by Harry Cook
“I mean, Jesus, Rye. What will it take before you drop this douche bag? Look at how he treats you. And now, tonight? After everything with your dad and –”
June and Fin look at one another across the table and my heartbeat hammers against my chest. I don’t want to go over this again.
“Like, the first time, whatever, you know? But this is what? The fourth?”
“I get it.”
“The fifth?”
“I get it.”
“The tenth? I mean what is it going to –”
“I SAID I GET IT, POPPY,” I shout, choking on the last word. My face is burning and tears fill my eyes.
Poppy stares at me silently.
I fish a ten-dollar note out of my pocket, throw it on the table and leave. June calls my name and I hear Poppy call out too, but I’m already gone.
It’s freezing, but for a while I don’t feel it. My face is still burning and I’m trembling with anxiety. I keep walking until I see Thelma staring at me through my bedroom window as I approach home.
My heartbeat starts to slow and my mind becomes untangled.
“Honey, you still have half an hour left until curfew,” Mum says as I enter the kitchen.
I think about telling her everything. I think about listing every single rubbishy thing that Eric has ever done, about how Poppy can be such a pain, but instead I just burst into tears.
Mum wraps me up in a hug and lets me cry. I sob the kind of sobs where you lose air in your lungs and there’s nothing but a whistle.
When I finally stop, she puts her hands on my arms and looks at me.
“You are perfect, Rye-bread. And you deserve all the love in the world. Don’t you dare ever think otherwise.”
That’s it. No lectures. No advice. Yet her words hit me in my core.
*
It’s around midnight by the time I get myself a glass of water and head to my bedroom where Thelma wiggles with excitement when she sees me. My eyes feel puffy and there’s snot at the back of my throat but the very sight of her cheers me up. I give her a kiss on the head and rub behind her ears before kicking off my shoes and lying down.
I take my phone out and immediately see four missed calls from Eric, three texts from Poppy, two new Instagram followers and a voicemail.
I unlock my phone and as I’m about to listen to my voicemail, a call shakes my phone to life. I hesitate for a beat and then accept.
“Ryeeeee, where are you? We should – hmmm?” It’s Eric, but with someone else in the background. “– I’ll be there in a sec, just – yeah I know.” There’s a muffled sound like he’s changing hands. “Anyway, Ryeeeee, look, let’s go to mine.”
I sit up, pissed. “Why would we do that?”
“You know why,” he says in this sleazy voice that is the furthest thing from a turn on.
“Yeah, I do,” I tell him. “So you can, what? Have sex? You want me to have my first time while you’re hammered? Seriously?”
“Someone’s in a terrific mood,” Eric scoffs, sarcastically.
“And you wonder why? Wasn’t tonight supposed to make up for the last shitty thing you did?”
Silence. And when I check the screen he’s no longer there. Either he hung up or the line cut out. Whatever. I don’t have the energy to call him back.
I’m about to throw my phone across the room when it buzzes again. I smack the screen with my finger angrily, expecting to see a message from Eric, but it’s not him.
Fin: Just wanted to make sure you’re okay? xx
I take a long deep breath and wonder why these simple words make me feel so happy. I don’t know Fin at all really. He could be a serial killer. Or part of an international drug cartel. Okay, highly unlikely, yes, but I still don’t really know him. And yet here I am, beaming at my phone and smiling in the same goofy way Thelma stares at peanut butter.
16
Fin
I don’t know why in the fresh hell I felt the need to text Rye but I did, and now I’m sitting here terrified while the little bubble with the dots moves on the bottom corner of my phone screen.
He looked so hurt and bewildered at the Pancake Parlour and I wanted him to know that someone who doesn’t know all the details about his situation is here if he needs to talk.
Rye: Thanks Fin.
I cringe my eyes so tight I see stars. I’m such an idiot. Of course he doesn’t want to talk. Especially not to me. His boyfriend might be a douche, but he’s a ridiculously buff and wealthy douche. No way can I match up to that.
