Invisible Boys

by Holden Sheppard

  ‘Charlie. It’s Brother Murphy here.’

  ‘I’m home sick, Brother. Can’t talk.’

  ‘I know you’re wagging, son. Listen, we haven’t been able to get hold of your mother. I’d like to invite her to meet me. You’re invited, too.’

  ‘She’s in Perth. Dunno when she’ll be back. Sorry.’

  ‘You can’t hide forever, Mr Roth. Your actions have consequences.’

  ‘My actions?’ I said. ‘What about the actions of Razor and all them pricks? They humiliated me.’

  ‘The school takes a firm line on bullying. Those responsible for that stunt will be spoken with in the harshest possible terms.’

  ‘But not as harshly as you’ll speak to me?’

  ‘We had a talk before the dance, didn’t we? I made the school’s position abundantly clear, and you deliberately committed an extremely lewd act with Mr Hammersmith in front of the entire dance. It runs against the ethos of this school.’ He paused, and I could hear him lick his lips. ‘This is the school your father desperately wanted you to attend, and look how you repaid his investment. Do you think he’d be proud?’

  ‘Oh, fuck no, Brother,’ I said, deadpan. ‘I think he’d be so ashamed he’d probably hang himself.’

  ‘That’s … not appropriate to say.’

  ‘Am I expelled, or suspended?’

  ‘Well, that’s for me to discuss with your mother. Does she have an alternate contact number?’

  ‘Nup. She doesn’t like you, anyway.’

  ‘Charlie, you need to calm down.’

  ‘Hey, Brother, what happens if I tell you what I really think of you? Reckon that’d be enough to get me expelled?’

  ‘If you used inappropriate language, it would,’ Brother Murphy said tersely.

  ‘Good. Because I think you’re a festy old cunt.’

  ‘And you, Mr Roth, are no longer welcome at this school.’

  ‘Cool,’ I said. ‘See you never, motherfucker.’

  Death #3

  Mum and Fitzy came back on the Thursday morning Greyhound. They were in the middle of an argument when they got back to the house. Mum told Fitzy to go crawl up his own arse and die. Fitzy called her a fat old bitch with a loose box and slammed the door off its hinges. He took a pouch of port wine-flavoured tobacco from the chest pocket of his baggy polo shirt and began to roll a smoke. She walked past me in the kitchen and went straight for a packet of strong codeine.

  She swallowed four.

  ‘Mum,’ I said. ‘That’s too many.’

  ‘Piss off, Charlie. I’ve got a splitting migraine and the normal ones don’t work.’

  She waddled into the lounge room, fell into the couch and turned on Dr Oz.

  ‘Don’t you want to know why I’m home in the middle of the day?’ I asked her.

  Mum swatted her hand in front of her face, like I was an irritating blowie. ‘I don’t care if you wag a day here and there.’

  ‘I got expelled, Mum.’

  Mum changed channels. ‘Well, what was their reason?’

  ‘I dropped the c-bomb on the principal.’

  Mum snorted with laughter. ‘Bet that made him yip, poncy little Irishman.’

  ‘Mostly it was because I kissed a guy at the Summer Dance.’

  Mum made a face. ‘Stupid boy. You’re at a Catholic school.’

  ‘Well, I’m not anymore. I’m expelled.’

  ‘What do you want me to do, son? I’m not going to go down there and argue about it. You did the crime, you do the time. You can’t just get off scot free, you know.’

  ‘So what do I do? Go to the state school?’

  ‘Why don’t you work it out, Charlie? It’s your mess. You work it out. Take responsibility for once. I’ve got a helluva headache. I just need some peace and quiet without you hanging around me like a bad smell.’

  ‘What if I don’t want to go back to school ever?’

  ‘What do I care? Get a job. Go on the dole for a bit. Whatever you want. You’re a big boy, now. I don’t need to hold your hand and change your nappy, do I? Lord, almighty, sort yourself out.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll just sort myself out like Dad did.’

  Mum slammed her flabby arms on the sides of the couch. ‘Christ, Charlie, it’s bad enough that you’re a bloody queen, don’t be a drama queen, too.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll go to my room and never come out.’

  ‘Good,’ Mum said. ‘Stay there until you’ve grown up. Now, leave me alone.’

