing so hard I could feel my bacon sandwich breakfast returning.

  ''What the hell's wrong with you?'' Barney demanded.

  ''Nothing, sir,'' spluttered Gray.

  ''Write down the equations then. Buck up, for God's sake!''

  As Barney turned away, Collins aimed his bottle at Stewart's head and fired.

  Me, Gray and Maxton erupted as Stewart leapt up, indignation inscribed on his melon face, water leaking from his blazer, his wooden stool clattering to the floor. Putting his hand in his pocket, he cursed. The whole class, having repressed its mirth for like 15 minutes, kind of howled hysterically, like someone had pumped laughing-gas into a roomful of hyenas. Barney, however, went totally ballistic, lecturing us about irresponsible behaviour and setting two sides on safety in the lab - ''On my desk at nine a.m. sharp, or you're all in detention.'' Then he found the bottle in the cupboard and, although it hadn't exploded, it had kind of reacted sufficiently to create this like milky liquid, yeah? He went absolutely ballistic again.

  ''God, you're pathetic!'' he bawled. ''Who did this?'' The bell shrilled for break. ''No-one's going anywhere. Who did this?'' There was a sullen silence. Then, furiously, he pointed at me, Maxton, Gray, Lewis and Collins. ''You five, stay here. The rest of you, get out.'' Lining us up, he bellowed about wasting school resources and put us in a thirty-minute detention with a hundred extra lines for me because my top button was undone 'AGAIN!' Well, fuck off, you uptight non-fucker, I didn't say as we went to play break-time football.

  'Blubber-Belly' Brudenall, who always seemed to be our captain, stuck me in goal, which was okay 'cos I quite liked playing in goal. It's the most heroic position but, since we played like on concrete, I couldn't dive without literally breaking a shoulder or two, and fuck that, eh? I did charge off the line for a couple of clearances and, following my dictum 'if in doubt, boot it/him out', whacked the ball into the stratosphere and booted Boxhead Harrison's knee. Then I saw Ali, playing in another space with a bunch of Sixth Formers, dribbling past a couple of defenders and scoring with ease. My game collapsed and I let two soft shots under my flapping hand. Broody switched me for Lamp-post Lewis and I got out for a run, sliding the ball through Maxton's bandy legs for the equaliser. I hoped Ali was watching.

  At 3.40, though, when everyone else was packing for home, the five of us headed to Hellfire's classroom in the Eagles' Nest. Bunny had doubled the detention to an hour. I didn't really care. I could sit in Ali's seat by the radiator. Bollocks. Some bloody scholarship tyke who was always getting into scraps and cheeking the teachers had got there first.

  ''He might as well live here,'' said Lewis, dumping his bag on the table.

  ''Make friends with the ghosts,'' grinned Collins, ''Especially that boy they say starved to death up here. He spent so long in detention the masters forgot about him. When they returned they found nothing but a bag of bones, blood sucked out by the resident vampires.''

  The second-form gimp simply scowled.

  I was dragging out my notebook and pencil-tin to start the essay on lab-safety when Mark Sonning arrived. His colours blazer was all blue and yellow stripes.

  ''Hey, Mark,'' I called, ''Better not wear that on a beach. Someone'll mistake you for a deckchair and sit on you.''

  ''Funny, Peters,'' he said. ''What are you doing here?''

  Gray and Collins told him the story. He didn't laugh, just shook his head, although it made all of us split our sides again. Perhaps you had to have been there.

  Then Ali arrived, black gown over charcoal suit.

  ''Hi, Batman,'' I called cheerfully.

  He told me to shut up and get on with my work. As I wrote, I glanced at him through my eyelashes. He was reading T. S. Eliot's Collected Poems, frowning with concentration, chewing his lower lip, the lock of bruise-black hair falling over his right eyebrow. My blood raced. I didn't think he'd ever lo
oked so sexy. He must've sensed something because he looked up suddenly and caught my eye. I smiled hopefully. He gave a sort of soft sigh and half-smiled back. My heart kind of jumped as I returned to work.

  At 4.15 he let most of the others go. Only us five remained, and the second-form tyke who was kicking the table-leg. The wall-clock ticked loudly in the silence, echoing in the high, vaulted ceiling of the classroom. Somewhere near the fire-escape was the little door that led into the steeple itself, into the actual bell-chamber. It was strictly out of bounds, some said because of the ghosts of boys walled up by a mad master in the 1850s, which, David Fosbrook claimed, would eat your brains if they caught you.

  ''With butter beans and a nice Liebfraumilch,'' I'd scoffed, but I still wouldn't go up the bell-tower alone in the dark, you know? Finishing the imposition, I sucked the end of my Waterman and started on the homework. Bollocks. I was stumped on question one.

