Invisible Boys

by Holden Sheppard

  ‘Oi,’ Hammer says.

  ‘But that makes me no better than them,’ I protest.

  Charlie rolls his eyes. ‘You aren’t any better than them. Stop acting like you are.’

  ‘It’s just an egg, mate,’ Hammer says, holding out the carton. ‘It won’t kill anyone.’

  ‘It feels good,’ Matt says. ‘Just chuck it.’

  I grab an egg and crawl up to the peak of the roof. My head spins with the sudden movement. I wait for someone new to join the queue outside The Circus – and after a few seconds, two people do.

  Robbie and Natalie.

  ‘Okay, maybe wait,’ Hammer says.

  I ditch the egg as hard as I can.

  It curves badly to the left, disappearing into a hedge. I don’t even see it break. I’m unco at the best of times, and right now I’m drunker than I’ve ever been.

  ‘What the hell?’ Hammer says. ‘Mate, that’s your brother!’

  ‘I know!’ I cry, yanking the carton off him.

  I wind up and chuck the second egg as hard as I can. It cracks on the concrete. Not good enough. I grab the third and last egg and hurl it at the back of Robbie’s head.

  Crack!

  It splatters yolk and white all down the back of his shoulder blades. His new white V-neck is ruined.

  ‘YES!’ I shout. I feel incredible. I want to fight him and break his legs and really hurt him. ‘YES! Cop that, motherfuckeeeeeer!’

  ‘Zeke! Shut up!’ Charlie cries.

  Half the people in line for the club, Robbie included, tilt their heads up at the school roof – but before their eyes land on mine, muscled arms tackle me around my middle and pin me back against the slanted roof, out of sight.

  Hammer is on top of me, the heat of his abdominal muscles pressing against my skin through his thin shirt. His face is inches from mine.

  ‘You’re just as nuts as me, aren’t you, Zeeky?’ he whispers.

  ‘Took you long enough to realise,’ I say, sliding my fingers beneath his collar.

  His lips meet mine. Hard. He hasn’t shaved: his stubble scratches my jaw. Our tongues fight, twisting, wrestling, melting into one another. I can taste the sour bourbon in his mouth.

  ‘Guys,’ Charlie calls. ‘Quit sucking face. Let’s go back to my house. I’ve got the place to myself.’

  I detach from Hammer to catch my breath.

  ‘Oh man. I want you so bad,’ he mumbles. ‘So bad, Zeke.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I assure him. ‘When we get to Charlie’s, you can have me.’

  17: Buy Now, Pay Later

  Charlie

  The sun is in my eyes. I want to get up and shut the curtain, but I can’t.

  For one thing, my head is thumping like a wall of speakers at a festival.

  For another, a man named Matt is passed out on top of me, his condom still on; it’s slimy against my belly.

  And for the icing – or the cherry, haha – on the cake, my arse hurts.

  Shit, it hurts, man.

  It didn’t hurt this much last night. It didn’t feel incredible, either. I didn’t actually cum from being screwed. I had to finish myself off. But it felt amazing to have a man inside of me. To watch his red face sweat as he tried to get the position right. To hear him grunt with each thrust. To experience that feeling of fullness. That I was full. Complete.

  But post-earthquake, the aftershocks come in frequent, painful bursts. Somewhere, a witch doctor has a skinny Charlie Roth voodoo doll, and she’s randomly sticking needles into my prostate.

  I stare at the Bad Religion poster on my bedroom wall. Boy, if Brother Murphy’s stomach turned at the news of me giving Hammer a peck at the dance, he’d be projectile vomiting if he’d seen me last night. It’s the step I never could take, and now I have, there’s no coming back from it. You can’t shove that cherry back in.

  Matt stirs and rubs his nose. ‘Your elbow,’ he groans, eyes shut. ‘It’s sticking into my ribs.’

  ‘Your whole body is literally crushing me,’ I reply.

  I expect another grunty groan, but the voice that escapes Matt’s lips surprises me. It’s softer than his usual guttural, blokey voice. ‘Aw, sorry. You okay? I’ll move over.’

  Matt shifts his body weight, and my leg tingles as the blood returns. He rolls onto his side and curls up to me, calloused hand over my chest, like he’s protecting me. There really isn’t room to curl up on my single bed, though, which I guess is why he passed out on top of me in the first place. His long, naked body is pressed against the wall and my arm is dangling off the other edge.

