And speaking of doing something good with the footy: I’m on fire today.
Me and Razor sprint around the oval, muscled blurs of skin and sweat and power. He gets eight goals for his team, but I finish the game with twelve goals. Twelve bloody goals!
When Miss Krouton calls us back to the change rooms, the boys cheer me. Even the fuckers who don’t like me much are pretty damn impressed with how good I am at footy. Everyone at the school already knows I’m going to get drafted one day.
Me and Razor and Lockie and Riley charge back into the change rooms ahead of the others. The girls are still whispering and texting and stuff, but now it’s spread to some of the guys – the geeks and the stoners and the boarders. Weird.
I get back into the change room and double over on the porcelain basin as the rigour of sprinting around for forty-five minutes catches up with me. I feel like I’m dying. My lungs clutch for oxygen. Blood pulsates through my body without rhythm. My quads are on fire. The mirror shows my face is still ruddy, yellow polo smeared greenish-brown from the turf. My hair’s as wet as a mop; salty sweat trickles in rivulets down my bronzed face.
I am a deadset legend. Twelve goals. Twelve times I booted the footy clean through the sticks. If it was just me against the other team, I’d’ve beaten them all by myself.
Panting, I wipe the grime off the mirror and take a quick mirror selfie, making sure to flex, and upload it to Insta. Booted twelve goals today … waiting for the recruiters to call in 3, 2, 1 … #stayhumble
I jab a finger at my reflection.
‘You’re gonna get drafted one day,’ I boom, flexing at my mirror image. ‘And you’re gonna be a superstar.’
Some dickhead bangs his hand against the change room door and shoves it open, and the rabble comes in. I’m gonna get some serious cred for this.
I turn to face the boys. It’s not like I have a big ego, but I know they’re selfless enough to recognise talent when they see it. I’m not expecting a parade – just acknowledgement. Claps on the shoulder, taps on the arse. Tongue-in-cheek comparisons to Buddy Franklin that I’ll quietly take to heart.
But as the boys file in, they’re clustered around someone else, forming a tight, sweaty, sweary circle. All I can catch are snippets.
‘No fucken way!’ Razor cries, not in an aggro way.
‘So Richelle Meyers could basically sit on your lap and you wouldn’t get a boner?’ Jack says.
‘Pretty much,’ says a low, toneless voice from the middle of the scrum.
Half the boys snort with laughter. Someone is pushing them back from the centre of the pack.
‘Get back, fellas,’ a measured voice says. Caleb O’Bree. ‘Piss off and give him some air, will ya?’
‘Are you his mystery man, O’Bree?’ Razor jeers.
I see O’Bree’s jaw is set in a defensive line. ‘Well, more likely to be me than you, Raze. You’ve got a face like a smashed crab.’
Someone whoops loudly; another yells out, ‘Burn!’
Razor shrugs and shuffles over to his school bag, then spins back suddenly. ‘I’m turning my back,’ he jeers. ‘That’s not an invitation to come rape me, okay, Charlie?’
‘Okay,’ says the toneless voice beside O’Bree.
As the boys break apart and start to drift to the wooden bench to change, I cast an eye over to who was in the middle of the scrum: bloody floppy-haired Charlie Goth. I thought he was just an emo.
But he’s obviously something else.
I take a quick shower, rinsing the sweat and dirt off me. ‘D’you see that mark I took at the top of the pack?’ I ask Razor as he soaps up his pubes for some reason.
He elbows me in the ribs. ‘Yeah. Showpony.’
‘Still speccy, but.’
‘Nah, you’re a hollow prick, Hammer,’ Jack calls, flicking water across at me. ‘Coulda shared the footy around a bit, couldn’t ya?’
‘Better that we got the twelve goals, isn’t it?’ I smirk. ‘Hey, what’s the deal with Charlie?’
Jack raises an eyebrow. ‘You weren’t there? He’s gay. He got outed. He hooked up with some married guy and then his wife went on this massive rant online.’
‘Jesus. Really?’
‘I know, right? It’s nuts.’
‘Who was the guy? Your dad?’
‘Fuck off. Kevin someone. How fucked is that shit?’
