Invisible Boys

by Holden Sheppard

  Even as I’m saying it, I can see my entire future crumble in front of my eyes. We were going to make an EP. We were going to get a manager’s attention. We were going to make it out of this town.

  But now we aren’t even going to exist.

  ‘Told you he wouldn’t agree,’ Rocky says.

  ‘Hey, how about you don’t talk about me as if I’m not right in front of you?’ I spit.

  ‘Fine,’ Hannah says. ‘I’ll tell them you’re not co-operating. We might lose the whole gig because of you.’

  ‘You know, there was a time when both of you would’ve preferred to lose a job than hurt me.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Rocky says. ‘Come on, Hannah. Let’s bail.’

  ‘Hey, just so you know,’ I say, grabbing the sleeve of his oversized, baggy white T-shirt, ‘if either of you try to cut me out of this band, I will sue your arses.’

  ‘Don’t fucken touch me,’ Rocky says.

  Hannah snorts with derision. ‘I don’t think your mum’s Centrelink money can afford a lawyer, Charlie.’

  They leave. I don’t have any comeback to that. If they decide we’re through, I can’t force them to be in a band with me anymore.

  I’m still on my feet, but I can’t feel the floor. I might as well be an empty carcass dangling in a cold abattoir.

  ‘Hey,’ a voice says to my left.

  I glance up. Rachel is standing opposite me at the bar.

  ‘I couldn’t help but overhear that,’ she says. Her tone isn’t as harsh as earlier. ‘I didn’t realise you were the kid everyone’s been talking about.’ She frowns. ‘My friend runs a group for kids facing what you’re going through. I could give you the details.’

  ‘I don’t need that,’ I tell her blankly. ‘Sounds like a fucking waste of time.’

  She shrinks back. I’m not the wounded little lamb she thought I was. ‘I was just trying to help,’ she says, raising her hands in surrender. ‘No need for anger.’

  ‘Really?’ Suddenly I’m on my feet. ‘You think there’s a need for some bullshit group therapy but no need for anger? You obviously don’t get it at all.’

  I shove my stool in, making sure it shrieks against the lacquered floor, and leave without looking for a response from her. But in my haste to escape, I’ve charged for the opposite end of the bar, instead of the exit. I can feel the Northampton boys and some older drinkers in their thirties staring at me.

  Automatically, I stride into the men’s toilets, like this was my plan all along.

  And of course, Matt is standing at the steel urinal, pissing with resonant force.

  ‘Oh,’ he mutters, seeing me.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, beaming at him. I can’t help myself. I want to screw up my face and call him a prick for dogging me in front of his mates, but I can’t bear the thought of letting him know I’m even a little bit mad at him. Stupid, soft-centred idiot that I am.

  Matt turns and faces the brown, mottled tiles on the wall. I make for the cubicle, but the door’s locked. A sign of paper and black texta says ‘out of order’.

  It’s destiny. I shuffle up to the urinal beside Matt and flop it out.

  Please let the pee flow immediately, I pray to the universe. If I don’t start peeing, I’ll get excited at the thought of the two of us standing here, holding our dicks. And I really can’t afford to get a hard-on at a public urinal.

  Thanks to the lemon, lime and bitters, the pee flows. Now I need to capitalise.

  ‘What are you up to after this?’ I ask Matt – gruffly, as if I’m a random straight mate. I already know how to play this game.

  ‘Uhhhh, yeah …’ he says, eyes examining the metal flush button. ‘Well, it’s gonna be a messy one tonight, mate. We’re going to stay ’til stumps.’

  Denied.

  ‘What about tomorrow night?’ I press. ‘There’s a double feature down at the Dongara drive-in, do ya wanna go, maybe?’

  Matt shakes his dick before it stops dribbling.

  ‘Think I’m busy,’ he grunts, zipping up and racing from the bathroom without washing his hands.

  The stream of my pee hitting the metal urinal is suddenly deafening.

  I leave the Batavia Tavern with my hands in my pockets and my head down, focusing on the cracks in the concrete that the council hasn’t fixed for years. All I want to do is get onto the roof of the old primary school and egg some randoms in the street below.