I’m about to get up and pace around my room when the little dots appear in the corner again.
Rye: You know any bad dating stories to cheer me up . . .? Just putting it out there.
I smile.
Me: Haven’t dated much. Last time I tried, it provoked my dad to move us all the way here.
I feel weird telling him that bizarre family fact, but at the same time it’s therapeutic. I haven’t spoken to anyone here about it and I feel it weighing me down every single day.
Rye: Are you serious?
Me: 100%.
Rye: Wow.
Neither of us type anything for a while. I sit feeling awkward, like I’ve revealed too much. Then my phone vibrates with an incoming call.
“Hey.”
“Hey, so, texting didn’t feel so appropriate to talk about this kind of stuff.”
Rye’s voice sounds softer than usual, like he’s tired. Maybe he’s just being gentle with me.
“So, you moved here why? Your family thought they’d leave Gay Fin behind in Pittford?”
I giggle. “Dad’s family are mega religious,” I tell him. “Well, actually, no. It’s not so much the religion. They’re not like any other Christians I’ve met. My friend back home, Emily, she was brought up in the church and would never think anything of anyone else’s sexuality or whatever.”
I pause, and Rye’s silence encourages me to go on.
“But Dad’s family – they’re . . . something else. He’s so traditional, you know? His whole life, he’s followed convention – captain of the football team, respectable job, married a ‘nice girl’. My brother seems to be on the same path, no problem, but me . . . Dad’s completely out of his depth.”
I get up from the bed and quietly open the latch in the floor to make sure nobody has their ear to it, listening in. All clear. I shut it again and put a pillow over it to stifle our chat.
“And your mum? Is she . . . ? Does she have a problem with Gay Fin?”
“I think she likes him more than Dad –” I hesitate and then continue. “To be honest, I don’t even know if my dad is genuinely freaked out about my sexuality or whether he’s just doing what he thinks he should do. Like, trying to keep up appearances for what he thinks is expected, what he thinks is normal, you know?”
“Trying to do right by his Children of the Corn family?” Rye says and I sense him smiling down the phone.
I giggle again. “Quick question,” I say, getting under my covers and kicking a leg out underneath the blanket. “How did we end up talking about me when I wanted to make sure you were okay?”
“My crappy kiss-and-not-make-up date isn’t much of a comparison now, is it?” Rye says and I smile, glad he brought up his date.
“What happened?” I ask. Then: “I mean, don’t feel like you have to tell me. I didn’t mean it like that . . . I just . . . If you want to talk, I’m here.”
“Thanks,” Rye says.
We both don’t speak for a moment and I consider changing the subject.
“It was . . . I really thought he liked me . . .” Rye’s voice sounds shaky and I’m worried that I’m not cut out to be of any help to him. “When we first got together, he was nothing but amazing. I was terrified of having a boyfriend and yet he was so persistent. He messaged me non-stop, liked every Instagram I ever posted and was constantly asking me to hang out.”
“What changed?” I ask, trying to be of some value to the conversation.
“
Maybe boredom? Maybe . . .”
“What?”
“I’m . . . we’ve never . . . you know.”
I feel my face burn red. “You . . . You think he’s bored because you won’t . . .?”
I hear him sigh. “I think so.”
“And – you don’t want to?”
“I mean, yeah. I do. A lot . . . But not because I feel like I have to.” He pauses. “How did we end up here? I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear all this.”
“No, no way. I’m happy to help. Well, I’m not helping really, but, I’m glad to at least –”
“You are.”
I smile to myself and squeeze my eyes tight.
“You’re awesome, Fin.”
I’m about to tell him how amazing he is. How great and wonderful and perfect he is and how anyone would be crazy to treat him with anything but love, when he starts talking again.
“You know, I think I’m being too hard on him. I . . . He’s a couple of years older than us and I guess I just have a lot to learn about relationships. I’m being way too sensitive.”
