Invisible Boys

by Holden Sheppard

  ‘Exams, shmexams, you’re the only one of us with a chance at getting some pussy before you graduate,’ Pedro says, agitated. He grabs his gut and wobbles it. ‘Girls aren’t exactly lining up to get with this, or with the Night King over here.’

  ‘Oh, come on, man …’ Jeremy whimpers, glancing again at his pale arms as if they might have magically bronzed in the last two minutes. ‘But seriously, Zeke, what Pedro said. Just do it. And report back. We’re gonna have to live vicariously through you.’

  ‘Zeke! Hey!’ Sabrina calls as we get closer.

  I slow down automatically, and Pedro and Jeremy choose that moment to sprint away, leaving me alone with Sabrina.

  ‘Later, man!’ Jeremy calls, as Pedro chuckles.

  Bastards.

  ‘Hoped I’d catch you,’ Sabrina says, hoisting her pink Roxy backpack over her shoulder. ‘Oh, your shirt’s come untucked.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry,’ I mutter, quickly fixing it. I hunch my shoulders over even more than I usually would, trying to hide the hideous set of manboobs that puberty gifted me with. ‘What’s up?’

  Sabrina is a unicorn. She’s the smartest girl in our year, but she’s also pretty and has managed to walk a fine line between being a square and a teacher’s pet and also maintaining relationships with both the geeks and the popular crowd. It’s something I’ve never been able to do. The popular crowd shits on me like it’s a sport.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d heard the news yet – I only just found out now on my way out of Bio,’ Sabrina says, with the tone of an army lieutenant updating her comrades on the progress of a battle. ‘Mrs Collard is leaving. It was her last day today. Did you know?’

  A cave opens up in my chest. ‘What? No. How come?’

  ‘Some other job up north. Apparently it was really sudden. I just wanted to let you know, since we worked with her in the debating society.’

  ‘Damn. I’m gutted.’ The sea breeze feels like an arctic wind. ‘Is she still here?’

  ‘Yep. In her office. I just saw her. Go catch her before she leaves.’ Sabrina says, ushering me back up the steps. ‘Oh, before I forget, I followed you on Insta but I’m not sure if it’s your current account or not?’

  I hate social media. I have a private group chat with Jeremy and Pedro and that’s about enough socialising for me. ‘Yeah, it is. I followed you back.’

  ‘Oh, okay. It’s just that you don’t have any pics posted. Like, literally zero.’

  ‘I’m not really into taking photos of myself. Who wants to see that?’

  ‘Well, a lot of the girls would, trust me,’ Sabrina says. Her cheeks go instantly pink and I’m pretty sure mine are magenta. ‘Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow for the yearbook committee meeting.’

  ‘Yeah, have a good one,’ I mutter, waving her off.

  The minute her back is turned, I pelt up the staircase to Mrs Collard’s office.

  When I knock on the open door, Mrs Collard pauses in the middle of packing books into a huge cardboard box. Her wrinkles part for a beaming smile. ‘Ah, here’s trouble,’ she says. ‘Wondered when you’d come and bail me up.’

  Mrs Collard is my favourite teacher. Maybe it’s sad to say that, but everyone has a teacher they like the most (or hate the least) and she’s mine. She runs the school’s debating society and she taught me last year in English. I like her because she swears, which most teachers don’t do. And because she said ‘Randolph Stow, eat ya bloody heart out!’ when she read my short story. And because when she read my poetry assignment last year she’d patted my hand and said, ‘You sound so different on the page, young man … more going on in that head than I realised, ay?’

  But mostly I like her because warmth radiates off her like a freshly-baked loaf of wholegrain bread.

  ‘Are you really leaving?’ I pant. Didn’t realise how much that sprint took out of me.

  Mrs Collard rolls her eyes at me comically. ‘Going back to Carnarvon to crack some skulls,’ she says, pulling down a map of Aboriginal language groups from her wall. ‘They put some skinny Dalkeith girl in charge of that school. Two weeks, she lasted. Two weeks! They need me to come sort it out. Don’t worry, love. Mr Meder will run the debating club.’

  I feel tears spring to my eyes. I have no idea why. ‘Do you really have to go?’

  ‘Yep. Them kids need me more than you mob do.’

  ‘Well, thanks for everything,’ I say quickly. My throat is burning. ‘You’re the best.’