  ‘We can’t both fit,’ I tell him.

  He responds with a long, even breath. Already asleep.

  I gaze at him as he sleeps. He’s so hot. His whole body muscled and toned, the body of a man who does manual labour for a living. He has just the hint of visible abs: it’s like he’s a comic book superhero and the illustrator made a draft and forgot to come back and draw in the lines that form a six pack. He has that hot-as-hell V-line, though, skin tight over his pelvis. I sneak a look at his crotch, at his shrivelled penis hidden behind its slimy protective sheath. His testicles, long and loose and hanging free despite the odds of being crushed between those two hairy thighs. I look at Matt and I think of luck. That simple, farm boy face. Dumb, satisfied curve of the chapped lips. Still a bit drunk, probably. But it’s an untroubled grin. It must be nice to root around with guys in secret and keep your identity intact.

  Maybe Matt is what I could have been like if it weren’t for Alicia Stratton.

  I slide out of bed – it was a matter of time until he pushed me off, anyway – and head to the toilet.

  On my way back, I stop in the kitchen to get some juice, and that’s when I see someone sitting at the patio table.

  Zeke.

  He’s just staring at our junkyard of a garden, chin in his hands. Million miles away, for sure. He’s still in his clothes from the Summer Dance, but the wreckage of the night clings to him. There’s a streak of rust down the front of his shirt. His pants are ripped, a triangle of grey fabric flapping in the February breeze. His dark curls are flattened and greasy.

  It’s not until I slide the patio door open that he jerks out of his stupor.

  ‘Got you some juice,’ I say, pushing the glass along the table.

  ‘Oh.’ He looks at the glass but doesn’t touch it. ‘Thanks, Charlie.’

  I sit opposite him. ‘You’re up early. It’s not even six.’

  ‘Got a lot to think about.’ Zeke touches the side of his glass, but doesn’t pick it up. ‘Hey, did you guys do it last night?’

  I nearly snort orange juice up my nose. ‘Well, that’s pretty fucking direct, dude.’

  ‘Did you?’

  I can tell he doesn’t just want to know for shits and giggles. ‘Yeah. Why? Did you guys?’

  ‘No,’ Zeke says. His charcoal eyes scan the weeds. He swallows air. ‘We started to. We were naked, getting into it and then Hammer just … freaked out.’

  ‘What do you mean by freaked out?’

  ‘Like he did at the drive-in. He kept saying he felt like he was choking. That he was dying.’

  ‘Jesus. That’s not sexy. Well, unless you’re into that … no judgment …’

  Zeke’s not in the mood. ‘I think I must’ve said something that upset him, but I can’t think what it was. We just stopped and slept on different couches. That was the end of it.’ His eyes bulge at me. ‘I don’t think he’s okay, Charlie.’

  I drain half the glass of OJ. I can practically feel the vitamins reanimating the corpses of the brain cells I killed last night.

  ‘None of us are okay,’ I tell him. ‘You’re no better. You flipped out and egged your brother last night.’

  ‘Crap.’ Zeke nibbles on his fist. ‘Forgot about that.’

  ‘See. We’re all fucked, dude.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ You can see the lightbulb. He’s only just remembered my humiliation last night. It’s funny how little other people’s prob
lems matter to anyone else. ‘How are you holding up?’

  ‘I’m not,’ I say cheerily. ‘I always thought the worst day of my life was when Dad died. Then I thought it was when I got outed. And now last night’s in the running. I don’t know why I’m smiling, even. I’m not happy.’

  ‘It makes you look mental. You look like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.’

  ‘Maybe I should do that. Rock up to Brother Murphy’s door and hack through it with an axe. Heeeeere’s Charlie!’

  ‘Don’t joke about that.’ Zeke rummages between the buttons of his shirt and presses his fingers to the gold crucifix dangling around his neck. Superstitious idiot. ‘Why Brother Murphy?’

  ‘Because he’s gonna expel me, dude. For kissing Hammer at the dance.’

  ‘That was – you kind of had to –’

  ‘They won’t see it that way. I’m done.’

  ‘But they can’t –’

  ‘Yeah, they can. People can actually do whatever they want and you can’t do shit to stop them, Zeke.’

