‘Is punk the same as grunge?’
‘No, but – I’m a mix of everything.’
‘A mongrel,’ Matt says, with his lopsided grin.
‘Yeah, that’s me. Charlie Roth, the homosexual musical mongrel.’
Matt chuckles. ‘You’d look hot with short hair, I reckon.’
‘You prefer it?’
‘I like short hair on guys, usually. Short hair and no nail polish.’
‘Don’t hate the player. Hate the game,’ I joke. Feebly. Immediately, I’m considering dipping my fingernails in acetone and shaving my head. ‘Okay. New question. What are you into?’
Matt taps his fingers rhythmically against his beer can. ‘I like fishing with my dad, footy, cricket, dirt bikes …’
‘No, I don’t mean hobbies. I mean what are you into. Sexually. Like, what do you look for when you look up porn?’
‘That’s a bit personal, isn’t it? I don’t think we know each other well enough to talk about somefink like that!’
‘Disagree. You know me better than anyone else on the planet.’
Matt’s eyes flicker over my body, like he’s just noticing something about me.
‘Man. Okay. Here goes,’ he says. ‘I like …’ He stops himself. His cheeks are pink. ‘No. You go first.’
‘Fine. I’m not ashamed of what my dick likes.’ I put the now-cold hot dog on my plate and list stuff off on my fingers. ‘Muscle guys. Tattooed guys. Rough, blue-collar guys, like tradies. Older guys – like daddies.’
Matt starts laughing his donkey laugh. ‘Mate! I can’t believe you just said all that to me.’
‘There’s more,’ I say. ‘But I don’t wanna scare you off. Go on. What are yours?’
His cheeks are burning red. ‘Oh man. Okay. It’s … bikers. Guys who ride motorbikes or dirt bikes or any of that. While they’re still in their gear. And their boots.’
A genuine smile curves my mouth. ‘So the farm boy has a secret fetish.’
Matt nods silently. ‘It’s embarrassing. How can you talk about it so freely?’
‘Just how I am. It’s the mongrel in me,’ I grin. ‘Same reason I get in trouble at school all the time. I don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks.’
‘I do,’ Matt says. ‘I want people to like me.’
‘You get over that when your dad dies and your friends don’t talk to you about it,’ I say. ‘Or when you get humiliated and outed to your whole town and nobody gives a rat’s. It gets a lot easier to stop giving a shit.’
‘Charlie. In all seriousness – you can’t take a guy to the dance. I know you think it’s punk but it’ll just blow up in your face.’
It’s the fact that he used my name that gets to me.
‘I know that,’ I say, sighing. I abandon all pretence at liking the sausage and tear off some oily bread to eat. ‘I found out the other day that my dad willed all his money to the school, so I’d have a good education. I hate that school but if I get expelled …’ I swallow. The bread grazes the lump in my throat. ‘It’d be like my last connection with Dad is gone.’
‘Not just that,’ Matt says, not picking up on how close I am to curling into a ball. ‘It’s your own safety, ya know? Some guys can be real meatheads when it comes to gay people, and everyone at the dance will be half-cut before they get there. You could get yourself bashed if you do something stupid. Killed, even.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Killed is a bit extreme.’
‘It’s happened before. It happens.’
‘It’s fine. I give up, anyway. I’m not punk enough for that. Can we please, for the love of fuck, stop talking about the Summer Dance now?’
‘Orright. Ease up.’ Matt holds his hands up in surrender. He glances at the time on his phone. ‘I can’t stay too much longer. Dad wants to get an early start on the fencing tomorrow.’
I force a smile at him. ‘Wish you could’ve stayed the night.’
‘Not on a weeknight,’ Matt says. ‘But maybe some weekend, ay? A sleepover, maybe?’ He wiggles his eyebrows at me playfully.
I laugh. ‘A sleepover? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?’
Matt’s eyes twitch towards my abandoned hot dog. ‘Hey, didn’t you like the snags?’
‘No. They were weird. Salty. Were they just beef, or something else?’
‘Nah,’ Matt says, with a shit-eating grin. ‘Kangaroo.’
‘WHAT?’
‘It’s good for you. Lean meat. Loads of protein.’
I screw my face up, my tongue waggling in revolted protest. ‘Skippy,’ I say in horror. ‘You just made me eat Skippy!’
