Invisible Boys

by Holden Sheppard

  The guy doesn’t touch Charlie on the shoulder like his mother did. He pulls away and boards the bus.

  ‘Is that your stepdad?’ I say, once he’s on the bus.

  ‘No,’ Charlie says. ‘They’re not married.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of what he just said to you. That was horrible.’

  Charlie snorts. ‘That wasn’t too bad. By Fitzy’s standards, it was practically a hug.’

  ‘How come your mum’s going too?’

  ‘Dunno. Apparently Fitzy’s two brats are more important to take care of than me.’ He scuffs his shoe on the edge of a pothole in the bitumen. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’

  I usher him away from the people still gathered to watch the bus leave. We shift towards the row of parked cars, where nobody can hear us. ‘Came into town for a Valentine’s Day date,’ I say, with a knowing smile.

  Charlie’s eyes widen. ‘What – as in – you’re going out with a guy?’

  Something glitters in my eyes. I can feel my irises fizzing and spitting out golden sparks.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You won’t believe this,’ I say. ‘It’s Hammer.’

  ‘WHAT?!’ Charlie’s eyes dart across my face, hunting for a sign that I’m playing a prank. ‘No way, dude. You’re bullshitting me!’

  ‘Honest to God. I’m not lying.’

  ‘Whoa!’ Charlie whoops and claps his hands together. ‘This is nuts, dude. Totally nuts. Hammer? The footy jock? That’s wild.’

  ‘Yeah – I guess that’s why he was freaking out the other night.’ I feel bad about spilling Hammer’s secret, but what happened at the party was so surreal I’ve barely been able to believe it myself. It feels good to say it out loud to someone; to make it real. ‘We kind of made out last night at Amber Brinkley’s party and then he said he wanted to take me out. I figured he just said it because he was drunk. But when we texted today he was still keen. It’s weird, right?’

  ‘Shit. I never saw that coming,’ Charlie says, his forehead just a mess of squiggles. ‘I had him pegged as straight.’

  ‘Same. Lucky me, I guess. We’re heading to Bilby’s.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Their burgers are rad.’

  ‘Are you seeing Matt tonight?’

  ‘Actually, yeah. That’s kind of why I wanted to make sure Mum and Fitzy actually left town. Matt’s parked right behind you.’

  I spin around. Sure enough, Matt’s square-edged sedan is a couple of cars back. He nods from behind the steering wheel.

  ‘Guess we’re both doing alright, aren’t we?’ I say, exchanging a glance with Charlie. Matt isn’t as built as Hammer, but he’s still damn hot with a cute smile and a great worker’s body.

  ‘Yeah,’ Charlie trails off. ‘Anyway. I’m out. Have a good date, dude … Hammer … far out, ay …’

  Before I can reply, a car door shuts. Matt strides over to us.

  ‘Hey,’ he says to Charlie, clapping him on the back like they’re platonic mates. He beams a big smile at me. His crooked teeth give his grin a cute, lopsided touch. This is a change of pace from the scowls I got the other night.

  Matt offers his hand to me. ‘Hey, Zeke, I’m sorry about the drive-ins. I was rude. Forgot my manners.’

  I glance at Charlie. Why the hell would he tell Matt what I said? Now it’s bloody awkward. Though at least Matt had the guts to cop to it. Dad’s policy is to never say sorry to a man, woman or child, because it makes you weaker than all three of them.

  ‘That’s no worries,’ I say, shaking his hand. It’s all dry and calloused, I guess from working on the farm.

  Matt scratches the back of his head and turns to Charlie. ‘So I’ll follow you to your place, yeah?’

  Charlie nods.

  The sense that I’m the third wheel comes over me again.

  ‘You guys have a good night,’ I say, waving, which I immediately regret because we’re standing right next to each other and it makes me look like a little Japanese tourist girl. Why do I always do these stupid, unmanly things? It’s like I was behind the door the day all the other boys got told how to be men.

  I leave Charlie and Matt in the car park and walk into the centre of town, the Greyhound thundering past me just before I reach Bilby’s Burgers.

  Hammer is leaning against the painted brick wall of Bilby’s, eyes on his phone as the dying rays of the sun fall across his jawline. His surfy blond hair is plastered to his face: he’s still in his footy gear from training. He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in real life. Bronzed, bulging biceps, footy guernsey clinging tightly to his pecs. Short shorts revealing sturdy, smooth thighs.