‘Backs to the walls, boys!’ Razor shrieks in mock-terror. ‘Charlie’s coming in and he’s lookin’ for a tight arse to have a go at! Haha!’
I laugh with him. The Charlie who stood up to me before is long gone: he walks past us, face pale and frozen, and he doesn’t make eye contact with anyone. He tightens the oversized beach towel around his waist and locks himself in a shower cubicle instead of joining us.
‘You guys are wankers,’ O’Bree says, slamming the tap off and reaching for his towel.
‘Aw, settle, princess,’ Razor says. ‘He knows we’re just muckin’ around. Don’t mean anything by it.’
‘What he’s done takes guts,’ O’Bree says stiffly. ‘More guts than you deadshits have.’
‘Are you taking him to the Summer Dance, mate?’ I call after him. The boys laugh.
Everyone clears out of the showers pretty quick, and then the bell goes.
‘Wahoo!’ Razor roars, flicking his wet hair at me. He slaps his hand against mine. ‘Catchya tomorrow, Ablett.’
‘Cheers, Kennedy.’
He winks and leaves.
As usual, I spend so much time in the shower that I’m the last one left in the change room. When I shut the tap off, it’s suddenly quiet. Painfully quiet. I can’t help but think about how nobody said well done on scoring twelve goals. It’s like no amount of goals is ever impressive enough to anyone because of who my dad is. Or was. I don’t get what I’m supposed to do that I’m not doing. You can’t do much better than twelve goals, can you? At what point do people actually give you the credit you’re due?
As I pull my jocks on, a metal latch clicks somewhere in the change room. I glance up in surprise.
Charlie Roth is standing stock-still at the door of his shower cubicle, looking like he just shat his dacks. He spots me, then looks deliberately over my shoulder. ‘Dammit.’
‘Were you waiting in there the whole time?’ I blurt out.
He frowns and bustles across the change room to his school bag; he’s on the opposite side to me, about five metres away. ‘Yeah. Thought everyone was gone.’
Without thinking, I rub my towel against my chest, sticking it out slightly. ‘So, I bet you like looking at this, huh?’
Charlie glances up at my chest before turning back to his school bag. His shoulders seem to crumple in on themselves, like he just breathed out the last bit of oxygen in his lungs.
Without turning around, he says, ‘You know what, Hammer? You are good looking, actually. But you’re the biggest, dumbest meathead in the entire school, and that’s so unattractive.’
‘Fuck you, man.’ I scowl at him. Pull on a black Hurley tank top. ‘You don’t get to say shit to me or I’ll smash ya.’
Charlie whips around suddenly, facing me. His eyes are bloodshot. ‘Go on, then!’ he spits. ‘Do it. Try laying a hand on me. I’ll fucking break it. I don’t give a shit about anything anymore.’
I’ve never seen anything like what I see in his eyes in that instant. It’s not that he’s been crying. It’s not the swearing. It’s the pain. His eyes are looking right at mine but they’re totally empty, like everything that gave them strength has drained down the plughole.
‘Settle down, man. No need to be a psycho.’
‘Just piss off and leave me alone, Hammer.’ He thrusts his sopping wet towel deep into his backpack.
‘Hey, Charlie, listen …’ The words start to tumble out before I’ve had time to think why I care enough to say them. ‘Hey, man … you were dumb to come out, you know.’
Charlie gives me a death stare. ‘I didn’t really have a choice in the matter.’
Charlie sits on the wooden bench and pulls his socks on. He’s got skinny, super hairy legs. They look like they’d snap if you tackled him.
‘Actually, most of the guys are okay with it,’ he says, looking up at me. He has dark brown eyes. ‘It’s just you footy jocks who are retrograde.’
‘I’m not retrograde,’ I spit, slipping my own socks onto my aching feet. I have no idea what retrograde means.
Charlie slides a white-socked foot into his black and neon-green skate shoes. ‘If you’re not retrograde, then you’ll know being gay isn’t a phase.’
I tuck my foot into my battered black school shoes. ‘Yeah it is. Like, sometimes it is.’
‘No. It really isn’t.’