Matt guffaws, throwing his head back with the force of his loud donkey-bray.
‘Mate! Your face was priceless!’
I stand up and pretend like I’m about to tackle him in his chair, but his leg sweeps me from behind, pulling my legs out from underneath me. I tumble into his lap, his strong arms gripping my back.
Suddenly, our eyes are inches apart. I can smell beer mingling with Brut aftershave. Matt’s mouth is hanging open slightly.
‘Christ, you’re sexy,’ he whispers.
My heart is giving off more kilotons of heat than a nuclear bomb. I gaze at Matt, feel his arms clutching me, smell his scent, and everything else in the world goes up in smoke. I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I lean forward and press my lips against his, and he kisses me back – warm, wet kisses, tongues dancing and hearts drumming to a tune only we can hear.
Everlong.
15: King of Summer
Hammer
Saturday night comes around fast.
Pre’s for the Summer Dance are at Razor’s place in Tarcoola Beach. His parents are so try-hard. They’re like forty but they still want to think they’re in with the young crowd. Every time his mum comes out onto the patio to refill the potato chips she makes the devil horns with her hands and cries, ‘Wooo! I love this song!’ His dad isn’t much better. He lets us play darts but won’t leave us alone. He keeps saying we can borrow his flask if we want to have a few cheeky drinks at the dance and ‘stay lit’.
Raze probably wants to crawl under the pool table and die. Poor bastard. Nothing worse than embarrassing parents. I’m glad mine know to stay the fuck away from my social life.
It’s my go at the dartboard. Two decent throws. One lands for a 25. Not too bad given I have a few drinks in me already.
‘Close but no cigar, Hammer,’ Lockie booms, stepping up to the line. ‘Give us a crack.’
I fall back with Razor and the other boys when I notice a yellow shape beside us.
Piera O’Dell is hanging around me like a bad smell. Her flute of champagne is clutched tightly in her hand, like she’s about to snap the stem in half from sheer awkwardness.
‘What are you doing?’ I hiss at her. ‘It’s just the guys playing darts. Go hang out with the girls over by the pool.’
Piera usually has wide eyes, but the heavy make-up around them turns them into headlights.
‘But I don’t know those girls,’ she says, glancing at Amber and the other three chicks. ‘I’m really not comfortable here.’
‘Well, you can’t stay here with me!’ I say. ‘Just go talk about girly stuff. Jeez.’
Piera clutches her glass even tighter. It’s going to shatter any second. ‘Do you like my dress, Kade?’
The canary yellow of Piera’s dress makes her brown skin glow; the tightness of it shunts her tits forward, so they’re pressed against each other.
‘Yeah, it’s nice,’ I say. Jeez, she needs her compliments. ‘Haha, suck shit, Lockie. You missed everything, dickwad!’
Razor’s parents have hired one of the only stretch limos in town, which is probably the only actually cool thing they’ve done all arvo. We pile in and the driver takes us on a scenic tour of town – kind of lame since we all live here and see it every day, and there isn’t that much to see. I guess the view from the memorial on the hill is nice. And the foreshore at sunset isn’t bad.<
br />
We take photos in groups and couples on the boardwalk at the marina. Piera lets me put my hands on the side of her hips, but every time I wink at Razor and try to stroke my hands down the back of Piera’s dress she wriggles away and makes a pissed-off groan to tell me to leave it alone.
When it’s dark, our driver drops us off at the PCYC for the Summer Dance.
Considering it’s all anyone has been able to talk about for the last bloody month, I reckon the dance is kind of lame. It’s just the friggin PCYC with some fairy lights strung up. Still, the place is pumping inside: music up to eleven with some middle-aged DJ with shades on, mood lighting, and food scattered around a massive crystal punch bowl on top of some trestles.
Us boys – me, Raze, Lockie, Riley and Jack – form a huddle around the food table, stuffing our faces as cover while Raze spikes the punch with two hip flasks of vodka.
‘Reckon that’ll be strong enough to do anything?’ he asks, sliding the flasks back into his pockets.
‘Should be a bit of a kick at least,’ I say, scooping up some punch. You can’t tell there’s anything alcoholic in it. ‘Nah. You shoulda brought more.’
‘Well, I’ve only got two pockets, douchebag!’
