‘And has any of it been depraved in nature?’
‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘Like, vanilla stuff.’ Does he watch porn? Does he know what I mean by vanilla?
‘By depraved,’ he says, tellingly, ‘I mean anything unnatural.’
He waits for me to say it. I don’t. But the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up.
‘Homosexual,’ he prompts.
‘Did my parents speak to you already?’
‘That doesn’t matter.’ So that’s a yes. ‘Tell me.’
‘Well, I think you already know,’ I say.
He doesn’t respond.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Gay porn.’
‘I see. Masturbation, pornography, homosexual acts. These are not small matters. These are all mortal sins.’
‘I know.’
Completely separate to the fire spreading over my face is a pit of volcanic fury in my belly. Why am I so weak? Why do I cower to this? I know science. I know homosexuality is natural in the animal kingdom. I don’t think anyone should have fewer rights than anyone else. I don’t hate it in other people as much as I hate it in myself. And yet I fall in line with Father Mulroney’s condemnation.
Truth is, I don’t know what I believe anymore. My bones seem to know intrinsically that I’m gay: it’s locked up in my marrow. But my blood seems to rile and boil at the thought; it begs to flood my skin and wash all the badness out of me.
‘You must not commit these sins again,’ Father Mulroney says. ‘It’s a difficult time, growing up. Your body is changing. Part of becoming a man is not just physical, but moral; learning to control those impulses God doesn’t want us to act on.’
But if God made us, why give us these impulses if they’re so damn immoral?
I don’t say it to the priest, because I’m a coward. In fact, what spills out of my mouth is worse than saying nothing.
‘I don’t want to,’ I confess. ‘I don’t want to look at that stuff. It’s not something I want. I’m sorry.’
‘Then there is hope for you to recover and grow into a moral man,’ Father Mulroney says. ‘For penance, say twenty Our Fathers and thirty Hail Marys. And do not commit these sins again.’
‘Okay.’
‘Do you know the Act of Contrition?’
‘No.’
‘It’s on the little card on the bench in front of you. Read it out to me.’
I know this is a big stupid waste of time, really, but a spark of hope ignites in my chest that saying this might achieve something. Divine intervention. A miracle.
‘O my God,’ I read in a low voice. ‘I am heartily sorry for having offended thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven, and the pains of hell …’
I finish with the sign of the cross and Father Mulroney tells me to leave. I walk out of the confessional box and feel worse than before I went in.
My bones want out of my flesh. My blood burns like boiling acid.
I leave the confessional to see a swarm of white-haired people has congregated outside the church. They’re kissing each other on the cheek, papery hands clutching handbags and tattered bibles. Some of the really keen ones are poised at the stainedglass doors, pre-emptively splashing their lined foreheads with holy water ahead of evening mass.
Until the wedding rehearsal was scheduled for a Monday, I never even knew they did a mass on Monday nights. These old folks look like they live for it.
I walk through them and over to the grove of trees beside the church. I need air after that confession. Air and water. I want to dunk my head into a barrel of ice water like they do in those old Looney Tunes cartoons.
‘Hey,’ a voice calls.
I glance up.
Charlie is slumped on the brick half-wall of the grotto that houses the huge porcelain Mary statue. His black skinny jeans and massive Globe skate shoes are stretched wide, taking up space like he doesn’t give a shit about anything in the world. There’s an aura of rebellion that emanates from him like a sonic wave: it’s in the reckless curve of his back against the bricks, the confident spread of his legs, the freshly-painted black fingernails, the earphone wires that show he’s plugged in to another world entirely.
‘Hey,’ I say, moving over to him.
Charlie rips his earbuds out. I can hear a woman screaming over some thrash guitars.
‘You look funny in a suit,’ he says.
‘Had to wear it for the rehearsal,’ I explain. Wearing a suit actually feels kind of cool, like you’re fully grown. ‘What happened to you today?’
‘I bailed,’ he says, with a wry smile. ‘Thought I was up to it, but the thought of facing everyone at school still …’ He shakes his head. ‘Tomorrow, maybe.’
‘Well, if you come tomorrow, let me know.’