‘When you’re a teenager it is,’ I counter. I know this. ‘I read it in a book. It’s just a hormone thing because of puberty and whatever. You just go straight later on.’ Cop that, dude. Science.
‘Was the book from 1975?’ Charlie laughs. ‘Maybe published by a church group or something? I know what I’m talking about.’
Charlie gets to his feet, slings his grey CBGB backpack over his scrawny shoulder and trudges along the tiles with his skinny, bandy legs. He’s headed for the door.
‘Here’s some education for you, Hammer: it’s never a phase.’ He shakes his head. ‘Have a good night. Or don’t. I really don’t care.’
He goes to push past me and, involuntarily, my arm rises, blocking his way. My heart’s pounding harder than it was when I came in from the footy oval.
Charlie frowns and looks up at me. I stare back at him, my jaw clenched. I want something to happen, but I don’t know what.
Finally, I growl, ‘You’re not a faggot. It is a phase. Say it.’
Charlie’s frown melts into a wince, his mouth drooping like he just watched a seagull fly into a window, attacking its own reflection.
‘Jesus, Hammer.’ He bites his lip. ‘Look, I’ve got, like, fuck tons of my own shit to deal with right now. I can’t deal with your macho homophobic crap, too.’
He ducks under my arm and leaves the change room. The wooden door bangs against the doorframe.
I shuffle back to the sink and grip onto the porcelain like I’m holding on for dear life. I press all my weight down on the basin, straining my muscles, trying to tear it off the wall and smash it to pieces. I push until my face is brick red. The sink won’t move.
‘Dammit!’ I shout, kicking the wall. My toes crumple under the force.
I stare numbly at my reflection. Blond hair, blue eyes, bronzed muscle. The king of the jocks. At sixteen, I’m already more of a man than someone like weak, pansy little Charlie Roth will ever grow up to be.
So why does he make me so fucken angry?
Letterbomb #1
I’ve never written a letter with pen and paper before I mean there’s nothing stopping me doing this as a memo on my phone but I always think what if I leave it unlocked and some dickhead gets it and finds it and then everyone would know and the last thing I want at this point is anyone talking to me arguing or trying to talk me into going to see a counsellor or worse some big guys rocking up at my house to take me away in a van and I’ll live for the rest of my life on antidepressants and become a drooling mess and that’s no way to live
well that was a waste of like half a page and I didn’t write any of the stuff I want to say maybe I should make a draft like at school how funny would that be imagine Miss French looking over it when I’m done and clicking her tongue winding her curly hair around her finger then shaking her head and saying nope there’s too many mistakes in this and you spelled ‘suicide’ wrong can you please redo it ha ha how dumb is it that I’m actually thinking of this I should be thinking about how I’m going to do it I kind of think I need a rope but I can’t rock up at Bunnings and ask the cashier if they can please help me buy some rope and they might be like so what are you gonna do with that rope mate and what would they do if I told them I just want to play a really realistic game of hangman?
well writing that made me cry for like a minute then I listened to music and then I watched some videos on my phone and got some biscuits and now I’m back here I know I have it in me to end all of this but apparently not tonight because all I can think of right now is how he would feel reading this and it breaks my heart but it has to be done so I swear to you I will write this letter tomorrow
4: Finocchio
Zeke
When Charlie Roth doesn’t show up for school on Thursday, a rumour goes around that the school expelled him for being gay. I hear it from Pedro, who got it from Piera O’Dell, and by the time we’re in third period RE class, I don’t know a single person who hasn’t heard it – or added their own embellishments. Like most rumours, it’s crazy speculation about every aspect of the case: that his obese mother had a heart attack from the shock and ended up in hospital overnight; that Alicia Stratton hired some bikies to rough up her husband after what he did; that Charlie stole a car and left town and now the cops are involved.
I don’t pay the rumours any heed. Living in a Sicilian family, you learn pretty quickly how to sort the wheat from the chaff. The speculation from bored onlookers is usually a lot more sensational than what’s really happened. And when something actually goes down, the news comes in thick and fast, hectic and panted, not in dribbled Chinese whispers and raised eyebrows.