  Death #4

  I spent Saturday morning on top of the abandoned primary school, egging some losers and listening to music.

  When I got home, Mum called out from the lounge room, ‘About time. Your mate’s waiting for you in your room.’

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘What mate?’

  ‘How should I know? He’s in your room.’

  ‘Don’t take advantage of him, Freddie Mercury,’ Fitzy called, before wheezing a laugh.

  I opened my bedroom door to see Matt laying down on the foot of my bed.

  ‘Thought it might be Zeke,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Matt shook some small metal objects in his open palm; they rattled like dice. ‘Left my cuff-links here after the dance,’ he said. ‘They were my pop’s. Need ’em for a do in Northampton tonight.’

  I stayed on my feet. ‘You could’ve got them and left before I came home.’

  ‘Well, turns out I wanted to see you, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You gonna say sorry for last weekend?’

  ‘Me, say sorry?’ Matt frowned. ‘Don’t think so.’ He swallowed, his oversized Adam’s apple bouncing. ‘Listen, Charlie … we’re really different people …’

  ‘Yeah, we are,’ I say. ‘I text you XOXO or love hearts and you tell me you fucking hate it and that it makes me weird.’

  ‘I just don’t see us working out as, like, a couple or whatever.’

  ‘You already stormed out last weekend,’ I snapped. ‘I wasn’t expecting you back.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m happy on the down low, man. I’ve got Dad’s farm to run, and a whole life in Northampton – and that’s not gonna change. I don’t think you’re happy with that.’

  ‘What are you even on about?’ I spat. ‘I never said anything about this.’

  ‘I …’ He swallows. ‘I really like you, Charlie. But it’s over.’

  This death hurt more than any of the others combined.

  ‘If it’s over, then get out,’ I said, holding back tears. ‘Why even bother coming all the way here just to hurt me?’

  Matt rolled into a sitting position. ‘I wasn’t planning on drawing it out,’ he said, facing me directly with grey, empty eyes. ‘Just thought it was right to tell it to your face – and actually see you as I say it.’

  ‘Oh gosh, thanks Matty,’ I said. ‘You’re so right. This is way better than getting stabbed in the heart via text.’

  Matt moved for the door. As he passed me, he leaned in suddenly to kiss my cheek. I held my hand up to deflect him and his wet lips pressed into my empty palm.

  ‘Don’t even,’ I said. ‘Piss off.’

  And he did.

  Death #5

  After Matt leaving, nothing would ever hurt me again, and I knew that with certainty.

  Not my band dumping me.

  Not my school expelling me.

  Not my heartless mother.

  And definitely not dancing to some gay disco music in front of two hundred strangers. That was barely a scratch.

  The Kylie Minogue song finishes and me and Zeke are left, sweaty and arm-in-arm, in the middle of the dance floor. He’s panting; his face more alive than I’ve ever seen it.

  I think I’m panting, too.

  Suddenly, strong hands clamp down on my shoulders. A man who smells like olives pushes my head down and shoves me off the dance floor.

  ‘This way, Gino,’ a male voice says. ‘Get them out of sight.’

  ‘Dad, get off me,’ Zeke splutters nearby.

&
nbsp; ‘Don’t say another word, Zeke,’ the male voice growls.

  People murmur around the fringes of the ballroom. For these sheltered adults, two boys dancing together is an untold scandal.

  Zeke and I are shunted into the corridor that leads to the ballroom, and then into a storeroom that smells of fresh paint. Zeke’s dad closes the door. The older guy stands back, folding his arms and fixing me with a look of disgust.

  ‘You completely humiliated yourself,’ Zeke’s dad says, standing rigidly with his fists balled at his side. ‘You humiliated me and your mother. You have ruined your brother’s entire wedding. You have made me more ashamed than I have ever been in my whole life.’

  ‘Dad, stop it,’ Zeke says. ‘It was just a dance.’

  ‘Shame on you!’ his father spits. ‘How could you do this to us, Zeke?’

  ‘Do what?’ Zeke shouts. ‘Dad, I can’t help it! I’m gay!’

  His dad winds up and punches Zeke square in the face – the thud of it whacks my eardrums just before Zeke’s cry of pain does. His dad rubs his knuckles as Zeke shrinks into the corner, sobbing and grabbing at his face. A drop of blood falls from his nostril to the thin grey carpet.