  ‘That’s depressing.’

  ‘That’s real life.’

  Zeke massages his temples and finally takes his glass of juice; it’s already coated with condensation. ‘Yuck,’ he says, after a sip. ‘Pulp.’

  ‘Gonna be hot today,’ I tell him. It’s barely past dawn and the sun’s already belting.

  ‘What do you think I should do about Hammer?’

  ‘Nothing. What’s he to you? It’s his problem.’

  I don’t know why I’m needling him. Maybe because it’s easy. Nerds like Zeke always react the best because they want to be nice all the time.

  Zeke’s mouth droops into a sad grimace as he goes back for a second sip of juice, knowing full well he won’t like it.

  ‘Too tangy,’ he says, wiping his mouth. ‘And I dunno what Hammer is to me. Friends with benefits?’

  ‘And the benefits involve him thinking he’s dying, and you still being a virgin? Some fuckbuddy.’

  ‘Why are you so negative all the time?’

  ‘I’m not negative. I’m a realist.’

  ‘I hope you’re not what’s real. That would suck.’

  ‘Come on, dude. What do you expect going after someone like Hammer? He’s just a dumb lump of meat with more muscles than brains. Don’t expect emotions from him. You can’t get blood from that stone.’

  Zeke pushes the glass away from him. ‘But he needs help. I want to talk to him, but he’s so – schizophrenic, almost. When we’re together and it’s dark – and he’s drunk – he’s all over me and he talks so nicely to me, like we’re lovers … and then in front of anyone else, he’s Hammer the blokey bloke.’

  A deep voice from inside the house interrupts us. ‘You know I can hear youse, right?’

  Zeke darts out of the white plastic chair like he just sat on an echidna.

  By the time he slides the patio door open, Hammer’s already standing there. ‘You fuckers think you can just talk shit about me when I’m in the next room?’

  Zeke is half a head shorter than Hammer, but in that second he might as well be a toddler. ‘I thought you were asleep. I’m sorry.’

  Hammer huskily snorts mucus down from the back of his throat and spits hard into the garden. He flashes me a dark look.

  ‘I’m out,’ he says. ‘Thanks for letting me stay. I might be a lump of meat, Charlie Goth, but at least I got the manners not to talk about people when they’re in my fucken house.’

  I give him a long stare back. ‘Whatever, man.’

  ‘We didn’t mean anything in a bad way,’ Zeke says, chasing Hammer towards the front door, torn suit flapping around him. ‘Are you even listening to me? I think you’re not coping.’

  ‘Coping with what?’ Hammer demands, yanking the door open.

  Zeke shrinks against the wall, but can’t keep his mouth shut. ‘Being gay.’

  Hammer rolls his eyes and shoves Zeke’s shoulders, like they’ve just crossed paths in the change room. ‘Well, that’s okay, little buddy, ‘cause I changed my mind. I’m not gay.’

  ‘But you can’t change your –’

  ‘Already did. See you at the wedding, Zeeky.’

  ‘Kade,’ Zeke says, his voice broken. ‘Don’t.’

  Hammer grates his knuckles deep into Zeke’s curls. ‘Not Kade. Hammer.’ He gives an obnoxious wink. ‘I’m out. Later, faggots.’

  He leaves.

  Zeke crosses his arms and watches Hammer go down the front path. His black-socked feet make little circles on the worn carpet until he jolts into action, shuffling into the lounge and jamming his feet roughly into his black shoes without untying the laces.

  ‘Don’t go after him,’ I call out.

  Zeke gets his second shoe on and glances up at me. Little droplets land on the carpet.

  ‘I’m not,’ he says. ‘I’m just going.’

  He leaves, too. True to his word, he trudges down the path and turns in the opposite direction to Hammer. I guess that’s our deep and meaningful over.

  I go to the kitchen and get another glass.

  Matt’s awake when I get back to the bedroom. The condom’s gone – I don’t wanna know where, since I don’t have a bin in my room – and he’s pulled his fluoro yellow Bonds undies back on.

  ‘What was all that about? Did they leave?’

  ‘Lovers’ tiff,’ I joke. I put the fresh glass of juice on the bedside table. ‘Want some?’

