When I get home, I figure I’m finally safe, but the gauntlet isn’t run yet. Charlie rates a mention at our dinner table. We’re one of those families who still sit at the table like we’re trapped in the 1950s. I used to like it when I was a kid – Robbie would tell jokes and Dad would talk about what happened on the job and Mum didn’t seem as hideous and controlling. But the older I get, the more I want to grab my dinner and sit in my room room with the lights off and binge-watch old episodes of Game of Thrones. Everyone else at school seems allowed to do that, except me.
Mum starts the conversation. She usually does.
‘I heard about what happened at school yesterday,’ she says, opening the window as we gather around the table – just me, Dad and Mum.
‘The broken water main?’ I say. ‘Yeah, I think it flooded the driveway outside.’
A breeze gusts through the dining room. It carries the scent of summer: a mix of golden wattle, sea salt and sweat.
‘Not that,’ Mum says, sitting down opposite me. ‘I heard about Charlie Roth.’
My skin prickles. Instinct tells me to withdraw all my limbs into my shell, like a threatened turtle. I do the next best thing, which is to lower my eyes to my plate of cotalette and oily crispeddi.
‘Oh yeah,’ I say, hoping that’s the end of it.
It isn’t. Naturally.
‘Is that the kid who’s a finocchio?’ Dad pipes up. His face curves into a smile, like he’s just heard a hilarious joke. ‘Jonny Christou told me. Caleb Roth’s kid. Fuck me!’
‘It’s shocking something like this would happen here,’ Mum says, pouring a glass of red wine. ‘You’d expect it in a city, but not here, of all places. Sydney. Perth, maybe.’
‘Apparently he was having it off with some plumber from Bluff Point,’ Dad says.
Mum shudders. ‘That’s right. Kevin Stratton. His poor wife was distraught. Alicia.’
‘She’ll never be able to show her face downtown again.’
‘Well, she should’ve thought of that before she posted about it on social media.’
‘She must’ve been furious. Irrational, you know. Probably just wanted to expose that sick bastard.’
Mum sniffs. ‘I would’ve dealt with it privately. Why bring all the shame onto yourself? Other people don’t need to know.’
‘She’ll probably lie doggo for a while.’
‘But she’ll have to show her face on the school run. They’ve got two little girls at St Lawrence’s.’
‘She might keep them home for a bit, then.’
‘Oh, I would. I’d move town. Start again.’
‘Didn’t she used to be Alicia West?’
Mum slams her hand down on the table. ‘Yes! That’s it! I couldn’t remember.’
‘Her brother used to be the foreman for the council. Probably wants to kick that perv’s head in for what he did to his sister. Fiddling around with a boy! Only Zeke’s age.’
My skin prickles at the mention of my name. Just when I thought they were going to drown themselves in a vortex of gossip, the crosshairs return to settle on my forehead.
‘Did you know Charlie Roth was …?’ Mum asks me. She avoids the word.
Eyes on the cutlets. ‘No way. Nobody knew.’
‘There weren’t any signs?’
‘Well, no, he never walked around school with a neon sign or anything, Mum.’
‘You’re not friends with him, are you?’
‘God, no,’ I say immediately. I feel like Peter denouncing Christ for the third time. I’m waiting for a cock to crow. It’s not like I’m friends with Charlie. He’s basically a criminal. But knowing he’s gay makes me wish I knew him better.
Dad takes a swig of water. ‘Just the thought of it makes me feel sick in the guts. Two blokes – yuck!’
‘It’s shameful,’ Mum says.
‘Well, he can’t really help it,’ I say. My brain is screaming at me to shut the hell up, but my heart is beating twice as fast as usual and it’s saying fight them!
‘Of course he could,’ Dad says. ‘If I hate some bloke at work and want to punch him in the nose, I have the choice whether or not to do it. There’s always a choice. You just don’t do it. Problem solved.’
‘Yeah, but it’s not, like, a choice you make,’ I tell them, face burning. ‘It’s just how he was made. It’s in his DNA.’
‘What are they teaching you at school?’ Mum says sharply. ‘It’s a Catholic school. They shouldn’t be teaching you this.’