  Marine Terrace is alive with the spirit of Saturday night: everyone’s either already half-cut or has a hungry look of anticipation on their face that says they’ve been hanging out to get smashed all week.

  As I walk past the Blue Dog Bottleshop, I glance up and see a familiar – but unexpected – face.

  Zeke Calogero is sitting on a wooden bench outside the bottle-o. We’ve never had much to do with each other, though he’s in my English class. Sometimes I feel sorry for him, like when Hammer or Razor or someone is giving him a hard time, but other times I think he should just damn well grow some balls and stand up for himself.

  Right now, though, he doesn’t even look like he could stand up. He looks like a kid who just got told their dog was going to go away and live on the farm for a while.

  ‘Weird place to hang out,’ I say.

  Zeke glances up. If possible, he looks even more upset to see me standing there. I seem to have that effect on everyone today.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he says.

  ‘I have a name,’ I say. ‘Nice to see you, too.’

  His forehead creases apologetically. ‘I know. Sorry. Charlie. I’m not really in a good place, man.’

  That’s the straw, on top of all the other straws, that caves in my spine.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Zeke, do I look like I’m the right person to talk to about not being in a good place?’ I cry. ‘I’m gay. I broke up a marriage. My family hates me. My friends hate me. Literally everyone hates me. My band is over. Do you really want to pile on and talk about how you feel? Seriously?’

  Tears shine in Zeke’s charcoal eyes. ‘I think I’m gay, too.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus!’ I turn around, looking for something to kick in rage, and there’s nothing except wooden bollards to stop cars jumping the kerb. I take my skate shoe off and hurl it against the pastel blue bricks of the Blue Dog Bottleshop.

  ‘Did that help?’ Zeke asks in a small voice.

  ‘Not really.’

  Why do I have to deal with any of his shit? I haven’t even dealt with my own yet.

  ‘What do you want me to say?’ I growl at Zeke, pacing in front of his bench. ‘I can’t help you. You are what you are. Deal with it.’

  Zeke recoils.

  ‘What did you expect?’ I say. ‘That we’d have a big gay cuddle and I’d be your new best mate and we’d start talking about boys all the time?’

  ‘No,’ Zeke says finally. ‘Actually, I wasn’t going to tell anyone. It’s just … you appeared, and I thought you might understand. I wish I hadn’t said it now.’

  Something in his fragile voice resonates in my chest. I know the wish-I-hadn’t feeling all too well.

  ‘Shove over,’ I tell him.

  ‘Shouldn’t you get your shoe?’ he asks. ‘Someone might nick it.’

  Unexpectedly, I laugh, and he cracks a smile. I don’t remember the last time I laughed. It’s funny because we’re so used to people nicking stuff in Gero that it’s actually feasible that someone might steal a lone skate shoe, especially since it’s pretty new.

  ‘Yeah, I’d better,’ I say.

  I retrieve my shoe and when I get back, Zeke’s shuffled over to make space for me on the bench.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask him. ‘This is where all the dropkicks hang out, hassling people for spare change so they can buy piss.’

  ‘Well, I s’pose I was trying to become one of them,’ Zeke says dully.

  The thought of perfect, award-winning, top-of-the-class Zeke becoming a metho-drinking dero is laughable.

  ‘Dude, you have straigh
t As. You’re not cut out for this.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ he says. ‘I was thinking whiskey. I’ve been hanging here trying to work up the courage to ask someone to buy it for me.’

  ‘Why are you here, though?’

  ‘My folks found out.’

  ‘That you’re a big homo?’

  He winces. ‘Yep.’

  ‘They’re not flying the rainbow flag?’

  ‘Negatory.’

  ‘Mine neither.’

  ‘What did you do, then?’

  ‘Well, I just go home as little as possible,’ I explain. ‘Fitzy likes to get up in my face and act like he’ll get physical but he’s all bark. I get in late, once they’ve passed out, and I set my alarm early and get out of the house before they wake up. Hang out at the deli or whatever and then get the bus into town.’

  ‘Wait – you’ve been doing that since they found out?’

  ‘Yeah. Since Wednesday.’