  ‘You are not a homosexual!’ Zeke’s dad shouts. ‘Listen to me.’ He grabs his son by the shoulders and shakes them. ‘You’re a good boy. You’ve always been a good boy. You’ve just been confused by this –’ he rounds on me ‘– faggot.’

  ‘Don’t call him that,’ Zeke whimpers. There’s a lot of blood on his white shirt now. His nose doesn’t look broken, but his right eye is swelling up fast.

  ‘Gino, take Zeke to the car,’ the dad says to the other guy. ‘Zeke, you can wait there until this wedding is over.’

  Zeke doesn’t move. The older guy grabs him gruffly by the shoulders and steers him out of the storeroom and into the corridor. He doesn’t even blink in my direction.

  The door shuts. I’m alone with Zeke’s dad.

  ‘What did you do to my son?’ he demands. ‘Did you touch him? Did you do anything to him?’

  When Fitzy first started getting aggro, I used to imagine what I would do if he ever tried to lay a finger on me. I’d square up to him and punch him back twice as hard as he could punch me. Thankfully, we’d never physically come to blows like that. And now, tonight, I realise that it never would have gone the way I thought, because, when you’re a skinny sixteen year old and there’s an angry, fully-grown man staring down at you ready to beat the shit out of you, you realise how weak you actually are.

  So I back myself against a shelf as Zeke’s dad towers over me. Some punk I am.

  ‘I didn’t do anything to him. He asked me to dance. That’s it. We’ve never done anything.’

  ‘And it better stay that way!’ he yells. He raises his fist to my jaw and holds it there, the muscles and sinew in his forearm tensed. ‘If you ever come near my family again, I’ll end you. I mean it. I’ll kill you. I don’t care if I go to jail for it. You understand me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He glances sideways at the spots of Zeke’s blood on the carpet. His fist uncurls slightly, but then he wraps his hand around my shoulder and squeezes it hard, until I cry out with pain.

  ‘You ever see Zeke again, you’re dead,’ he growls. ‘Now, get the fuck out of here.’

  He lets my shoulder go, and I don’t waste time in running for the doorway. A death threat is just one more death for my week. I run down the hotel corridor, each day of the past week flashing before my eyes – a whole row of tombstones in the cemetery my life has become.

  21: Root

  Hammer

  I find the yellow Monaro in the underground car park beneath the hotel. It’s hell dark, and the windows are tinted, but I know he’s in there.

  I tap on the window. ‘Zeke. It’s me.’

  Nothing happens. I’m about to knock again when the electric window buzzes and slides down.

  Zeke’s got a bloodied tissue stuffed up his nose. His eyes are bloodshot and his face is streaked. His right eye has puffed right up.

  ‘What happened?’ I say at once. ‘Who hurt you?’

  Zeke glances up at the rearview mirror and tilts his head to examine his now black eye. ‘I told my dad I was gay … and he punched me in the face.’

  His voice is rickety as a rope bridge: he sounds like a little kid who fell off the swings. My chest aches. I want to hold him. Fix him.

  ‘You okay?’ I mumble.

  Zeke removes the tissue and crams a fresh one up there. ‘What, all of a sudden you want to talk to me again, do you?’

  I swallow. ‘What you did in there … that was amazing. You got bigger balls than any bloke in that room.’

  Zeke rolls his eyes. ‘You’re plastered.’

  ‘So what?’ I grab onto the side of the Monaro. Oops, nearly fell. ‘A sober man’s words are a drunk man’s thoughts.’

  ‘You mean “a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts”,’ Zeke says.

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Hammer, go back upstairs. Leave me alone.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave you alone.’

  ‘You were okay leaving me alone before. What changed?’

  I wish I knew how to answer that. Truth is, it’s probably more about me than him. He just burned his life down, and I need to know if it’s worth doing the same. And I won’t know that until I actually go through with it and just do it. Root a bloke. I can’t go through the rest of my life wondering.

  I hold up my plastic key card to Zeke.

  ‘I have a hotel room,’ I tell him. ‘Come up with me. I’ll get you some ice for your eye. You’re gonna have a hell of a shiner tomorrow.’