  Mrs Collard reaches over the desk and grabs my left hand in both of hers, gently rubbing it, brown skin on olive. ‘Pleasure was all mine, love. And I’ll be keeping tabs on you. You’ve got a lot going for ya, Mr Calogero. Nothing to do with that big brain of yours. Big heart. That’s what I like about you.’ She pats my hand. Her eyes are wet. ‘Orright. Off ya go, now. And remember what you promised me, okay?’

  ‘What?’ I ask, genuinely confused.

  ‘You said you’d let me know when them Nintendo people bring out some proper Aussie Pokémon. I told ya, I’ll start playing that game when they’ve got a bungarra Pokémon.’ She booms an enormous laugh, and I can’t help but laugh with her.

  The whole walk to the car park I keep wiping my eyes, and I keep berating myself. She’s just some random teacher. What the hell is wrong with you? How much of a wimp are you that this actually bothers you? Man up!

  The air-conditioning is on when I slide into the car beside Mum. Her shiny black hair is in a tight, impatient bun, her lips pursed.

  ‘Why are you so late?’ she asks, dark eyes flicking over my face. ‘Jeremy and Pedro came across ages ago.’

  ‘I went to see Mrs Collard. She’s moving back to Carnarvon.’

  Mum reverses the car. ‘Have you been crying?’

  ‘No. I dunno. A bit. Just got upset about her leaving, I guess.’

  ‘What a silly thing to be upset about.’ Mum clicks her tongue like I’ve pissed her off. ‘Next time, text me if you’re going to be late. I need to pop into Rigter’s on the way home and I could’ve done that while I was waiting for you.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Did you speak to Mr Capaldi today?’

  My blood runs cold. ‘Oh, I completely forgot to ask him. Sorry. I’ll do it tomorrow.’

  ‘You need to find out if it’s worth sticking with Biology. You could take another maths subject instead. If Bio isn’t a prerequisite for uni, it’s a waste of your time.’

  ‘Yes, Mum. Sorry. I’ll check with him tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re very bright, Zeke. Year eleven isn’t the time to slack off.’

  ‘I’m not slacking off. Just under a lot of pressure. Year eleven is full on.’

  ‘Nothing you can’t handle,’ Mum says, tapping her fingernails on the steering wheel as we wait for the lollipop ladies to finish letting some kids cross Cathedral Avenue.

  ‘God blessed you with big brains. Of course, I did as much as I could to help. All you listened to in the womb was classical music. The psychologists say that helps grow a baby’s brain. And I breastfed you a whole year longer than I breastfed Robbie. It all helps.’ I’ve heard it all before, but she likes to remind me. ‘You don’t remember any of that, but I did that for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I stare out the window as we drive to the supermarket. I wish I could create a bungarra Pokémon for Mrs Collard, like a final parting gift. Too late now. Maybe it’s for the best. In the first Pokémon movie, the scientists who tried to create a perfect Pokémon had it backfire badly. They tried to clone a beautiful legendary creature, Mew, but all they could synthesise in the lab was a pale replica: Mewtwo, a test-tube creature, grey and artificial. I always felt sad for Mewtwo when I watched that movie. Designed by scientists, forced to work when he probably just wanted to roam free in the wild, like mischievous Mew.

  We walk into the IGA together. ‘I need some mint sauce and red onions,’ Mum says at me. ‘Your father and I are going to dinner with Natalie’s family tonight. Well …’ She lowers her voi
ce as Mrs Graham from the florist bustles past us with a quick nod. ‘If you can call it a family. Natalie’s older brother Brandon doesn’t even speak to them anymore. He cut ties with his whole family and took off to Perth.’ She raises her eyebrows at me. ‘Shame on them for letting that happen! Family always comes first. And what kind of life must he lead? Completely isolated from his family. That’s no life for anyone.’

  I’ve never even met this Brandon before, but I have a fleeting image of some guy living in a city, never worrying about what his parents think. My limbs tingle with excitement. The guilt follows right behind it.

  ‘Does that mean I’m home alone tonight?’ I ask, trying not to sound hopeful.

  ‘We’ll be home by ten or so,’ Mum says, pushing past a tattooed man to pluck a bottle of mint sauce off the shelf. ‘You have plenty of study to do, don’t you?’