  ‘Juice in bed! You’re the best,’ Matt says, with his lopsided, toothy grin. He sits up, those abdominal outlines flexing, and takes a hearty gulp. ‘Damn. I needed that. You got any food? We could do brekkie in bed or somefink.’

  ‘Only thing in the fridge is mould,’ I tell him. ‘We could go out.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Nah, gotta keep on the down low.’ He lifts the sheet. ‘What are you doing? Jump in. I can give you a cuddle.’

  Matt flattens himself against the wall, grinning at me. I slide into bed facing him.

  ‘No, turn your back, so I can spoon you,’ he says.

  I do. The warm skin of his hairless chest presses against my back. His muscled thighs lock in to mine, holding me in place.

  ‘See, this is nice,’ Matt says, breath hot on the back of my neck. He kisses me there. My whole body tingles pleasurably. ‘I could just hold you forever.’

  The words come out sweet, but they twist in the air between us and by the time they touch my ears, they’re sour.

  ‘Do you really mean that? Forever?’

  Matt squeezes his arms around me. ‘I dunno. Maybe. You’re a sexy guy and we’re in bed. It’s nice.’

  ‘I’m not sexy.’

  ‘Oh, come on! Don’t start that. I’d expect it from some bird, but not from you.’

  ‘I’m not being an attention seeker. I just mean objectively. I’m skinny. My chest is concave. And I’ve got pimples everywhere and if there’s no pimples, there’s craters from where the pimples used to be. Just objectively speaking, I’m not sexy.’

  ‘Well, I reckon you are, so tough shit.’ Matt laughs his donkey-bray laugh and holds me closer. ‘It’s funny how tough you act in public with all your punk stuff. If only they all knew how soft you were. I like you better when you’re soft.’

  ‘I’m not soft. I’m human. All punks are.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain Obvious.’

  ‘You’re just trying to make me feel bad for having feelings and I’m saying I’m allowed to.’

  ‘Jeez, mate. Okay. Let’s just cuddle, huh?’

  We do. The silence is grease for the racing gears in my head.

  ‘Was last night good? Did you like it?’

  ‘Heck yes,’ Matt says. ‘Mate. Yes.’

  ‘I’ve never done that before.’

  ‘I know. You said last night.’

  ‘I forgot. I was pretty smashed. Was it your first time?’

  ‘Nah. Done it a few times.’

  ‘Was that the best time?’

  Matt’s grip around my midd
le eases. ‘I don’t really rank ’em, mate. It was hot. I liked it. I like you.’

  ‘How did you know I was a bottom?’

  ‘Because you let me put my dick in there,’ Matt says, chuckling. ‘If you weren’t, you wouldn’t.’

  ‘Do you think that other people can tell whether you’re a top or bottom, just by looking at you?’

  ‘What? No. People don’t like to think about gay guys actually having sex. It grosses them out. Even if they’re okay with it overall.’

  ‘But maybe that’s why they called me the Queen of the dance.’ Even saying it makes my skin crawl. ‘Maybe they could tell I’m a bottom. Because it’s feminine.’

  ‘They were just tools,’ Matt says. ‘There was nothing to it. Just dickheads being dickheads. They can go hang ’emselves.’

  My whole body stiffens. He notices.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Don’t joke about that.’

  ‘The guys at school?’

  ‘People hanging themselves. It’s not a fucking joke.’

  He senses the tone. ‘Uh. Okay.’

  We spoon in silence for a few seconds.

  ‘It was my dad,’ I explain.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Matt breathes. He squeezes me tighter. ‘Two years ago, right? I’m so sorry.’

  My throat burns with acid. ‘No point saying sorry. It’s not your fault.’

  Long silence. He kisses the scruff of my neck. I feel nothing.

  ‘Do you know why?’ Matt asks.

  ‘Oh. Yep.’ I let silence fall while I toss up whether or not to go there – but the rage is burning like phosphorous lit up over a Bunsen burner. ‘It was Mum. She ripped his heart out. Had it off with Fitzy, who was one of Dad’s old mates from school. Mum made him move out, can you believe that? And he did it, too, because he still loved her. It wrecked Dad. He got depressed and was drinking even more than usual and stopped going to work and stopped going to see his counsellor and then he went really downhill. He even stopped coming around to see me, when he was really down. And then one day I get called into Brother Murphy’s office and that was it. He hanged himself from a rafter at the YMCA.’