‘Why?’ Charlie says at once. ‘You wanna hang out in the quad together? Maybe dance to some classic Kylie Minogue?’
Goosebumps tear up my arm. What am I thinking? I can’t be seen with Charlie Roth at school. I twist my face, trying to find the right words.
‘It’s fine,’ Charlie says, saving me. ‘There’s literally nobody who wants to be seen with me in public. I’ve learnt that. And I don’t blame you, Zeke. They’re all arseholes. You’re just protecting yourself. I get it.’
‘If it was different, you know …’
‘Yeah, cool,’ he says, kind of dismissively. He wraps his earphone cables around his phone. ‘Anyway, did I miss anything at school or what?’
‘Nah. They’re just getting us ready for the first essay in English, and in …’
‘Whoa, ease up, square. I meant anything interesting. Don’t tell me about school subjects. Jesus.’
But English is interesting, I think.
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Everyone’s just going on about the Summer Dance. Mostly the girls, I guess. They’re all excited for the weekend.’
‘It’s their dress rehearsal for the ball next year,’ Charlie says, rolling his eyes. ‘So pathetic.’
‘You going?’
‘Nah. Jeez, I dunno. Nah. Fuck that. You?’
‘I guess. If someone … er … well, I guess I need to ask someone.’
‘That’s usually how it works. Would you really want to go with a girl, though?’
I turn, check the coast is clear of elderly parishioners who might be of Italian descent and therefore able to gossip back to my family. We’re out of earshot. ‘Well, I can’t go with a boy.’
‘Some schools do let that happen now.’
‘Only state schools. Not Catholic ones.’
‘Yeah, our teachers wouldn’t know how to handle that,’ Charlie says. ‘They’d implode.’ A strange smirk grows over his skinny, pimply face. ‘You know, the thought makes me kinda want to go to the dance after all.’
‘With a guy?’
‘If I want to,’ he says, turning his nose up.
God, I wish I could be more like him. Charlie would never stand for the kind of interrogation that I just had with Father Mulroney. He would’ve said what was on his mind. He would have challenged the priest. Told him he was wrong. He would tell his parents they were wrong.
I will never have his courage.
‘Hey, my bad about last night at the movies,’ Charlie says. ‘You agreed to come before Matt said he was in, and I didn’t want to cancel on either of you. Sorry if it was awkward …’
‘Uh,’ I try to find the diplomatic answer, then figure I probably don’t need to do that with Charlie. ‘Yeah, it was pretty awkward being the third wheel.’
‘I didn’t realise Matt would be so rude to you,’ he says. ‘I thought he’d be okay being open since you’re gay, too, but he really didn’t like that I told you. I figured you’re allowed to tell other gay guys in the closet. It’s like mutually assured destruction. Either of you tells and it’s catastrophe, like a nuclear winter. You’re the USA and he can be North Korea.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Anyway, I stuffed that up.’
‘It’s okay. It’s cool. Thanks for
asking me.’
‘What happened with Hammer in the toilet block at the drive-ins? You never told us the full thing.’
I glance at my watch. Still five minutes before Robbie and Natalie and everyone else is meant to rock up for the mass. I quickly tell him how I came out of my cubicle and found Hammer losing his shit in front of the mirror, but I don’t tell him the stuff Hammer said. Like when he said he “didn’t want this”. Or when he gripped onto my hand and squeezed it until he could get his breath back. Or how he said sorry for giving me a hard time at school. That would have been the biggest shock of all, until he said, ‘I’m so glad I have you here with me right now.’
That freaked me right out. I told him I was getting his brother, and I left the toilet block right away. Doug drove him to hospital after that.
‘Maybe he took something,’ Charlie says, raising an eyebrow. ‘Pretty weird.’
‘I heard a rumour he took some pingas,’ I say. It’s not a lie. I did hear that rumour. But I don’t believe it. Hammer wasn’t dying that night. He was in turmoil.
‘There you go,’ Charlie says.
As if to remind me of my own turmoil, my bones start to burrow into my flesh again, my blood racing. I couldn’t imagine feeling worse than this. Worse than this would be dead.