What actually happened was that Alicia Stratton posted a rant on social media about her cheating husband and Charlie. Someone tagged Charlie’s mum in it, and it basically went viral from there – Geraldton-level viral, anyway.
Still, I’m surprised when Mr Capaldi actually addresses it in front of the class – in a manner of speaking, at least.
‘I’ve been asked by Brother Murphy to advise you all – and your parents …’ his pale irises flicker, like he’s trying to roll a memory behind his eyes and tuck it away ‘… that this college does not expel students on the basis of their sexuality. While we do affirm a Catholic ethos and stand by the teachings of the Church, the pastoral care of our students and their families is always first in our hearts.’
‘So Charlie’s not really expelled?’ Hammer blurts out.
Mr Capaldi rolls his beige tie half way up his chest and examines it closely. ‘We aren’t making any statements about any particular students, nor commenting on any alleged events. We are just confirming the school’s existing policy.’
‘You should be a lawyer, sir,’ Razor says.
‘Does anyone know where Charlie is?’ Sabrina asks, narrowing her gaze at Mr Capaldi through her glasses. ‘I heard nobody can find him.’ She turns to Hannah and Rocky, who are sitting in the back corner, their heads conspiratorially close. ‘Have you guys heard from him?’
‘Wow,’ Hannah drawls, mouth downturned. ‘You literally haven’t said a word to me since year nine and now you wanna talk, huh?’
Sabrina frowns – not with displeasure, but disapproval.
‘Haven’t seen him, haven’t heard from him,’ Rocky says quickly – mostly, I think, to stop people asking him anything else.
Satisfied, Sabrina turns back to Mr Capaldi, ponytail whipping behind her. ‘Sir, don’t you think someone ought to find him and help him? He should get counselling.’
‘Counselling is available to all students,’ Mr Capaldi says. ‘Let’s move on – I have a worksheet for you all to complete today. Kade, turn that video off or your phone is mine …’
The moment we have our worksheets, Mr Capaldi slumps behind his desk to mark papers, and the rumour mill continues to churn.
‘I never would have picked it, really,’ Sabrina says, efficient as ever as she multitasks her worksheet with gossip. ‘I wouldn’t call Charlie, like, blokey or anything, but I didn’t think he was gay. Like, he plays guitar and he swears and stuff. And he’s s
o dirty. You know? Grubby. Not manicured. It’s so surreal. I guess you never really know, do you?’
That’s the fourth time today someone has said almost those exact words to me. And it’s the fourth time today I’ve felt my face steam like an iron.
‘I feel sorry for him,’ Jeremy says, casually doodling the word “boobies” in graffiti-style letters on his worksheet. ‘He’s already had a rough run.’
Sabrina’s breath catches in her cheeks; she looks like a pissed-off puffer fish.
‘That doesn’t excuse his behaviour, though,’ she says quickly. ‘Nothing he’s gone through can justify all the horrible things he’s done. I mean, he really should have been expelled after the swimming carnival last year. Or when he trashed Tamara’s locker. It’s criminal behaviour!’ She stares at the rest of us as if daring us to contradict her. ‘But the school’s always gone soft on him, to be honest. I wouldn’t be surprised if he eventually gets expelled anyway. I mean, I think it’s a sin to be gay, but I think it’s worse that he ruined a marriage, don’t you?’
For the fourth time today, I manage to survive the conversation by nodding and making vague grunts of agreement, but this one stings more than most. It hurts how casually it was said: I think it’s a sin to be gay. I can’t think about this. I wish everyone would stop talking about Charlie. I wish he was just Charlie the Delinquent again. Now he’s Charlie the Homosexual and it feels like every single conversation somehow comes back to whether it’s right to be gay and I honestly don’t want to hear it. I can’t imagine how his heart is still beating. I would die if someone outed me.
And with all the conversations exploding around me like grenades, I don’t know how long I can stay silent about this without someone catching on. Maybe they’ll suspect me by the way I take too long to respond to something. Maybe they’ll see it in my eyes when I try to look away. Maybe they’ll just know.
Invisible Boys Page 5