“No,” I start. “I really don’t think –”
“I’m going to call him. Sort it out. Well, try to. Thanks, Fin. I owe you one.”
I feel like I’ve had the wind kicked out of me. That’s so not the outcome I thought we were heading for. I want to yell at him and tell him to not be so naive. Instead I say, “Anytime,” but then realise he’s hung up already.
17
Fin
June’s waiting by my locker with a massive smile on her face. The perfect Monday morning welcome committee.
“Hey,” I say, entering the combination on my lock and throwing my lunch inside.
Poppy appears behind me and hooks her arm in mine. June follows suit and hooks my other arm and we walk down the hall like some wannabe cabaret act with no moves.
“Where are we going?” I ask, realising I haven’t checked my timetable this morning.
“Religion,” they say in unison.
We get to B-block and head to the back of the class where we sit in a row with me in the middle. Poppy is chewing her hair and June is biting her nails. I can sense an invisible tension between the two of them and I don’t know why, but I’m suddenly hyper aware of my breath and how fast my heart is beating. This is my first religion class since Pittford and back there it was all fire and brimstone and burning for all eternity in hell. Each class would finish and I would be hit by a few solid days of depression, followed by a few days of pep-talking myself up for the next class the following week. So, today, I brace myself as the door opens.
Miss Reynolds is about six foot tall with long red hair and fair skin. She reminds me of a folk singer with her flower headband and floaty clothes.
“Morning,” she says, brightly, scanning the room and smiling sweetly.
I’ve seen this before. This holier-than-thou attitude like life is nothing but blue skies and campfire singing and Disney movies. I don’t buy it, but I settle in for the hour and face the inevitable.
My introduction is made with a brief “Hi” from her, which I appreciate. So far, so good. June and Poppy don’t seem half as worried as me, but then again they’ve not experienced a religion class in Pittford.
We begin with a poem from Miss Reynolds about love and compassion and we then settle in for a group discussion. Today’s subject is about what religion means to each of us. Miss Reynolds starts.
“Religion, for me, is about the very basic principle of treating others the way I would like to be treated. It’s always been about trying my best to find good in others and, likewise, to find the good within me.”
I feel myself smiling. She actually sounds completely genuine. There’s no bubbly cheesiness behind her words. None of that happy-clappy stuff you sometimes get with people handing out leaflets at train stations. The words seem to come straight from her heart – and she looks as if she lives her life by them, too.
Next is a guy with curly brown hair and a backward baseball cap who mumbles something about loving thy neighbour and then another girl says a few more sentences about love.
Next to take a turn is Paisley. I already have a burning desire to lob my textbook at the back of her smug head and her next words do nothing to change that.
“I believe in following the scripture,” she pipes up. “Our after-school study group spent last week discussing the sins our society now feels it’s okay to indulge in –” she throws this back to me, June and Poppy before continuing, “– and I feel that if we ignore the Bible’s very simple teachings, we neglect it all.”
Miss Reynolds nods her acknowledgement, but her face has taken on a wary look.
“Okay,” she says, but just as another guy’s about to speak, her eyes shoot back to Paisley.
“Actually, sorry, Brian, let’s just take one step back. Can you give the class an example, Paisley?”
Paisley looks stunned, clearly not used to being challenged. I’m guessing the ability to elaborate is beyond her brain capacity.
“Well.” She sits up straight and inhales sharply. “For example, homosexuality.”
Her cronies snicker and some of the other students sitting near her smirk as she turns and blatantly looks at me, Poppy and June. I feel my lungs fill with ice – I’ve heard all this before – but Poppy and June simply lengthen out their spines and, taller, glare back at Paisley.
“What about homosexuality?” Miss Reynolds asks.