‘Mum – everyone knows this stuff …’ Except the two people at the table with me.
‘Nonsense,’ Mum says. ‘He always had a choice. If he had those feelings, he should’ve told someone. A priest. A counsellor. Someone who could help fix him.’
‘Maybe they can’t help it,’ Dad says slowly, nodding along as if just cottoning on to my earlier point. ‘They feel like they’re born in the wrong body, don’t they? What, Zeke? What’s with that giant funcia on your face?’
I knead my head to get rid of the frown. ‘That’s something completely different, Dad.’
‘Broken home,’ Dad says. ‘Maybe that’s what caused it.’
‘They’ve usually been abused as children,’ Mum says. She has the air of a scientist being consulted for their expert opinion on live TV. ‘It messes them up for life. Makes them sickos like the ones who touched them.’
I don’t bother to counter her. My skin isn’t hot anymore. It’s ice cold.
And I can’t unhear the word.
Sickos.
Thursday night’s meal discussion was awkward, but it’s Friday night that nearly kills me.
The first signs of doom were there when I finished school. Me, Jeremy and Pedro always cross the road from school, walk through Maitland Park and across Cathedral Avenue to the car park where our mums are waiting for us. They’re usually standing in a circle at the back of one of their cars, gossiping about other mums, but on Friday arvo they look particularly conspiratorial, like they’re plotting something.
‘Spidey senses are tingling,’ Jeremy says, as we approach the car park. He folds his skinny arms. ‘What are they up to?’
‘Probably talking about Charlie again,’ I say, without thinking.
‘Poor dude,’ Pedro says, rubbing the woggy moustache sprouts under his nose. ‘When d’you reckon he’ll come back to school?’
‘Probably never,’ Jeremy says. ‘He’ll probably move to the state school.’
‘Shame,’ Pedro says. ‘He’s a wicked guitarist and a good singer. I saw him do an acoustic version of “Berlin Chair” one time.’
‘Would it bother you guys?’ Jeremy says suddenly. ‘Could you be mates with a gay guy?’
Pedro shrugs. ‘Doesn’t bother me, honestly. You?’
‘Yeah, I’d still be mates,’ Jeremy says. ‘I s’pose it would be a bit different, but how dog act would it be to just chuck your mate under the bus?’
‘Full dog act, man,’ Pedro agrees. ‘What about you, Zeke?’
My ears are ringing, like a police siren has just gone off two feet away from my face.
‘Nah. I don’t think so.’
‘What?’
‘I couldn’t be mates with a gay guy. It’d change things. I’d never know if he was looking at me in that way or not.’
‘Are you kidding?’ Jeremy says.
I shake my head.
‘Well, nice to know how much we mean to ya,’ Pedro grunts. ‘You’d just drop us like a piece of hot shit, then?’
‘You asked a question, man. I just gave you an honest answer.’
‘Lucky I’m not gay like Charlie, or I’d be down one friend,’ Pedro says stiffly. He narrows his eyes as we get closer to the busy car park. ‘Hey, Jez is right. Something’s up. My mum looks like she’s on a crusade. I’m getting grounded for something. I know I am.’
Our mothers spot our approach, and quickly finish their chat. The three of them glance in unison at us boys. It’s a chilling look of doom.
‘Have a good weekend, fellas,’ Pedro says, raising his thick, black eyebrows at us. ‘And good luck.’
I wave them both goodbye as Mum joins me at the car.
‘Get in,’ she says.
We drive out of the car park. There are kids still pouring out of the school the way ants pour out of a nest when you spray it. They flood the avenue and hold up traffic, which leaves me and Mum stuck in stillness and silence. I turn the radio on. Mum frowns and turns the volume down, brushing imaginary dust off the shoulder of the branded blouse the insurance company makes her wear.
‘Oi! Zeke!’ one of the guys crossing the road calls out.
I glance up in time to see Hammer, Razor and those other footy jocks on the island in the middle of the road.
Hammer grabs his chest and pretends to squeeze two big breasts together while waggling his tongue at me. ‘Are we still on for that titty fuck?’
The jocks guffaw and cross the road. The throng of students finally clears and Mum guns the engine.
