After the bottles, the bath gets hosed out and the tomatoes go in. We spend two and a half hours squeezing them and slopping their pulpy corpses into crates at either end of the tub, manned by Uncle Mario at one end and Dad at the other. The whole world smells like acidic tomatoes.
‘Careful, Zeke,’ Mum says tartly, flicking seeds off her cheek. ‘That one nearly squirted me in the eye. Make sure to hold them underwater as you squeeze them.’
‘Sam, come have a look at this,’ Uncle Gino calls.
Dad wipes his hands on a rag. ‘Angelo,’ he calls to my younger cousin. ‘Bring those muscles over here. Keep squishing the tomatoes down while I’m gone.’
Angelo nods, straight-faced, like a soldier taking his marching orders.
‘Dad, I can do it,’ I call after him.
Dad pauses, and even with his back turned I can sense his wince.
He turns around. ‘I need someone with muscles to press the tomatoes down – it’s hard work,’ he says. ‘Tell you what, if I have a problem for your big brain to solve, I’ll come to you first, bud.’
The worst thing about his response is that he was trying to be nice to me.
Angelo wears a shit-eating grin as he starts pressing his open palms into the juicy crates. I swear he’s flexing his biceps unnecessarily.
‘I’ll let ya know if I need to work out the hypotenuse of something, Zeke,’ he jokes.
You couldn’t work out the hypotenuse of anything, you giant thicko, I think.
A family game of backyard cricket is the traditional end to the first day of sauce-making. This year, the sun is starting to set as we begin. The rules are customised to this corner of the block: hitting the fence is a four; over the fence or onto the roof of the shed is six and out.
Me and Robbie are batting; Angelo bowls a tennis ball down the length of lawn, and Robbie smacks it hard.
‘Six and out!’ Dad roars. ‘Good hit, Robbie!’
Robbie hands the bat to Angelo; Dad’s wicket keeper, and he whispers something to Angelo. They both laugh, like they just shared a private joke. I don’t think I’ve ever had more fury flowing through my veins than right at this second.
Uncle Mario bowls a quick one, and Angelo smacks it hard; the ball soars to the distant edge of the block, but doesn’t quite hit the super-six fence. Angelo and I bolt, and get three runs in, just making it to safety before Uncle Gino chucks the ball back to Uncle Mario.
‘That was a great hit,’ Dad says to me, crouching at the wickets behind me. ‘Let’s see you do something like that, Zeke.’
A red light blinks to life in my hypothalamus.
‘You think I can’t do that?’ I cry. ‘I can, Dad. If you give me a chance, I can!’
‘Settle, Gretel. I just said, let’s see you do it.’
‘Meaning you don’t really think I could!’ I snap. I’ve never spoken to Dad like this before. ‘You think the sun shines out of Angelo’s arse, don’t you?’
Dad clears his throat and says, so quietly that only I can hear him, ‘Well, he hasn’t done anything to disappoint me, has he?’
I open my mouth to respond, but no sound comes out. The red light in my synapses engulfs my entire vision, like crimson cellophane over a camera lens. My hands are shaking on the cricket bat. I feel like someone just thrust a dagger of ice through my ribs.
‘Here it comes,’ Uncle Mario calls, bowling a hell of a lot softer than he did for Angelo.
The rage coursing through me pools in my hands and I swing the cricket bat with more anger than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.
CRACK!
The ball connects with the bat – with me – and soars across the yard, sailing over the fence.
‘Six and out!’ Uncle Mario cries. ‘Christ! Nice work, Zeke.’
‘Solid, bro!’ Robbie calls.
I turn to Dad, my face on fire.
He raises an eyebrow – a look I’d previously associated with my mother. ‘Well, that was our last ball,’ he says. ‘Go get it.’
I throw the cricket bat down and march across the backyard, using a wooden post to hoist myself up onto the top of the super six fence, and then over it.
I find both balls within seconds, but when I go to jump back over the fence, the fire in my guts has consumed me. I squeeze the first sun-damaged tennis ball until finally my thumb penetrates it. I tear at the cut until the ball becomes nothing more than rubber orange peel.