  But despite how hot he makes me, I feel apprehensive. He didn’t even bother to dress up. I spent the better part of an hour like a stressed-out tennis ball bouncing between my chest of drawers and the bathroom mirror. Everything had to be perfect for my first date ever. I ended up going for a look I had seen other Italian guys rock: slicked hair (as much as my woggy curls would allow) and a simple black T-shirt over denim. I wanted desperately to wear a skin-tight black T-shirt like those cool Italian baristas you see in Fremantle – but wearing anything tight means putting my moobs on public display.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, announcing my arrival.

  Hammer looks up. His gaze barely even touches on my clothes. ‘Hey, mate. You ready?’

  ‘Yeah. Let’s go in.’

  Hammer’s grip on his phone tightens; his eyes flash with panic. ‘What? No. We’re getting take-away, mate. I just ordered mine.’

  ‘Oh. Okay. Sure. I’ll order mine, then.’

  I walk past him into the air-conditioning of Bilby’s, freezing a smile over my face as I check out the menu board without reading a single word. You idiot, Zeke. As if Hammer was going to make this an actual date in public when you’re both in the closet. For a smart kid, you’re really dumb.

  I order a double cheeseburger and wait for it inside, watching the young couples sitting in the booths and holding hands. I knew we wouldn’t do anything affectionate at Bilby’s, but I’d imagined us both hanging out in one of those booths. People would’ve just seen two school mates chilling in a burger joint. I’d had the vague fantasy of someone I know walking past us, and me giving them a cool guy nod as if to say, ‘Yeah, I’m mates with the cool kids, what’s it to you?’

  God. I can’t look at Hammer just yet or I think I’ll burst into tears.

  It’s dark by the time our burgers are ready. As we leave Bilby’s, Hammer leads me outside to a banged-up white ute with a red P-plate in the window.

  ‘You don’t have your P’s yet, do you?’ I say, in surprise.

  ‘Nah. It’s my brother Doug’s ute, but I know how to drive it.’ He smirks at the fear on my face. ‘Don’t be such a square, mate.’

  Stuff it, I think. If anyone catches me with him, I may as well be dead anyway. What’s the harm?

  I nurse the bags of burgers and chips on my lap as Hammer drives us through town. He parks in the darkened car park beside the wharf, beneath the looming wheat silos. We haven’t exchanged a word during the two-minute drive. I’m still struggling to not start sobbing about my romantic date not really being a romantic date. He isn’t much of a conversationalist when he’s sober.

  We start eating our chips. Hammer turns the radio on. Low volume. That’s a good sign, at least.

  ‘Do you follow the footy?’ he asks.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Not at all?’

  ‘Nup.’

  ‘Seriously?’ A half-mangled chip falls from Hammer’s mouth. I must be the first person he’s ever come across who isn’t a mad footy fan. ‘How can you not like footy?’

  ‘I didn’t say I don’t like it. I’m just not that into it.’

  ‘So what do you even do on the weekends then?’

  Surf porn. Obsessively masturbate. Scroll memes. Binge TV. Occasionally play one of my old Pokémon games.

  ‘Vi
deo games,’ I say.

  ‘Like COD?’

  ‘Yeah, kinda.’

  ‘Weird. Weekends without footy are the worst. I mean, that’s what they made cricket for.’

  I laugh. Not because I think he’s that funny. It’s just a really weird conversation for me to be trapped in.

  Hammer clears his throat, and reaches behind his seat. ‘So you don’t barrack for a team at all, then?’

  I drop my chips into the bag dramatically. ‘Oh my God. No. I – do – not – follow – the - footy!’ I cry. ‘Far out, Hammer, how many times do I have to say it?’

  I glance up to see he’s holding out a brown paper bag. His cheeks are tinged with pink. There is something incredibly vulnerable about seeing a footy jock like him blush.

  ‘I brought this for you,’ he says, not looking me in the eye.

  I feel embarrassed by my outburst already, so I don’t bother correcting him for using ‘brought’ instead of ‘bought’. I take the paper bag and open it up.

  There’s a blue-and-yellow West Coast Eagles scarf inside.

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I didn’t even think of buying anything for you.’