  ''What's a proton-donor, Max?'' I hissed.

  ''An acid,'' said Maxton.

  ''Shut up, Peters,'' growled Ali.

  ''But I don't understand the question,'' I protested.

  ''Do I look as if I care? Just be quiet. Some of us are trying to learn something.''

  ''What's it about?'' I asked.

  Sighing heavily, he said ''Be quiet, Peters. I won't tell you again.''

  Being ordered around by him was like utterly thrilling, you know?

  I struggled with the definitions and, wishing I had stayed with the Rise of Freon idea, gave up. Resting my chin in my hands, I gazed at Ali again. He really had the longest, softest eyelashes I'd ever seen.

  Maxton nudged me out of my reverie.

  ''What you doing?''

  He was watching me suspiciously.

  ''Nothing,'' I muttered.

  ''Ten minutes overtime, Peters,'' said Ali. ''Talking in detention.''

  ''Ali…'' I wailed, ''That's so unfair.''

  ''I've warned you a million times,'' he said, ''And its Mr Rose to you.''

  Now I slumped in my chair and kicked the table-leg.

  ''Stop kicking the table-leg.'' He sounded really cross now. ''And stop sulking. It makes you look like a whiny little brat.''

  Even the tyke laughed. Someone just shoot me.

  When the hour was up, he dismissed all the others and kept me behind.

  ''See you in the morning, Whiny Brat,'' grinned Lewis, ''If you ever get out of detention.''

  I stuck two fingers up, which made them laugh more, and shifted truculently in the hard plastic chair. Ali kept his eyes on the clock.

  ''How was your holiday?'' I asked.

  No answer.

  The clock ticked loudly.

  ''Did you have a good time?''

  No answer.

  ''Hello, Ali! Hi! Earth to Ali!''

  ''If you keep on talking, Peters, you'll never get out of here,'' he said simply.

  I gave this loud, irritated exhalation and flicked a paper-pellet at General Kitchener's unfeasibly bushy moustache. And another at that bulldog-faced fucker Churchill. The minutes dragged on and on. I'd never been so bored. I kicked the table-leg again so the bastard added another minute. I huffed angrily but, at the same time, I was thrilled to be so totally in his power. The clock ticked solemnly. Finally, at last, he stood up.

  ''Right,'' he said, ''That's it. You can go.''

  ''Thank fuck for that.'' I scrambled to my feet.

  ''Five more minutes,'' he grinned, ''Swearing at a prefect.''

  ''Alistair!'' I threw myself back into the chair. ''This is sooo unfair.''

  Walking down to me, at last he dropped his hand on my shoulder.

  ''I missed you terribly,'' he murmured.

  ''I missed you more.'' I gazed up into his beautiful eyes.

  ''That was a great goal you scored.''

  I shivered. ''You saw it?''

  He kind of passed a hand over his face. ''I see everything you do, and I think I know why. I figured some stuff out, you know, an' I got you something, if you want it.''

  Digging in his backpack, he produced a purple paper-bag. Inside was a very soft, very cute, dark brown teddy-bear.

  ''His eyes are really brown and shiny,'' said Ali, ''Like yours. I thought he'd be company for Pickles. They can sit together on your pillow and when you go to bed you can see him and he'll remind you of me.''

  ''I love him,'' I said, giving the bear a hug, ''And you. But I don't need a reminder. I think about you all the time already.'' Impulsively I hugged him hard. ''Thank you.''

  As he held me against his chest, my whole body seemed to transcend physical time and space. I rested my head against the knot of his tie and closed my eyes as he folded me into his gown. The sleeves were massive and it reached to the middle of my calves. Not to worry. Surely I'd be taller in two years' time when I inherited it.

  ''Do you ever want to run down the corridor going 'na-na-na-na-na-na BATMAN!'?''

  ''No,'' he said, hugging me closer.

  ''Bet you do,'' I said as he wrapped the cloth round my back. ''I bet you do it all the time when no-one's looking.'' His hands cupped my bottom. My voice died to a squeaky sigh and I melted like ice on a hot coal. I lifted my face and murmured his name, then I heard this throat clearing and Sonning was in the doorway. Ali and I sprang apart. I could feel the blood rushing into my face, turning it like water-melon pink?

  ''You ready, Ali?''

  ''Yep,'' he answered, swinging his bag nonchalantly onto his shoulder. Smiling kindly, he ruffled my hair. ''See you, Jen.''