‘Hey, how did you deal with it?’ I ask Charlie abruptly.
‘With what?’
‘Like, how are you feeling now that you’re openly gay?’
Charlie snorts, his skate shoe drawing a circle in the sand at the base of the statue.
‘Funny. You’re the first person who’s actually asked me that.’ He kicks sand over the traced circle. ‘Come on. Mass is starting. Let’s head in and get this bloody rehearsal over with.’
I glance around. The white-haired people are all inside. Mum and Dad’s car is in the car park. They must already be inside. Crap. I wonder if they saw me talking to Charlie?
Charlie stands up and slings his black backpack over his shoulder. ‘Come on, Zeke, whack a smile on the dial. Don’t want God to know you’re sad, do you?’
We go in. I sit with Mum, Dad, Robbie, Natalie and her parents. Charlie sits by himself. Hannah and Rocky are in the back pew, showing each other stuff on their phones. Richelle Meyers is next to Robbie’s best man, Spud, and two chicks I don’t know.
After mass, Father Mulroney gathers us all at the front of the church and starts talking with Robbie and Natalie about the wedding ceremony.
‘Do they have to be here for this?’ Mum says at one point, eyeing Charlie, Rocky and Hannah. ‘Father, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guitar in this church!’
‘Oh, yes, we often have acoustic guitarists play for private events, especially weddings and baptisms,’ Father Mulroney says, surprisingly upbeat. ‘It’s not traditional, but there’s nothing in the Bible against it, you know.’
Mum’s face crumbles. I see Natalie’s white teeth flash with triumph, just for a second, before she breaks away and has an intense pow-wow with Charlie, Rocky and Hannah. Mum and Dad are left to chat awkwardly with Natalie’s parents.
The rest of us just stand there. It’s Richelle Meyers and Natalie’s other two bridesmaids, Josie and Freja, on one side, near the candles, and me and Spud on the other side, near the lectern.
The stained glass doors open half-way through and Hammer rocks up.
My breath catches in my throat. A Sicilian voice in my brain bellows:
Ciao, bello!
Hammer is wearing a tight-fitting black suit, his pectorals pressing against the white cotton shirt underneath. His shoulders are broad and square. His gait is tough and cool, like he knows how good he looks. His hair is damp, his skin shiny.
My crotch twitches and my gut does a dance of excitement. Looks like I’ll be needing penance again.
‘’Bout time!’ Spud cries, interrupting the priest. I think he’s just glad to have a mate to talk to, since he seems to prefer silence than talking to me.
Hammer’s face breaks into a larrikin grin. I’ve never noticed he has two perfect dimples. He strides up the steps to the altar and claps Robbie on the shoulder.
‘Hey mate,’ he says, reaching Spud and pumping his hand.
Instinctively, I go to turn away, but then Hammer moves on to me, holding his hand out.
‘Hey, bud, how are ya?’
If I didn’t know there was nothing other than a wooden lectern and a big tank of holy water behind me, I’d be looking around to see who he was really talking to.
But this is real. Hammer just said hey to me. And asked how I was. And called me ‘bud’.
I grab his hand and shake it quickly. He falls into line beside me and Spud, and watches the priest steer Natalie through the motions.
‘Lookin’ schmick, bruz,’ Spud mutters to Hammer over the top of me. They’re both about a head taller than me. Damn short wog genes.
‘Back at ya, bro!’ Hammer says. ‘You too, Zeke. Lookin’ nice and dapper there, ay.’
He grins at me and by reflex, I grin back. I want to keep looking at him. His eyes are bright, nothing like the mess and panic I saw on Saturday night. Those dimples. The confidence and swagger he walks with. The muscle I know is rippling beneath that suit.
Oh fuck.
As if this week couldn’t get any weirder, I think I’ve got a crush on my bully.
11: Berlin Chair
Charlie
On my first day of year seven, I let slip that I was dreading going to high school, so Dad drove me to school for the first and only time. He was on his way to work, so we were in his truck, which I always liked, because we towered over the puny sedans. When he pulled up on Maitland Street, he grabbed my arm and said, ‘Remember, Charlie, if you have a good day, then your worry was for nothing. And if you have a bad day, then we can fix it for tomorrow, okay?’