  ‘No worries,’ Hammer says quickly. ‘I didn’t buy it. It’s my old scarf from two seasons ago. I’ve got a newer one now. Thought you could go for the Eagles with me this season.’

  Something unknown throbs in my chest. My vocal cords tighten. I swallow.

  ‘Thanks,’ I manage.

  ‘You can even pick a favourite player,’ Hammer says, a little more enthusiastically now that he sees I’m not going to bite his head off again. ‘I reckon you’d like …’

  For the next forty-five minutes, I learn that categories in Hammer’s conversational repertoire include:

  Footy – which is the best sport in the country and so much better than pansy soccer and the wankers that play that

  The West Coast Eagles – and why they are the greatest club ever

  The footy camp he went on with the Eagles over the summer that apparently only ‘really good future draft prospects’ like himself are invited to

  Railways – the local club he plays for in the under 18s – and how this season coming they are definitely going to win the flag

  Betting – on the footy and something or other about multis, whatever they are

  The tattoo he wants to get when he’s eighteen (an eagle)

  His hopes, dreams and aspirations for the future – becoming a full-forward for the Eagles

  ‘Well, if you do get drafted, it’ll be cool to go watch you play,’ I say.

  Hammer stares at me like I just declared the Dockers are the greatest. ‘Not if,’ he says. ‘When.’

  There is agony behind his eyes: there is something else he wants to say, but he doesn’t.

  ‘Sorry. Of course. When.’

  ‘What did I say last night?’ he says suddenly. ‘I can’t remember half the night. Did I say anything stupid to anyone?’

  ‘No. I got you away from the party before you could embarrass yourself. Or out yourself.’

  ‘I’m not actually gay,’ Hammer says. ‘It’s just a phase, man. Hormones. It’ll go away eventually.’

  I keep my eyes fixed on his, like that will distract him from looking at my heart and noticing the giant javelin he just hurled through it. ‘Fair enough.’ Dammit.

  ‘D’you wanna have a wank?’ he says suddenly.

  I blink. ‘What? Here?’

  ‘It’s dark. No one will see us.’

  ‘But it’s your brother’s ute.’

  Hammer shoves the burger wrappers into the bag and chucks it up on the dash. He reaches a hand down the leg of his footy shorts and grabs his dick. ‘Come on. Just do it. Wanking together would be hot.’

  ‘It was hot when we made out last night,’ I counter.

  ‘Nah. I don’t wanna kiss. Let’s just jack.’

  Who am I to argue with Hammer, the hottest guy in the world and the only guy who’s ever been into me who wasn’t a million years old and from America?

  So I unzip my jeans and flop him out. It takes about two seconds for me to have a raging semi.

  ‘Nice,’ Hammer mutters. ‘Yours is huge, mate.’

  His dick isn’t that big, which is the last thing I would have expected. He isn’t freakishly small or anything, but it can’t be more than five inches, and fairly thin. His penis curves to the left slightly, banana-like. Mine is bigger: longer and thicker, veinier, straighter, and with a purple mushroom head.

  We start stroking our dicks. After a minute, Hammer reaches over with that larrikin grin, dimples turned up to eleven, and closes his warm palm over my dick. My entire body quivers. He’s touching me and it feels incredible. After a minute, I return the favour, wrapping my hand around his shaft and slowly tugging. Hammer gets rock hard in my hand and bites his bottom lip; he’s loving this as much as I am. We go on like this for a couple of minutes, sometimes focusing on ourselves, sometimes jerking each other off. No words are exchanged, but our gazes dart between each other’s crotches and each other’s eyes and it’s the hottest, most masculine thing I’ve ever done. All the oxygen is sucked from the ute as we pull ourselves closer and closer to the edge. Heat wafts from our bodies as we twitch and twist and tug.

  Then Hammer makes the only noise he has made so far – a low grunt – and shoots his load all over the steering wheel.

  I’ve been edging, trying to make the moment last as long as possible, but once he goes I give myself permission to cum as well. Unlike him, I catch my mess in the palm of my hand and wipe it on the burger wrapper.

  ‘That was awesome,’ I say, panting.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah. It was hot. Yeah.’ Hammer runs a greasy serviette over the steering wheel. His brother’s ute is going to reek of onion rings and cum. ‘Thanks, Zeke. I guess I better get going.’