  When I rang him later in the evening, I felt like crying again. He was chatty, bright and sounded really happy. I just sat on the stairs, starry-eyed, and listened. An hour drifted past, then he had to go.

  ''You hang up,'' he said.

  ''I don't want to,'' I said. ''You hang up.''

  There was a long silence. I could hear him breathing.

  ''Are you still there?'' he asked eventually.

  ''Yes,'' I said simply.

  ''Hang up,'' he said.

  ''You hang up.''

  ''We'll do it together. After three. One. Two.''

  ''Wait.''

  ''What?''

  ''Are you going to the bonfire tomorrow? You know. Down in the park?''

  ''Probably. My brother likes to go. Why? Are you going?''

  ''Yes, with Mark Gray and some of his friends.''

  Dad, emerging from the living-room, glared his special 'are you on the phone again?' glare. I was still in the doghouse for last week's argument and for leaving lights on all over the house, prompting the observation that 'we don't live in Blackpool Tower, you know.'

  ''I gotta go,'' I told him, ''But look, I'll meet you at the bandstand at seven, OK?''

  ''OK.''

  Dad huffed on the doormat.

  ''At seven, yeah?''

  I ended the call.

  ''Who was that?''

  ''Have a guess.''

  Uttering this noise that crossed a groan with a sigh, he returned to Question Time and a load of politicians paid to shout at each other over nothing very important. The spokesman paid by the new Tory government was banging on about austerity budgets, making cuts and saving money because Labour had fucked up the economy, let in loads of immigrants and wanted to sell us to the Russians. So nothing new, eh? In 40 years. Makes you wonder…

  Anyway, now I was seriously excited. It was Bonfire Night and I was going to the fireworks with Alistair Rose. We were together again, we'd talked, and I knew, I just knew he was in love with me. Sitting on my bed listening to Rachmaninov's super-romantic Second Piano Concerto, I reached a momentous decision. I was going to tell him how I felt. I was going to tell him I was in love with him. I was going to tell him I was gay. I was going to tell him everything. I was fed up with the uncertainty and the confusion. When he'd held me in his arms, I'd known that was where I wanted to be more than anything, right? My body had turned to water and the imprint of his chest was seared on mine. I knew he felt the same, just knew. I'd read it in h
is eyes. Now I asked God to strengthen me, to help me find the words to express myself lucidly and, most of all, to let Alistair tell me the same, that he loved me too, that he wanted me too, that he wanted to possess me, totally, utterly, like I did him. Forever.

  I had our lives all mapped out. He'd write plays, I'd be the music critic for The Times and give recitals on the side to specially invited friends. We'd live in London, in a Bayswater flat full of music and books, and go to National Theatre premières and Covent Garden previews and then, when Ali was Artistic Director of the Royal Shakespeare Company and I was presenting CD Review on Radio 3 and devising the Proms programme, we'd buy this pretty weekend cottage in the Cotswolds, with a thatched roof and pink sweet-peas round the door, and have a slinky ginger tom-cat called Amadeus who despised us, because cats are superior in every way except for opening the Whiskas tin, and we'd be together sixty years and I'd die at home in Ali's arms, like Benjamin Britten with Peter Pears. I felt utterly ecstatic as I curled into my duvet with his bear. My life was going to be so awesome.

  At half-past six the next evening, after a shower, a tuna pizza and Crackerjack, and dressed in white ankle-socks, a banana-yellow slip, dark blue 501s and green Dash hoodie, and doused in Dark Temptation, I wandered down to the park gates where I'd agreed to meet Gray. Now I didn't give a shit about Delderfield's rather starchy World War veterans or Spastic and Crutch. They were all sooo childish, you know?

  It was a crisp evening, cold enough for a blue-and-red ski-hat and a navy blue scarf, cold enough to see my breath in the air but not yet cold enough for gloves. Rotting red-brown leaves and warm, glowing conkers crunched under my blue-and-orange Reeboks. I lazily booted a couple into the road then teetered along the edge of the kerb.