  Zeke’s eyes are wet. You’d think he’d be happy I’d come back to him.

  ‘You’re cruel, Hammer.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I care about you, Zeeky. Wanna have your babies. Come on. Come upstairs.’

  ‘I have to stay here.’

  ‘It’s, like, nine-thirty. Nobody’s gonna be looking for you for a coupla hours. I’m not leaving ’til you come with me.’

  Zeke laughs, but he doesn’t sound that happy. ‘Your timing is horrible.’

  He gets out of the car. I put my hands on his shoulders, partly to show him I care and partly to steady myself. Those last few beers are hitting me all at once.

  Zeke stuffs the tissue into his pocket. ‘Do you still reckon you’re straight?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Zeke draws in close to me. His lips are about an inch from mine. I can smell the leather and rum of his cologne mixed with dried blood. His breath is hot in my face.

  ‘How does this make you feel?’ he asks.

  He locks eyes with me. I stare past the swelling, the tears, the spiders of bloodshot whites, and into the deep, dark pools of his eyes. The eyes of this insanely hot boy who’s standing close enough to touch, close enough to kiss. Everything inside me is somersaulting. My face burns. I’m not sure if I’m still inhaling or not.

  ‘A straight guy would’ve punched me in the jaw by now,’ Zeke says.

  ‘What makes you think I’m not about to do that?’

  His smooth fingers twine through mine, locking into place and squeezing firmly.

  ‘This isn’t much of a fist,’ he says.

  I squeeze his hand back. The burning throughout my body has reached my groin. If Zeke moves any closer, he’ll feel MC Hammer pushing against his leg.

  I lock eyes with him again. His lips are so close to mine, but he’s not moving on me.

  ‘You gonna kiss me?’ I breathe. I sound weak and I don’t care.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘There’s no point kissing a straight guy.’

  ‘What if I wasn’t straight?’

  ‘Then I’d do this.’

  His lips press against mine; I taste the dried blood in his mouth. He could taste like dirt and I wouldn’t care. Our lips are locked, sliding over one another. Steam rises between us. Zeke’s tongue pokes at the edge of my mouth and I let
him in, allowing him to explore, which he does – quickly, roughly, like he’s hungry for me.

  Zeke pushes me away, panting. Our foreheads are touching, our breath mingling in the night air.

  ‘Give me a second. I need air,’ he breathes. ‘And I need to think.’

  ‘I don’t,’ I say, leaning back in to kiss him again. ‘This feels right.’

  ‘Not here,’ Zeke says, pressing a hand against my chest.

  I kiss him hard. ‘Upstairs. Follow me.’

  I lead Zeke up to my room. I sneak him through the doorway, flick the light on and seal us into our own private space. As I slide my belt off and shimmy my pants to the floor, Zeke’s eyes go to Doug’s clothes spread all over his bed.

  ‘Is this a shared room?’ he says. ‘I can’t be caught. Not after what happened with Charlie.’

  ‘It’s just my brother, but there’s only one key card and I’ve got it. Doug won’t bug us. Besides …’ I put my arms around him and flex. ‘I won’t let anything bad happen to you.’

  Zeke lets me kiss him, but he isn’t kissing back. I have the horrible sense that he’s about to pull away, and I can’t bear the thought of him leaving the room and leaving me here, pants down, like a loser. So I stick my hand down the front of his strides, slip my fingers beneath the waistband of his undies, and close my hand over his junk.

  Zeke takes a sharp breath, like he’s in shock. His deep brown eyes find mine and look up at me expectantly, and I realise he wants me to keep going, but he’s waiting for me to lead. It suddenly occurs to me that he’s looking up at me.

  I’m in charge.

  Adrenaline and lust splash together in my bloodstream. Without any connection to my brain, my arms start pawing at Zeke’s body, my left hand clutching at the muscle in his back, my right hand closed over his manhood, rhythmically pulling.

  I lead him backwards, keeping my hands where they are, until we reach my bed and I push him onto it. His body bounces as he hits the sheets. I unbutton my shirt as I stand over him; he responds by unbuttoning his shirt and yanking his trousers down to the ankles. He’s wearing skin-tight Batman undies – not the cool one like The Dark Knight, but old-school cartoony like Adam West’s Batman.