‘Wasn’t that Kade Hammersmith?’ she says. ‘What was he saying to you?’
‘Just being crude, Mum, don’t worry.’
‘He’s gotten really tall, hasn’t he?’
‘Yeah.’ Tall. And muscular. And so hot. If only he wasn’t a complete dick.
‘Is he still playing footy for Railways?’
‘Yeah. They think he’ll get drafted into the WAFL. Maybe the AFL.’
‘Oh really? Wow.’
I’ve learned that’s the most impressive thing you can do in Geraldton. If you break out and become a footy star, there will be a parade in your honour each time you come home: the peasants will wave their palm fronds in adulation and girls will swoon at your presence. I could go on to cure cancer and I’d still be in the shadow of Hammer and his three seasons as a full-forward with East Fremantle.
‘By the way,’ Mum says, tone clipped again. ‘Robbie and Natalie are coming over for tea tonight.’
A tightness I hadn’t noticed in my neck suddenly eases. Maybe her weird mood isn’t about me, after all. Maybe Mum’s still on her anti-Aussie tirade and doesn’t want to see Natalie again.
When we get home, Mum makes gnocchi, which is a big deal given it’s a Friday night and she has to make the dough from scratch. I try to escape to the computer, but this time she refuses to let me go on my forums.
‘I need you to help me make the gnocchi,’ she says shortly.
So I spend my entire arvo smooshing gnocchi dough into the flour spread across the kitchen bench. You have to roll each piece individually along a fork to make it into the right shape. After a while I start rolling the gnocchi really hard into the cold steel, imagining I can hear their little doughy screams as the impressions of the fork are burned into their skin and they are metamorphosed, against their will, into food.
Robbie and Natalie rock up just after six.
‘Hey, Mum. Hey, little bro!’ Robbie booms, clapping his hands on my shoulder as I wash the flour off my hands.
Robbie is everything I wish I was, and I hate him for it. He got all the best parts of the Sicilian genes: swarthy olive skin; thick black hair – not curly, just wavy and oily; dark black eyes that can charm even the coldest heart. Oh, and the confidence. Robbie could walk into any room in any building in the world and get what he wants.
‘Hello, Mrs Calogero,’ Natalie says meekly, depositing a glass tray onto the bench.
‘Not there, dear – there’s flour everywhere,’ Mum chides her.
‘Oh, sorry,’ she winces. A little furrow appears in the brow of her soft, clear complexion. ‘I just wanted to do my part, so I brought dessert.’
Mum flips a handtowel over her shoulder and opens the fridge, turning her back to Natalie. ‘Oh, that’s nice. Another pavlova?’
‘I made something Italian, actually – tiramisu,’ Natalie says lightly. She’s like a deer rearing up on its hind legs and trying to get the hunter’s attention.
‘How nice,’ Mum mutters. ‘It’ll be interesting to see what Australian tiramisu tastes like.’
Natalie bites her lip. ‘By the way, after our chat the other night, I spoke to Rocky and Hannah. Acid Rose have agreed to play acoustic guitar for the ceremony. And at the reception they’ll just play their normal set of pop songs, nothing too heavy.’
Mum slams the kitchen tap with the butt of her hand; water rages into the sink. ‘I’ve never seen a guitar in our church,’ she mutters, vigorously washing her hands. ‘I’m not sure there’ll be any space for them.’
‘That’s why they’re coming to the rehearsal.’
This is obviously unexpected information, because Robbie seizes his moment, kissing Mum on the cheek and saying, while squeezing her shoulders, ‘Thanks for being so good about this, Mum.’
I don’t get a chance to see if Robbie’s charm has been enough to take the sting out of Mum’s tail, because he descends on me, blocking my view, and flicks my shoulder. ‘How’s my groomsman going?’
‘Alright.’
‘Dating Amber Brinkley yet?’
‘Nah.’
‘You should go for it, bro! You gotta have the confidence to ask pretty girls out. That’s how I got this one over here to say yes to marrying me.’
He winks at Natalie in a way that looks so cool. I wish I could wink like him. Natalie tries to smile back, but she’s locked in combat with Mum; they’re discussing tiramisu recipes.