  I was bruised and sore from football at school. I was on Arnold's side, his fourth pick, I'm pleased to say, and playing well in my usual left-wing slot. Martin Cooke, in defence, played a longish ball down the left for me to chase ahead of Gray haring down for the opposition. I had to dodge a Second Former who scurried like a hamster across my path from another game, which meant Gray, reaching the ball before me, was able to breeze by. Ignoring the anguished howls from my team-mates, I tore back after Gray who turned Maxton inside-out to play square across our back-line to Seymour on the penalty-spot. Fortunately Seymour failed to control the pass and the ball bobbled up his shin and away to Walton who simply booted it as far as he could. The ensuing scramble resulted in Crooks, on our side, somehow getting his chest under the arc of the ball, dashing towards the rugby field and slipping the ball inside to Harrison who managed to shoot straight into Lewis' hands. He bowled the ball overarm into Collins' path. Collins chipped it towards Brudenall. He and I rose together, elbows digging ribs, the ball glancing randomly off my forehead towards Cooke, who hoofed it upfield, literally straight into my face. Brudenall, whooping, collected the loose ball and, spinning on a pinprick, battered it past a static Arnold to score. My smarting elbows had borne the brunt of my fall and my head rang. Cooke was kneeling next to me, like holding my hand, for fuck's sake, his blue eyes shining with tears, apologising over and over whilst Arnold grumbled that it was like having the Chuckle Brothers on his team. Others gathered, concerned and anxious.

  ''I'm all right,'' I growled, reclaiming my hand from Cooke's cold fingers.

  ''It was an accident, JP,'' he kept saying.

  ''To me, to you, to me, to you,'' Arnold was saying.

  ''God Almighty,'' I muttered, to everyone's merriment, ''I wish you could do that on purpose. Then you wouldn't be such a bloody liability.''

  Gray brought a bottle of cider, a 'teenth of pot and two girls, including Claire. Bollocks. I suppose I should've asked her myself. Truth was, I'd forgotten all about her. Double-bollocks. The other girl, taller, pretty, with long chestnut-brown hair tumbling over her shoulders and a ready smile, was Becky, Betty, something beginning with B. She smiled warmly and looped her arm round Gray's waist. Claire took my arm and led me down the path towards the arena.

  ''I haven't seen you for a while, '' she said. ''Thought you'd forgotten about me.''

  Triple-bollocks.

  ''I'm fine,'' I mumbled. ''Working hard, as usual. House plays next week, then my clarinet exam and the music competition. Same day, worse luck.''

  ''What's your play?'' she said.

  ''It's really funny,'' I said. ''You know Ali Rose? Rosie? He wrote it.''

  She wrinkled her nose. ''Oh, Rosie. Mad, bad and dangerous to know.''

  ''That's funny,'' I grinned. ''That's what he said about me.''

  Down in the bowl-shaped arena, an enormous fire was already blazing. The heat was extraordinary. Orange flames leapt round the dry timber, crackling and spitting like fat in a frying-pan and casting weird, twisting patterns against the indigo sky while they licked at the guy in the centre, worming through the material to devour whatever he was made from. There was some kind of pop music playing. Behind the fire was a large rig buckling under the weight of several thousand pounds-worth of fireworks. Every year the council organised this free event, with hot-dog stands, a beer tent, an ice-cream van and stalls selling parkin, gingerbread, fresh lemonade and hot chocolate with mini-marshmallows. It was great.

  Claire's face was flushed from the heat and her dark eyes danced with excitement. I was excited too, but for very different reasons. My Timex said 6.55. I could see the old bandstand up on the hill. Very soon I would be up there with him.

  Then I panicked.

  What if he didn't come?

  What if he'd changed his mind? The disappointment would kill me.

  ''I'm off for some hot chocolate,'' I told Claire casually.

  ''Bring me some back as well, will you?'' she said. ''And some parkin.''

  ''Okay. Mark? Betty?''

  ''Becky,'' said Becky, smoking Gray's joint. ''Lemonade, please.''

  ''Hot-dog, ta.'' Gray's arm was snaked round Becky's waist. Fire glowed in his glasses.

  Sloping off, I pulled my ski-hat further down over my ears and wished I'd worn gloves after all, like Mum had suggested. The stars seemed bright pinpricks in the black velvet of the Universe and the moon, full and round, shone like a pressed-silver coin. The smell of wood-smoke curled into my nostrils. My heart beating quickly and my stomach knotted, I moved towards the bandstand. I suddenly felt incredibly nervous, more nervous than I'd ever felt about anything. Going on-stage, playing in concerts, exams, all of them made my stomach lurch and layered a perspiration-film over my skin, but this, this was something else. I was going to say 'I love you' to someone for the first time ever. I thought I was going to be sick.

  He wasn't there.

  Fuck.

  He wasn't there.

  It was 7 on the dot and he wasn't there. The top of my nose prickled with tears. I stared at the Timex's luminous hands. One minute past seven.

  He wasn't there. He'd stood me up.

  Choking down a sob, I flinched as the first firework went off with a fizz, a bang and long shower of golden sparks.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  He'd stood me up. He wasn't bloody there.

  Another firework exploded in a red-green storm. The first tear slid from my eye.

  ''Hi, Jonathan. I like your hat.''

  He was standing behind me.