I dig my thumb into the other ball and mangle it, tear it apart, destroy the fucking piece of shit, then I throw both scraps over the fence and I run.
Along the side of the fence.
Away from the shouts in the backyard.
Past the cars parked out front.
Nowhere in mind except to run and not be here anymore.
Letterbomb #2
if you had actually got the last letter you’d think I would’ve topped myself by now but ta-da I’m still alive and kicking even though I don’t really want to be so fucking congratulations to me, right?
tonight in bed I couldn’t get to sleep I kept thinking about the summer dance and what happened that night so I drank a glass of milk and looked through the photos I have of you on my phone but I still couldn’t sleep and I had to get up to pee like four times and then I felt like I was choking so I had to keep sitting up and looking at my throat in the mirror with the torch from my phone and everything looks clear but it doesn’t feel clear it feels like something is blocking my throat maybe I’m just coming down with something I don’t know
I read something in the bible the other day now don’t roll your eyes at me because I know what you’re thinking and no I’m not a Jesus freak or born again or whatever and I’m not religious like those weirdos in town who knock on everyone’s door on a Sunday even if you’re having bacon and eggs with your family but anyway some of the stuff I read kind of made sense like I think maybe I’ve got the devil inside me and he’s testing me to try to make me a homosexual and this is all just a test and I think maybe what I’ve done is evil it’s definitely not right or justifiable and all those people harping on about being nice to gay people don’t sit right with me because it’s kind of like they’re excusing our behaviour when really what we need’s a good clip around the ears and for someone to shake it out of us like literally shake us until our skeletons rattle and the desire to do the wrong thing just falls off of us like cooked meat sliding off the bone
8: Gay Bar
Charlie
Any second now, this square-shouldered barmaid is going to come over and tell me I’ll have to leave if I don’t have parents or adult guardians with me, as the Batavia Tavern is a licensed establishment. Rocky and Hannah better not stand me up. If that’s their plan, I’m going to rain hell down on them for the rest of their lives. I’ve never wanted to hurt friends as much as I want to hurt them right now.
‘Hey, hun, you got ID?’ the barmaid asks briskly, leaning against the bar with authority.
‘No,’ I say. Wearily. ‘I’m sixteen. I’m the guitarist with Acid Rose. Oliver lets us meet here to talk about gigs.’
Her glossed lips reflect the light as she purses them. ‘Oliver’s told me to kick out any kids who come in here without ID.’
I death stare her back. ‘Oliver told me to namecheck him if any waitresses get too big for their boots,’ I say. ‘Ask him. I think he’s still out the back.’
She scowls and leaves. She won’t bother me again.
I sit and watch the footy half-heartedly. There are a few studs on the screen. I don’t like the big muscle-bound meatheads footy usually attracts – too much muscle, and too much of it between the ears – but some of the younger players are hotties. There’s one forward with swept-aside hair and a full sleeve of sailor tattoos who I could get behind.
It always surprises me how homoerotic footy really is. If I were into these kinds of guys, it would be like softcore porn: watching them sweat and wrestle and compete and punch and get all up in each others’ faces with aggression a
nd macho rage. Those tight-fitting jumpers. The short shorts.
Okay, so, maybe I’m a little bit into footy players. They’re still guys, after all.
I send another message to the Acid Rose group chat. Hannah sees the message and doesn’t reply. Rocky doesn’t even see it.
The barmaid comes back and stares through me with contempt. I call her over and order a lemon, lime and bitters. She glowers at me as she stirs the Angostura into the fizzing lemonade.
‘Thanks, Rachel,’ I say, reading her name badge. I take a satisfied sip. ‘Wow, you know, that tastes really bitter, doesn’t it?’
‘Bite me,’ Rachel snarls, turning her back and taking her square shoulders to the other side of the bar.
I drink my LLB. Watch lazily as my tattooed full-forward takes a mark but then shanks the kick. Check the group chat: Rocky’s seen my message, too, now – but no reply from either of them. They’ve just left me on ‘read’. Weak shits. I shred my paper coaster into little strips on the bar.