‘That’s the bell,’ I said. ‘I have to go. I can’t be late.’
Dad chuckled as he hugged me goodbye. ‘Charlie, it’s just high school. No matter how scared you are, it won’t physically kill you.’
His words lurk in my memory as I stand outside the steel gates at the entrance to school.
It’s my first day back since Alicia Stratton outed me.
I wanted to recall Dad’s words and feel comforted, like I did on my first day of year seven. But thinking of them just makes me think of Dad. He didn’t know, back then, how easily things that shouldn’t kill you still can.
And it makes me wonder if he was even right, after all. This morning, I feel like high school definitely has the power to physically kill me.
So I’ve put on my armour.
To deflect sword strikes, my chain mail: a black Ramones T-shirt beneath my grey school shirt, my two top buttons undone and my sleeves rolled up to show it off as much as possible without receiving detention or, worse, scab duty.
My hands are my shields: studded leather wristbands on both sides, my nails painted jet black.
My helmet? I put my earphones in and crank the volume on my phone to what it tells me is a dangerous level.
Then I press play and blast “Berlin Chair” by You Am I as I charge onto the battlefield.
The guitars propel me forward. Through the girls, glancing and whispering. Through the boys, calling stuff out and laughing. Through the teachers, who would usually arrest me for my studded wristbands and nail polish; today, they just look amazed to see me walking through the school again, like I missed the memo that being gay meant I was supposed to expel myself.
I don’t take my earphones out until I get to home room. My blood is pumping: I’m ready to fight, to snap, to verbally KO anyone who says just about anything that I could construe as being an insult. I don’t care who says what: whether it’s a footy jock in my year, or Mr Peters, my home room teacher, or a stupid year seven girl with a bad attitude, I will fuck them up if they say anything.
But home room isn’t what I expected.
Nobody shoves me, or calls me a faggot, or throws ninja stars at my
back before spear-tackling me.
It’s just silence.
It’s like I’m not there.
Everyone just talks about the Summer Dance. A couple of the usual people I talk to say ‘hey’, but they don’t look me in the eye.
The only one who does look at me is Mr Peters. As he reads the daily notices, his eyes keep flicking over to me.
When the bell goes for first period, everyone bails, but Mr Peters walks up to my desk. ‘Stay back a minute, Mr Roth.’
As soon as the room is empty, he crosses his arms in his cheap, chequered business shirt.
‘You need to roll your sleeves down,’ he says. ‘Button that shirt up. Those wristbands need to go. You can’t do anything about those nails, but tonight you need to wipe that off.’
‘Why? Girls are allowed to wear nail polish. It’s sexist if I can’t.’
Mr Peters shakes his head. ‘Don’t argue,’ he says. ‘Also, you’ve been absent for several days in a row and we’ve had no word from your parents.’
‘From my mum, you mean,’ I say. ‘Fitzy’s not my dad.’
‘Do you have an explanation for your absence?’
‘Oh, come on. You already know. Everyone does.’
Mr Peters does a curt nod. ‘The rumours aren’t good. I’m concerned for you.’
‘Don’t be,’ I say, picking up my school bag. ‘I’m doing just ace.’
‘Charlie,’ he calls, as I move for the door. ‘Look, some of my colleagues wouldn’t do this, but I want to help you. Even if you’ve done everything in your power to get the teaching staff offside these past few years – and, quite frankly, you really have pushed us to the limits – I do still care about your wellbeing, you know.’
‘As if,’ I say. ‘You’re a Catholic. I know where you think I’m going.’
‘We aren’t all monolithic in our beliefs, you know.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’ve already spoken to the school counsellor. She’d be quite glad to see you for a chat. Nothing scary.’
‘Too bad,’ I say. ‘I really don’t care about seeing that bitch.’
I put my earphones back in for the walk to English. My nerves soften: this is one of the classes I share with Zeke. For whatever reason, a thick, ropey knot slides undone in my stomach.
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