  ‘Loads,’ I say at once.

  My limbs are tingling with excitement again. I watch the tattooed man reach for some smoky barbeque sauce, his bicep flexing as his rough knuckles tighten around the glass bottle. I bite my lip without thinking.

  A whole night alone. Perfect.

  Everyone needs a way to release the pressure, and I’m no different. The brighter you shine on the outside, the darker you burn within.

  It is a universal truth acknowledged by no-one that if you leave your teenage son at home alone, he’ll be wanking by the time your car leaves the driveway.

  So that makes it my parents’ fault for pulling a U-turn ten minutes after heading out.

  I’m shuttered in the home office, jocks around my ankles and face aglow with the blue backlight of Dad’s laptop. The masculine groans of the porno I’m watching must drown out the usual crunch of tyres on the metal dust. The first sign of danger is the Monaro’s engine throbbing back into the carport.

  Shit!

  I press my bare feet against the sides of the white melamine desk and push Dad’s padded blue wheelie chair, sliding across the tiles to get a view of the window. Yep, the Monaro’s headlights are streaming over the backyard. They’re back.

  I’ve still got my hand wrapped around my dick. It’s like when someone touches an electric fence and the high voltage makes their hand curl and cling onto the wire. The shock has taken over.

  I push my dirty feet against the tiles and scoot the chair back into the office. The glow of the laptop is as blue as those cold cobalt lights they put in dunnies at servos to stop junkies from shooting up. I double over and pull my jocks up. It’s a major tent pole situation, but there’s nothing else to cover up with. I left my clothes in my bedroom. Home alone. The occasion had called for nudity.

  The engine shuts off; the backyard goes dark. Dammit, there’s no time to close every single perverted tab I have open on the web browser. I slam the lid of the laptop shut, then tear down the hallway, shoulders hunched over my bare chest and my holey Batman: The Brave and the Bold undies deformed by my erection. I throw on my denim shorts and the Perth Glory jersey Dad got me for my sixteenth. I always feel fraudulent wearing it. I don’t know anything about soccer. I know one day some uncle is gonna quiz me about one of the players and I’ll be exposed.

  Exposed. Like now.

  I grab a random textbook from my desk, sprint into the living room and throw myself onto the couch just as the key scratches in the door that leads from the carport into the house.

  ‘… because they sure as hell won’t back down,’ Mum mutters over her shoulder, framed in the doorway for just a second before she strides in.

  I flick the text book open to a random page, then glance up as if she’s just interrupted my study. ‘That was a quick dinner.’

  Mum makes a face at me. ‘After all that effort, I forgot the damn salad, didn’t I?’ She reaches for the giant glass bowl on the kitchen bench, then glances over at me, peering closer, like she’s never met me before. ‘What’s that – Zeke!’

  The glass bowl falls from her fingers, flips in mid-air and crashes spectacularly onto the tiles. In an instant, Mum’s black dress is majestically encrusted with bright green peas and slivers of red onion; the bowl of potato salad has shattered into mush and shards at her feet.

  The powerful kitchen fluoro brilliantly illuminates a look of horror on her face that I don’t fully understand until Dad emerges from the carport behind her, stares at the shattered glass, his wife, and then at me, and says, ‘Zeke, what are you doing with your cazzo out like that?’

  As blood drains from my face, I glance down at my crotch. I was in such a hurry to pull on some shorts I forgot to zip up the fly: although it’s mercifully covered by my undies, my hard-on is poking through my shorts.

  My face is so hot it feels like steam is wafting off it. Maybe if I just stay motionless and don’t move, my parents will leave out of sheer compassion.

  But then she speaks.

  ‘How embarrassing,’ Mum says. I know she means for her, not me.

  Now, every other mother in history would have realised how humiliating this had to be for her son. Her black high heels would have stepped carefully around the shards of glass and carried her to her bedroom, where she could change into something clean. She would let her husband handle the delicate moment with his young bloke, and she’d never mention it again.

  But my mother is a monster.

  She clops across the tiles, each clop louder and angrier than the last, until she looms over me on the couch, like a black thundercloud.

  ‘Zeke … this is disgusting!’ she squalls, close enough that I can smell the spice of her perfume.

  She pinches the skin of my arm, just hard enough to hurt. That’s when I discover how bone-chillingly awkward it feels when you’ve got a stiffy and someone you aren’t attracted to touches you.