As the sun sets, the cruisy beer garden vibe gives way to the Saturday night partygoers. At about seven, a flock of five farm boys rock up in their tight denim and dress shoes and newly-pressed shirts. Two of them are wearing Akubras. One of them sports a room-shattering mullet. One has a beard that would make Ned Kelly weep with envy.
And one of them is a tall, straight-backed, blue-eyed bloke with fucked-up country-boy teeth.
Matt.
My pulse chases itself.
Last night with him, in the car at the wharf, was the most exciting night of my entire life. I’d been planning to text him after I was done with Rocky and Hannah and try to meet him again.
It was only one night and one conversation, but it was also one kiss.
My first.
I don’t want to think too much about my first kiss with Matt. It was perfect, and I’m scared if I let my mind stray back to it I’ll overthink it.
But that doesn’t stop me wanting to see him again.
I’d been glancing at his message on my phone all day. I’d sent him a warm:
Hey Matt, this is Charlie from the wharf. Great meeting ya. Give me a call sometime! X
Plus a whole bunch of emojis that accurately represented the incredible moment we’d shared. Lots of smiley faces. And a winky face, for good measure. I’d toyed with sending him the eggplant and peach emojis but opted against it: I didn’t want to look like a total slut right away. Let him find that out in his own time.
His response?
Cheers bro. Matt here.
Plus one shaka emoji.
Like, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at that. On one hand, you could read that as him being utterly uninterested in me beyond the one hook up. I’d definitely lurched to that school of thought a few dozen times during the day. On the other hand, maybe it’s really sweet. He’s a no-nonsense rural boy and he probably never uses emojis anyway so maybe it was special that I even got one. And I like how he thought it was necessary to text back and tell me his name when I’d already used it in my text.
I watch the bunch of country boys as they form a scrum around the bar. Rachel’s square shoulders slice through the air as she approaches them, but this time she has a smile on her face.
‘My favourite Northampton boys!’ she calls, reaching for a pint glass. ‘Matty Jones, the cricket superstar of the north, fresh from demolishing the Chapman Valley boys! What’s the occasion tonight?’
‘Leo’s nineteenth!’ Matt booms. ‘Tonight, we’re going for a Troughy!’
His voice is so different to how he spoke to me last night. Rough and blokey, but with his young face it’s like watching a kid try on his dad’s suits, with the sleeves draped over the wrist. I didn’t know he was a gun cricketer.
Matt’s mates all chorus their approval and Rachel starts pouring the first round.
A Trough is what the Batavia calls getting through every single beer on tap in one night. There are sixteen of them. The story goes that everyone who tries it ends up chundering in the trough out back by the end of the night.
So much noise comes from the Northampton boys as they wait for their beer: every laugh is boisterous; every swear word lands with punch; every pat on the back claps with force. There’s so much energy in their bodies, like they’re modern day cowboys riding into town for a big night at the saloon.
I know Matt probably won’t want to chat with me while he’s with his buds, so I keep my eye trained on him, trying to get his attention for a quick, cool-guy nod. But he doesn’t look back. At first I figure it’s just bad luck, but after the other boys start glancing at the footy on the big screen and he doesn’t follow suit, I realise he’s actively looking in the other direction.
The Northampton boys grab their first pints and herd themselves past me. Fuck it, I think.
‘Hey, dude,’ I call to Matt as he passes.
For a second, his face spasms, like I just tasered him. Then it becomes blank, expressionless, as he moves as one with his mates: a block of granite among a cliff face.
‘Hey,’ he says, without looking at me. Bloke voice. He passes me with his mates, and then grabs one of them round the shoulders. ‘Check it out, Leo! Rusling’s gonna get his first goal ever. Told you he’d be a superstar.’
‘Who cares,’ Leo says. ‘It’s just pre-season bullshit.’
‘Hey, I’ve got a multi riding on this,’ Matt says, sipping his beer.
I tear my gaze away from them. Maybe it was a dumb fantasy, but I thought he would’ve at least given me a nod back. Maybe a wink, when nobody was looking.
‘Alright,’ a female voice beside me says, ‘let’s get this over with.’