‘Did you guys put something in the punch?’ Piera asks, her eyes narrowed at me.
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘It’s just alcohol, right?’
‘Fuck’s sake. Yes. It’s just vodka. Let’s dance or whatever.’
Piera raises an eyebrow. ‘You actually want to dance?’
‘Yeah. Raze, youse are headed for the d-floor, right?’
‘Hells yeah.’ Razor fills his red plastic cup of punch to the brim. ‘Busting out.’
‘Yeah,’ I tell Piera. ‘I wanna dance.’
We follow Razor and the rest of the crew over to the dance floor, but before we can get there, a girl calls out, ‘Piera! Kade! Over here.’
Bloody Sabrina Sefton is standing behind a trestle table with a clipboard in her hand. It’s like she was born as a sixty-five year old librarian. If she was an action figure, a clipboard is the only accessory she’d come with.
Zeke is next to her, folding up pieces of paper and sliding them into two cardboard boxes.
‘Oh my God, I love your shoes, Piera!’ Sabrina bubbles.
‘I got them at Priscilla’s.’ Piera looks happier than she has all night. ‘I love the colour. Your hair looks amazing, by the way.’
If the word ‘circle jerk’ is in the dictionary, they should totally change the definition to what happens when two girls meet in public. It’s like they can’t function until they’ve complimented each other at least once. It’s ingrained. It’s genetic. I never noticed this until I dated Richelle. David Attenborough should do a documentary about it because it’s some kind of weird animal kingdom shit, man.
Zeke glances at me and I nod at him. See, that’s all you need to do to say g’day. I didn’t drool over his shiny black shoes or wank over his tuxedo. God, his hair looks slick, though. He looks so Italian, with his wet black hair and olive skin and those dark eyes.
Sexy, even.
My heart is fluttering like a bird’s wings. I haven’t really spoken to him since Valentine’s Day in Doug’s ute. I don’t know if I want to talk to him, even. Just touch him.
Stop it, Hammer. Stop thinking about it.
‘Can we go dance?’ I grunt at Piera. ‘This song’s a banger.’
‘Wait! Before you go out there, make sure you vote for King and Queen of Summer!’ Sabrina bubbles, crossing a pen through our names on her clipboard. ‘You can only vote once, so make it count.’
Zeke passes me and Piera a pen and two slips of paper.
I think about what will piss Richelle off the most and then vote Amber Brinkley for Queen. I write ‘Kade Hammersmith’ for King. They never said you can’t vote for yourself. I’ll probably win it anyway, but no sense in giving someone else any points.
‘Do you think you’ll get King?’ Piera asks. Mind reader.
‘Yeah. Most likely.’
‘What about me? Do you think I could be voted Queen?’
I glance back at her. Friggin really? ‘Yeah. Yeah, of course. You never know. Anything could happen.’
She’s ice cold to me after that. I don’t know why. I told her what she wanted to hear, didn’t I? Needy cow.
Us boys get into a circle and muck around to the DJ’s set. It’s pretty packed now. The whole class has rocked up. Even some randoms from outside the school, like that big Maori bloke Jai who sways side-to-side behind Richelle. Wanker’s got tribal tattoos all up his arms. He fucking looks about thirty years old. That Northampton guy from the drive-ins is here, too, dancing with Kara Spumani. Man, I hope Kara brought a mouthguard. If he goes in for a kiss, those Bucky Beaver teeth could practically maul her.
Just as the DJ fades out from one song into an old 90s hit, a whole bunch of guys laugh from the corner of the dance floor. I turn to see what the fuss is about.
Charlie Goth has just rocked up, completely alone. He’s actually gone full punk for this: Ramones T-shirt, black fingernails, metal studded wristbands, and even black eyeliner layered on thick around his eyes.
The guys nearest to him on the dance floor call out something I can’t hear. Charlie puts his head down, pushes through the crowd and escapes up the steps to the backstage area.
‘Nigel no mates,’ Riley says to the circle.
‘Did he have make up on?’ Lockie says. ‘What a poof!’
‘At least he didn’t bring a dude,’ Jack says.
‘That would’ve been fucking gay, man,’ Lockie says.
‘No shit,’ I say.