  ‘But …’ His dark eyes are wide with disbelief, as if Mr Tetley gave him a B for physics. ‘Haven’t they called you? Haven’t they come to find you?’ He shows me his phone. There are twenty-eight missed calls. ‘I ran away from my uncle’s place a few hours ago and my family is hunting me down like CIA agents.’

  I have the sudden urge to grab the phone from him and shatter the screen.

  But I don’t.

  ‘That’s nice,’ I tell him. ‘They must really care about you.’

  ‘Not enough to accept me.’

  ‘Did they actually say it?’

  ‘Yes. Dad said he was disappointed in me.’ He knots his hands together in his lap, like he’s going to add a more graphic detail, but then he says, ‘Mum is disgusted with me, too.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Me too. About your Mum and your stepdad.’

  ‘He’s not my stepdad. He’s a cheating piece of shit.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  Silence falls between us. Three girls in bikinis and massive sunglasses stroll out of the Blue Dog and pass us, carrying cases of cider as they walk down to the foreshore.

  I nudge Zeke. ‘Look at those tits,’ I say. ‘Absolutely wasted on a couple of poofs like us.’

  He snorts with laughter. ‘Pretty much,’ he says, with a grin. I don’t think he’s ever laughed about being gay before. It’s disproportionate to the simple joke I made. But at least he looks less like he’s about to slit his wrists. ‘Hey, so where have you been going every day, since you haven’t been at school?’

  I hesitate. My first response is to make up a lie. But then I think it could be kind of nice to share this place with him.

  ‘I can show you, if you want,’ I say.

  ‘Oh God,’ Zeke says. ‘Dad’s calling again.’ He holds up his vibrating phone. ‘I really should answer, shouldn’t I? I’ve never done anything like this before. They’ll be freaking out.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘You’re lucky your Dad cares that much. Answer him.’

  I retie my shoe while Zeke takes the call.

  Zeke hangs up after a minute. ‘He’s coming to get me. He’s so mad.’

  ‘At least mad means he gives a rat’s,’ I say, standing up. ‘I’m gonna head. See you around, hey?’

  ‘But – we should hang out,’ Zeke says. ‘I know we’re not really friends at school, but we should do something. Talk. Something.’

  ‘There’s a double feature on tomorrow night at the Dongara drive-in. I was gonna go with someone but he can’t make it.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Zeke looks confused.

  ‘As in, why don’t you come with me instead?’ I explain. Poor bastard mustn’t be used to people inviting him to stuff. ‘Would be good to get outta town. You’re cool to ride on the back of my scooter, yeah?’

  His eyes widen. ‘Oh, I mean, I guess. It’s a bit far to go on a scooter, isn’t it? And where would we sit during the movie?’ He looks terrified, like I’ve just asked him to come to a satanic cult initiation instead of a movie.

  ‘Give me your number,’ I say, holding my phone out. ‘I’ll text you. We’ll sort it out.’

  We swap numbers.

  ‘And anyway, your brother’s Robbie, right? I’ll see you at the wedding rehearsal.’

  ‘What?’ Zeke’s olive skin blanches.

  ‘Me and my band are playing at the reception.’

  Zeke looks utterly horrified. ‘You can’t tell anyone else about me.’

  ‘I think you’re talking to the one guy in town who knows exactly how that would feel,’ I say. ‘Relax.’

  I leave him on the bench and trudge down Marine Terrace. Before I’ve gone fifty metres, my phone vibrates. Oh, crap – is Zeke going to be a needy loser?

  But it’s not Zeke. It’s Matt.

  Hey. Sorry couldn’t talk b4. Yep can drive you to the movies tomorrow. It’s a date.

  9: Wild Lupins

  Hammer

  The Dongara Drive-in on a Sunday night in summer is absolutely rammed. A lot of younger crew from the little inland towns – Mingenew and Morawa – hang out here a lot. It’s technically a family-friendly place: barefoot kids with ice creams and young parents who look exhausted at being outside of the house. But if you park at the back, behind the toilet block, it’s a different kettle of fish. That’s where the trees give enough shadow for people to get up to a little more than eating popcorn in the back of their utes. That’s where all the P-platers park. Especially the single P-platers, and that’s where I wanna be, because I’m single now, too.

  Richelle broke up with me via text yesterday. She said Friday night was the last time she’d put up with me pressuring her for sex when she wasn’t ready. Well, stuff her. I can get what I want without her.