Rocky and Hannah have finally showed up. Hannah’s wearing a giant bottle-green hoodie that clashes with the skanky green stripe in her matted, oily hair. Rocky sports a backwards cap and a new white tank top that hugs his muscled chest in all the right places: he looks like a backup dancer for Ariana Grande. I used to think he was hot, but the aloof smirk on his face today makes him ugly.
‘Oh, hey guys, you’re totally forgiven for keeping me waiting for forty-five minutes,’ I say, brushing the paper remains of the coaster off the bar. ‘Thanks so much for saying sorry.’
‘I don’t think I’m the one who needs to say sorry,’ Hannah says. ‘My neighbour told me you took my bike.’
‘So what?’ I say, putting my hands behind my head. ‘I brought it back. You never would’ve known it was gone if he hadn’t dobbed.’
‘Look,’ Hannah says, ‘me and Rocky have been talking, and we think you should bow out of the wedding gig.’
It feels like she just shot little bullets of ice into my beating heart.
‘I thought you guys decided we were going on hiatus anyway.’
‘After our last two booked gigs are done, yeah,’ Hannah says quickly. ‘But you really can’t be at that one.’
‘Why should I bow out? I’m lead guitarist. You need me.’ The words are tumbling out more quickly than I can arrange them – or get to my core point. ‘I’m a part of this band.’
‘You are,’ Hannah says, making a face like she just knocked back a shot of tequila. ‘But because of what you did to the Strattons, Nattie and Robbie don’t want you there. You don’t want to mess up another marriage, do you?’
‘It’s dog act, man,’ Rocky says, hands in the pockets of his boardies. ‘How could you wreck a home like that? They got kids.’
My blood passes boiling point in an instant and evaporates into raging steam that could power a locomotive.
‘Oh, you do have a tongue in your head, do ya, Rocky?’ I say. ‘I hate people who cheat, dickhead, in case you didn’t already know that from the millions of times I’ve said it. I hate Fitzy more than I hate anyone else. I even wrote songs about it. I would never do that to anyone. Kevin told me his marriage was already over, or I never would’ve done it.’
Both Hannah and Rocky flinch when I say Kevin’s name.
‘Oh,’ I say softly. ‘That
’s what’s really going on, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘You have a problem with me being gay,’ I say, louder than I mean to. ‘Both of you.’
I feel the glances of some of the Northampton boys on my back. Rachel squints at me as she washes a glass.
The empty look on both Rocky and Hannah’s faces tells me I’m right on the money. There’s no indignation and no pleas of being misunderstood.
My heart feels like an overcharged battery.
‘I get it,’ I say. ‘So, we can be in a band and talk about civil rights movements, and you guys are on board with that because otherwise you wouldn’t be able to call yourselves ‘woke’ like real artists, right? Hannah, you have a fucking rainbow badge on your school bag. Rocky, wasn’t it you who used to go on about how groundbreaking Macklemore’s song was?’ I glare at them both. ‘But when your mate actually comes out – a real-life, tangible gay guy – then you have to put your money where your mouth is, and suddenly your pockets are empty.’
Hannah frowns. ‘We both support gay rights.’
‘Bull,’ I spit. ‘Support isn’t just talk. It’s fucking action.’ I stare at their averted faces, both deliberately looking at the bar and not at me, and rage bubbles inside me. ‘Are you forgetting the swimming carnival, Hannah? When Razor called you a beached whale in front of everyone and I went ape shit on him?’ She traces a circle on the wooden bar. ‘And Rocky, when Tamara accused you of being the one who stole from the mission box – you know, because she’s a racist skank – I told her what for.’ Still no eye contact. ‘That’s fucking support. When the shit hit the fan for both of you, I had your backs. Do you have my back now, or not?’
My question hangs in the air long enough to answer itself.
‘Just let us replace you for the wedding gig. You can still perform at the Summer Dance with us.’
‘No!’ I shout. Suddenly I’m on my feet. ‘I’ll be playing at the Summer Dance next weekend. And I’ll be playing at the wedding the weekend after. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.’
Invisible Boys Page 10