‘Can you pricks lay off him?’ O’Bree mutters. Humourless bastard. ‘I heard he’s having a hard time with it. Can’t be easy.’
‘Yeah, I heard he’s depressed since all that shit went down,’ says Lockie’s date. I forget her name. It’s not important anyway, she’s just some boarder chick.
‘Well, apparently he had a go at Hannah and Rocky,’ Piera mutters back to the boarder chick, and they commence a long discussion about what’s wrong with him.
About fifteen minutes later, the DJ announces he’s taking a break. Thank Christ. The bloke has literally one catch phrase:
‘HOW ARE WE GOING OUT THERE? I CAN’T HEAR YOU. HOW ARE WE GOING OUT THERE? THAT’S BETTER, YEAR ELEVENS! WOO! GIVE IT UP FOR YOUR SUMMER DANCE! HOO, BOY! LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED!’
I shit you not, he’s said those exact lines about five times so far.
But now he says, ‘BOYS AND GIRLS, ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE GERO’S OWN PARTY ROCKERS – ACID ROSE!’
Charlie, Hannah and Rocky take the stage. From just about the first chord, you can tell something’s off. Hannah’s voice is weak, Charlie’s can hardly be heard, and Rocky’s drumming is out of time with Charlie’s guitar. Acid Rose are known as one of Gero’s best party bands, but tonight they sound like teenagers fumbling through their first garage rehearsal.
People watch them for the first song. Some applause. The second one is a slow dance.
‘Find your partner and hold them close for this one,’ Hannah breathes into the microphone. Her speaking voice actually suits the stage: she talks with the swagger of a real rock star. If she wasn’t such an aggro moll all the time, she’d actually be good as like a broadcaster or something. Probably not TV, but maybe a career in radio.
I sway side-to-side with Piera looking up at me starry-eyed. She cocks her head, coy and girly. She wants to come away from the Summer Dance with a kiss. I know that look. But I’m not into it. I grab her waist and move my hands lower until she shakes me off and scowls.
‘I’m going to the toilet,’ she declares, taking the boarder chick with her.
Suits me fine. I cross my arms and sway, watching everyone else dance. The girls have lived and breathed the Summer Dance for weeks now. What they were wearing, who was doing pre-drinks, who was going with who. And the guys care, too. They don’t
talk about it as much – because why would you – but for most of them, the dance is a chance to cop a root for the first time. It makes it worth wearing a gay arse suit and tie.
But me? I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing here.
I watch Charlie singing the backing vocals for the slow song’s last chorus. He keeps glancing at Kara Spumani. No. He’s looking at her date. The Northampton Colts guy. It’s a long, hard look. Intense. Longing. Like he’s dying of dehydration in a desert and just found an oasis of saltwater.
Something about seeing that emotion on his face makes me feel like I’m overheating. I need a drink. Some cold punch.
I cut through the dance floor, but when I get back to the trestle tables, the crystal punch bowl is gone and Miss Kalashnikov is guarding the table.
‘What, did they rope you in for this, too, miss?’ I say, grabbing a fistful of corn chips. ‘Don’t you have anywhere better to be on a Saturday night?’
Her thin lips go even thinner. She looks like a lipless alien-human hybrid.
‘I volunteered, Kade,’ she says stiffly. ‘To help the school.’
‘Where’s the punch gone?’
‘Somebody spiked it,’ she says. Her wrinkles double in size. ‘Do you know who did it?’
‘I’m not a dobber, miss.’
‘I didn’t suggest you were. I’m suggesting you might have spiked it yourself.’
What a sad old moll.
‘I didn’t. But what’s a party without some good stuff in the punch, ay?’
‘This is a serious offence. Whoever did this will be punished by the school. Brother Murphy has already been informed.’
‘Big woop. I didn’t do it.’
I take the last party pie and dip it in some sauce, but before I can leave the table, Miss Kremlin grabs me by the forearm.
‘Kade, listen to me,’ she says. ‘I’ve taught boys like you since before you were even born. You think it’s funny, messing around in class, being crass and crude and inappropriate. You think it’s funny, binge drinking and treating girls with contempt. Well, guess what? I’ve seen where boys like you end up. Prison, or an early grave.’
I shake her papery-skinned hand off me. Yuck. She smells like mothballs and stale soup.
Invisible Boys Page 19