“The Bible tells us it’s a sin. But here we are, in Australia, and everyone’s celebrating men loving men and women loving women. There’s students in this very class who parade about as out-and-proud homosexuals. The whole thing’s an abomination.” She thumps her fist on the desk before ranting on. “Don’t even get me started on the rules about who can use the toilets here –”
“Never mind the toilets, Paisley. Let’s stick to the subject.” Miss Reynolds sighs. “The Bible is always open to interpretation. Plus, it’s a book that reflects the time it was written in. And those were very different times. Take your sweater, for example.”
“What?” Paisley looks at her, confused.
“Your sweater, Paisley, looks like it’s made of two different fabrics. Leviticus 19:19 tell us that we must not ‘wear a garment upon you of two kinds of material mixed together’. So, does this mean you are also ignoring the teachings of the scriptures?”
“What are you on about?” Bronwyn jumps in, looking at Miss Reynolds like she’s a complete idiot. The two jocks at the next table grin.
“Ah, Bronwyn. You offer us another example – your haircut.”
Bronwyn’s eyes dart from left to right. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Leviticus 19:27 reads, ‘You shall not round off the side-growth of your head . . .’ Which means, taken literally, your current haircut is also not acceptable . . .”
I look at June, who is grinning openly, and Poppy who’s bolt upright with a look of undisguised awe on her face.
“So, you see, not everything that’s written in the Bible is as black and white as it might seem. How might you choose which rules still stand and which do not?”
Miss Reynolds is practically doing a mic drop right in front of us. Paisley’s already pale face has now changed to an alarming shade of grey.
“I don’t pick and choose,” she stammers. “It’s what the Bible clearly states and –” Paisley runs out of words.
At which point one of the jocks raises his hand with a smirk. “What about masturbation, miss? Pretty sure the Bible says we’ll have to cut off our –”
The other jock coughs and the class erupts.
“Hands. Less of the dirty minds, kids.” Miss Reynolds wraps up her epic burns by placing her hands on her hips. “Can we go on? Brian, you were saying?”
The class murmurs in reluctant agreement as Brian takes his turn. Paisley and Bronwyn both simply glower and grumble under their breath.
Peace ‘n’ Love: one – Hatred: nil.
*
After class, I walk down the hall in B-block in a complete blur. I’ve never seen an adult demolish a kid like that before with cold hard facts. Miss Reynolds is seriously baaaad-ass. I start fantasising about letting her loose on my parents, but I know it wouldn’t make much of a difference.
We turn the corner and head down another corridor and, through the giant arched window at the end of the hall, I see it has started to drizzle. A few brown leaves stick to the window like soggy pancakes and the tree beyond rattles the glass with its long branches.
“Boo,” comes a voice from behind us. It’s Rye, his cheeks flushed and his brown eyes as shiny as marbles.
“Hey,” June says wrapping him in a hug.
Poppy holds back, clearly unsure how to behave after the events of Saturday night.
“Hey, Fin,” Rye says.
I smile. June and Poppy both give Rye a raised eyebrow.
“How you feeling?” Poppy asks.
“Meh.” Rye shrugs. “Can we talk later?”
“No problem.”
“Fin, you ever been to Kettle Lake?” Rye asks, switching his attention from Poppy to me and changing the conversation abruptly.
“Nope,” I say.
“I’ll take you sometime. It’s really something.”
I can feel Poppy and June’s eyes burning into us, but I try to keep my face as blush-free as possible. I have no idea what is going on. I’m getting a thousand different signals from Rye right now and I have no idea how to interpret a single one of them.
“Sounds good,” I murmur and then a message alert makes us all take a dive into our pockets to see whose phone it is.
Rye puts his hand up and we all put our phones away, except for Poppy who takes a pic on Snapchat with the dog filter and laughs to herself like it’s the first time she’s ever seen it.
“It’s Eric,” Rye says, still looking down at his phone. I see Poppy attempt an eye roll to herself, which is a miserable fail because I notice it immediately. June shuffles from one foot to the other. “He wants me to go round to his tomorrow. Do you think I should?”