  The good thing about Razor being held down a year at school is that he already has his P’s and can borrow his dad’s ute, so he drives us down to Dongara. Doug’s also here with some mates – I think they came to actually watch the movie – though I told Razor to park away from them. The last thing I want is my big brother getting in the way of what I want to do.

  I talk a lot about having smashed a heap of pussy but the truth is I’ve only gotten as far as feeling Richelle up and copping head from Amber Brinkley once. So many chicks are into me but they never seem to let me actually screw them. It’s like I’m a mule and their pussy is the carrot, and they know if they let me have it I won’t trot any further.

  So my plan is to find a random bird from out of town and finally get laid.

  ‘Seen anything good?’ I ask Razor.

  He scratches his arm. ‘Nah, man. It’s a pretty shit movie, to be honest.’

  ‘I don’t mean the movie,’ I say. ‘Seen anyone good?’

  A smirk creeps up his face. ‘Apart from her?’ He points to the hottie on screen. ‘Yeah. Check them out.’

  He points his half-empty can of Monster at a couple of white utes parked near the sump near the fence. The utes are caked in red dirt: one has a ‘fuck off, we’re full’ sticker on its rear window and the other sports a lurid pink decal that says ‘country girls do it better’. Each ute has a thin mattress and a large, heavy-looking blanket in the back. Three chicks are standing around at the back of one of the utes, drinking pre-mixed Bundy and not even pretending to watch the movie. Their eyes are trained on the guys going in and out of the toilet block.

  They’re sizing the guys up. They’re looking.

  ‘The one in the blue top goes alright,’ I say, taking a sip of Emu Export. Can’t go past the bush chook.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Razor says. ‘Check out the brunette! Boobies for days, my friend. You could drown in them. But at least you’d die happy.’

  ‘I’ll go for her, then,’ I say. ‘Wanna come with? You can have the one in the blue top.’

  Raze drains the last of his drink. ‘Nah, man. I’m taken. Amber.’

  ‘Come on. Youse went on like three dates.’

  He shakes his head and opens another can. ‘Nah. You go. Don’t keep me waiting, but. I need
to get home before eleven or Dad won’t let me borrow the ute again.’

  I snort. ‘How long do you think it’ll take me, seriously?’

  I leave him in the ute and pick my way through the cars and utes parked in uneven rows all over the field. Something’s exploding on the screen, for about the hundredth time tonight.

  A sudden movement catches my eye as I pass a banged-up, square-looking Pulsar from the late 80s or early 90s. A familiar face tried to hide himself.

  ‘Charlie Goth!’ I yell out, slamming my hand on the bonnet. ‘Don’t tell me you finally got a date!’

  There are two other guys in the car. Zeke Calogero is in the back, looking like he wants to open the door and leap into the sump to get away from me. And some other guy is behind the steering wheel. I’ve seen him somewhere before: few years older than us, think he used to play colts for Northampton. Mike or Matt or something. Doug used to be mates with him. Fuckedup teeth. Could eat an apple through a tennis racket. He winds down the window, his face dark.

  ‘Don’t touch my car, cunt, or I’ll touch you,’ he spits.

  I hold my hands up innocently. ‘Your new boyfriend is fierce, Charlie Goth!’

  Charlie rolls his window down. ‘He’s not my boyfriend, Hammer. I’m here with mates. Gay guys can have straight mates, you know.’

  I peer into the cab. ‘Are you sure? I can see old Zeeky in there. He sure as hell looks like a poof. We still up for that practice session, Zeeky?’

  ‘They say it takes one to know one, Hammer,’ Charlie says flatly. ‘That true?’

  ‘Whatever,’ I say, moving away from their car at once.

  I shake my head as I pass the other cars. Screw Charlie Goth. I’m going to get it on with a girl, right now.

  And I’m going to use the strongest tool at my disposal to get her.

  I stride into the men’s toilets and it’s thankfully empty. I turn the tap on full bore, strip my tank top off and scrunch it up into a ball beneath the running water until it’s saturated. Then I stick my head under the tap, the lukewarm summer water cooling me down, before I slide the slick tank top back over my head and stroll back outside.