Dad gets home just as we settle around the table for gnocchi bolognese.
‘Reckon we’ll get about twenty crates tomorrow,’ he announces. ‘Should be enough.’
‘Is sauce this weekend?’ I say.
‘It’s the only weekend my brothers are both free, so it has to be,’ Dad says. ‘We’re going out to old Vincenzo’s place this year. We leave at four in the morning, so set your alarm.’ He glances at Robbie. ‘Both of you.’
I feel a sinking in my gut. I’ve started to get used to my alone time on the weekends for my porn escapades. Even though I usually love sauce weekend, it means I’ll be in the inescapable clutches of my extended family from Saturday morning through to Sunday night.
‘Oh, is this the famous Italian sauce making?’ Natalie pipes up, like a bushy-tailed squirrel who just doesn’t know when to take the few acorns it has and make the best of them. ‘Like in Looking for Alibrandi?’
‘Kind of, but ours is the country version,’ Robbie says. ‘Us boys have to get up super early to go out to a market garden and pick the tomatoes.’
‘It sounds so cool,’ Natalie gushes. ‘Can I come?’
Mum drops the cheese and grater into her bowl of gnocchi; the clink of metal on china is the only sound in the room.
‘Did I say something wrong?’ Natalie gapes.
‘That part’s just for the boys,’ Robbie assures her, touching her shoulder.
‘Why?’ she queries.
I can’t tear my eyes away from the car crash.
‘Because it’s dirty, outside work. It’s hard work,’ Dad says.
‘So? Girls can do hard work, too.’
‘The girls do other stuff, back at the shed,’ Robbie says, visibly squeezing her shoulder now.
‘But – that’s just sexist,’ Natalie says, genuinely bemused.
Mum’s face has twisted into itself and I can see the battle raging in her head. Usually it’s her, each year, making a snide comment about how outdated the tradition of splitting the roles between men and women is. She’s fighting with herself on how to respond: maintaining her usual point means she has to openly agree with, and validate, Natalie; reneging means she undermines every argument she and Dad have ever had about this.
She resolves the tension in the most Sicilian way possible.
‘Eat the pasta,’ she commands the entire table.
The rest of the dinner passes without incident. When Robbie and Natalie leave at ten-thirty, I figure Mum will snap out of her mood and things will go back to the usual level of tension.
I’m at the table,
licking up the remains of delicious tiramisu from the bottom of a bowl. When I move the bowl from my face, I see Mum standing at the head of the table. Her face is more thunderous than it has been all night.
‘Finally,’ she says. ‘We can deal with this.’
Her narrowed eyes tell me she is not to be fucked with, but I have no idea what I’ve done wrong. I haven’t cammed with any guys since they caught me wanking last weekend; and there’s nothing else I’ve done in the past week that could be considered setting a foot out of line.
‘What?’
‘I know, Zeke,’ she says.
The blood drains from my brain. I lower the tiramisu-streaked bowl. ‘I think I’m gonna go to bed.’
‘No,’ Mum says. ‘Stay where you are.’
I glance around for Dad to help me, but he hasn’t come back into the room.
‘After that business with Charlie Roth, some of the mums started looking into what their sons were up to in their spare time,’ Mum says. ‘Pedro’s mum told me he’d been using her laptop to look at pornography. I thought I’d look at our computer.’
Oh. God. No.
‘The history had been cleared,’ she says, glaring at me pointedly.
Praise be to Jesus, I remembered to clear it.
‘But then I called the internet service provider, and the young man there showed me how to look into the temporary internet files,’ Mum says. ‘You forgot to clear those.’
‘We don’t need to talk about this,’ I say. My limbs are tingling.
‘This is what I found,’ Mum says, producing a folded-up envelope from nowhere.
She places the envelope on the table and slides it across to me, like I’m an innocent cashier and she’s an armed robber sliding her demands over.
My cheeks burn as I glance down at the list of websites scrawled in blue pen on the back of a gas company envelope. I only need to see the first URL – something impossibly ostentatious about big gay cocks – to know Mum knows the full truth.
I have no words. I can’t look her in the eye. I want to be dead, right now.
Invisible Boys Page 6