  The second javelin doesn’t slide through the same wound in my chest; it makes a brand new hole, nice and deep.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Me too. Yeah, thanks. That was good.’

  Hammer drops me at the car park of Portocello’s. I sit on the kerb for an hour, snapping little twigs into smaller twigs, until Robbie and Natalie finish their dinner date and drive me home.

  The Monaro isn’t in the carport when I get back, and the lights are all out in the house. Mum and Dad probably went out for dessert or something.

  I go to the kitchen to cut myself a slice of leftover fruitcake when I hear a high-pitched squeak. At first I figure it’s my shoes skidding on the tiles, but it persists even when I’m standing still.

  And then I see it.

  A grey field mouse is stuck to one of the glue traps beside the dishwasher. One of his feet has been torn off. Did he rip it off with sheer will? Claw at it until his tendons broke? Or gnaw into his own flesh? There is hardly any blood. At a glance, you’d think this mouse was doing fine. How the hell can you literally lose a limb and not bleed everywhere?

  I consider just leaving it there until Dad gets home to take care of it, but as I take my first bite of fruitcake, I hear the squealing again. The stupid thing is in pain. What a horrible trap. At least with those old spring-loaded mouse traps the mice were killed instantly. This way they suffer for hours until someone puts them out of their misery.

  I grab a plastic bag, wrap the mouse up in the trap then chuck the trap into the bag. I throw in some paper towel to absorb the blood, then double-bag it tightly and take it out onto the patio.

  Wincing, I grab a loose paving brick and beat the mouse to death with it.

  The bag goes flat.

  And the squeaking finally stops.

  14: Everlong

  Charlie

  As soon as we’re in Matt’s car, I tell him about Hammer being gay, but he doesn’t give me the reaction I expected.

  ‘It’s like they always say, isn’t it?’ he mutters in his rugged growl. ‘The most homophobic guys are usually the big-arse closet cases. Makes sense to me.’

  ‘Yeah, but aren’t you shocked? Lik
e, Hammer’s so masculine, you know? Macho. He plays footy. It’s not what I would’ve expected.’

  Matt’s mouth twitches as he turns onto the Phelps Street roundabout. ‘It’s more normal than ya think, ya know. I played footy for years. I play cricket. Liking guys doesn’t make me bad at sports.’

  ‘Fair call,’ I say, a smile fighting its way onto my face. ‘Actually, the fact that you’re blokey is kinda what turns me on about you.’

  ‘True ay?’ Matt says, smirking. ‘Have I told ya bout the time I wrestled a croc with me bare hands?’

  ‘That’s hot. I think I just jizzed in my pants.’

  Matt laughs, loud and hoarse like a donkey’s bray, and it’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard, him laughing at something I said.

  When we pull up outside my place, it’s nice to know there’s nobody inside to have a go at me. I don’t remember the last time I felt at home in my own house. Ever since Fitzy moved in, I’ve dreaded every second I have to spend outside the confines of my bedroom. The first week he was here, I would blast heavy grunge to deter them from even approaching the door, until I came home from school one day and my speakers were dismantled on the coffee table.

  I step inside and flick the light on. The smell of cigarette smoke still clings to the thick drapes and curls in the air like an old dive bar, but at least the house is finally quiet. No Fitzy swearing or burping or shouting at his ex on the phone or answering the door to some thug he owes betting money to. No Mum coughing or whining about how hot it is or telling a contestant on The Bachelor that she’s ‘just a common tramp, honey’.

  Just big, open, tactile silence that you can walk into and let engulf you.

  ‘Hold the door!’ Matt calls behind me.

  I flatten myself against the torn fly-wire. Matt bowls past me, walking sideways like a crab and hoisting a massive blue-and-white esky in his arms.

  ‘Jesus. How much do you think we’re gonna drink?’ I say, shutting the door behind him.

  Matt dumps the esky in the beige-tiled kitchen. ‘It’s not piss. Well …’ He winks at me. ‘It’s not all piss.’

  He flips the lid open and makes a big deal of getting something out of the esky with his back to me, hiding whatever it is behind his body. I watch his arse wriggling in his tight, faded denim and start getting some ideas when he finally whips around, like he’s trying to spring a surprise on me.