  ‘Ease up on him, Anna,’ Dad calls. Like a normal human, he hasn’t moved from the threshold.

  ‘You’re sixteen!’ Mum says. ‘You should be studying, not sitting in the dark, doing this. You’re too old for this.’

  Sixteen too old for a wank? Man, she’s out of touch. ‘Sorry, Mum.’

  ‘Anna, come on,’ Dad calls.

  Mum jabs her finger at the mushed potato and glass fragments on the kitchen floor.

  ‘You made me do that. Clean it up.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  She stalks across the living room for the bedroom. ‘I’m changing, Sam,’ she barks. ‘Do something with your son, please.’

  A moment later, the bedroom door rocks off its hinges.

  ‘For God’s sake, Zeke, zip it up,’ Dad mutters.

  I wrangle myself back into the denim – noticing, as I do so, that the text book I grabbed was my biology one; and it’s open on a page not of the female body – which might have been understandable – but of the female reproductive system. I’m talking fallopian tubes and the vagina and ovaries and the whole weird alien-looking apparatus. Gross. They can’t seriously think I was jerking off to that, can they? No wonder Mum was weirded out.

  As I finally zip up, I hear the scrape of glass on plastic. Dad’s crouched over the tiles, blue plastic bannister brush in hand as he scoops the mess of glass and salad into the bin.

  ‘Mum asked me to do that,’ I say. ‘She’ll be annoyed.’

  ‘No wuckers, kid,’ Dad says. ‘You just stay there until you’ve … settled down.’

  He tips the dustpan out over the bin slowly, like it’s an excavator releasing a load of sand. Glass rains down into the black abyss.

  ‘Such a shame,’ he says. ‘Your mother made it the Italian way, to make a point to those people.’

  Damn those Aussie infidels and their mayonnaise-infested potato salad. Mum wasn’t having a bar of it. Potatoes, red onions, peas, herbs and mint sauce was what you needed to make a proper Italian potato salad. Oh, and like a litre of olive oil.

  ‘I don’t get why it matters so much,’ I say, glad the conversation has moved on to normal shit. ‘Do you really care if Natalie isn’t Italian? Robbie isn’t fazed.’

  �
��You’re too young to understand,’ Dad says, plopping some more salad in the bin. ‘It’s nothing to do with her. Sweet girl. It’s the parents. They’re trying to make the wedding all Anglo. No traditional antipasti. No pasta course, either. And don’t get me started on that damn band!’

  I don’t get him started, but he starts anyway.

  ‘I mean, how is it fair to push their music on all of us and then they say they won’t let Uncle Gino play his accordion? How dare they!’

  My instinct is to say ‘who cares’, but I sense his tone.

  ‘Listen, Zeke …’ Dad says, looking determinedly at the painting of the Last Supper on the dining room wall. ‘About tonight …’

  He sniffs. Doesn’t look away from Jesus and his blue and red robes.

  ‘Y’know, there’s two types of people in this world,’ he says. ‘Wankers and liars. You get me?’

  ‘Ha. Clever.’

  Dad shoots a wry grin in Judas’ direction. ‘Yeah. It’s an old joke.’

  ‘So I should be a liar?’

  Dad’s forehead creases. ‘That’s the point.’ He wrenches his gaze from the Last Supper and plants a hand firmly on my shoulder. ‘I’m worried about you, Zeke.’

  ‘I wasn’t getting turned on by the fallopian tubes, I swear … it’s just …’

  Dad holds up his hand; he looks suddenly seasick. ‘It’s nothing to do with that,’ he says quickly. ‘You’re just … you’re so different to your brother.’

  The word different would have meant a whole lot less here if I didn’t already know how much the sun shines out of Robbie’s arse.

  ‘When he was your age, he was going out with girls, you know?’ Dad frowns.

  ‘Yeah, well, he’s popular, Dad.’

  ‘Well, you don’t get popular by staying inside all the time.’

  ‘I have to study. Don’t you want me to do well at school?’

  ‘I get that you’re smart, Zeke. And we’re proud of that, we are,’ he says, glancing past my shoulder. ‘But you can’t spend your whole life with your nose in a book. Girls don’t like a swot, you know. You need to get out there. Be more like Robbie. Confident. Go to parties.’