I sat next to him. I said I was in the play with his brother Paul. He looked up from his doodling. ‘You playing Romeo?’
‘No. The competition.’ John looked confused. ‘Paris, the one Juliet leaves for Romeo.’
‘Poor Paris.’ He smiled and went on doodling. I tried to sneak fleeting glances at him. Suddenly we were both looking at each other, aware that we had run out of things to say. Say something … anything!
‘You’re up for the APS Best and Fairest.’
‘Think I’ve ruined my chances. Which team do you play for?’
‘I play soccer.’
‘A soccer choc!’
The teacher arrived and our conversation was cut short. I found it difficult to think of anything other than last night’s dream. I was so aware of him I could almost feel the heat coming off his body. The cover of his clipboard was right next to me, calling me like a siren to the rocks. I wrote, ‘You shall win.’ He smiled.
For the next few geography classes, writing on his clipboard became my way of expressing affection for him.
A poem: ‘There’s hope for the living and hope for the dead/But there’s no hope for John ’cos he’s gone in the head.’
A slogan: ‘If it feels good and hurts no one, do it!’
Finally: ‘John has asked me to stop writing on his folder, so I won’t do it anymore. See, I’ve already stopped.’
Now I always looked forward to geography.
Paris was at the Capulet mausoleum. ‘Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew.’
‘You’ve lost your fiancée, not your wallet. Can’t you do it sadder?’ I tried again, my face contorted with sadness, my hand on my heart. ‘Stop, stop. You don’t sound very real. Do you know anyone who’s died?’ I didn’t. ‘Could you imagine what it would be like to lose, say, your girlfriend?’ John?
‘I guess so, sir.’
‘See her lying in her tomb, cold, the colour gone from her face, lifeless.’ John dead, lying in a coffin, cold, lifeless.
The obsequies that I for thee will keep
Nightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep.
Chook clasped his hands together as a sign of approval. I heard laughter. Chook turned to see who it was. Joe and Gina were giggling to each other. They held hands, his leg on top of hers. Chook frowned. They extricated themselves from each other but took every opportunity to remind us that they were together.
When rehearsals finished I grabbed my bag and ran. I didn’t want to get stuck talking to Joe.
‘Hey, Conigrave. Your boyfriend wants you!’ Patrick pointed down the platform where Joe was waving. ‘Give him a kiss for me.’
I dragged my feet down to where Joe was waiting. Nothing was said until we had taken our seats. ‘Do you think Gina is good-looking?’ he asked. I agreed that she was. ‘She’s the best-looking girl in the cast. I really put it up those others by getting there first. What makes her good-looking?’
‘She’s pretty.’
Joe dug into his schoolbag and pulled out a Spirex notebook. ‘Can you be more specific than pretty?’
‘Shiny hair, clear skin, nice smile.’ Joe scrawled in his notebook.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m collecting data about how we decide that someone is good-looking. Name a guy at school you think is attractive.’
John. ‘Rhys.’
‘And what makes him attractive?’
‘His suntan.’
‘Anybody else? What about that Italian boy I’ve seen you talking to? John. What do you find attractive? His build?’ I nodded. ‘His eyes?’
‘And his eyelashes.’ Joe scrawled away.
‘Is this a science project?’
‘If you know what others find attractive you can manipulate things so you’re attractive.’ I think the wires in his head are too tight. He chewed the end of his pen. ‘The real challenge is to stop the ageing process. I’d like to be the one who discovers the fountain of youth. I never want to grow old. And because I believe it strongly enough I know I never will.’
Father Brennan stood at the microphone on the stage of the Great Hall. Behind him sat a couple of staff and two boys in sports blazers. One of the blazers was John.
‘Xavier has once again shown that a good footballer has many of the qualities of a good Christian: taking the talents that God gave you and using them to your best ability, working in a team to achieve a common goal. So it gives me great pleasure to award the following trophies on behalf of the Association of Public Schools. Justin Healy for Top Goal Score, 1976.’
Justin accepted the trophy. ‘And John Caleo, Best and Fairest, 1976.’ John shyly stepped forward to equally loud applause, trying hard not to smile too much.
Later that day in geography I thrust my hand forward and said congratulations. His hand was soft and warm. He opened the front cover of his pink clipboard. I could see my comment, ‘You shall win,’ and gave in to temptation. I crossed out the middle word. It now read, ‘You win.’ John looked pleased and gave that little smile that lately had been causing my heart to twitch.
The following Monday morning I was struggling to balance my physics folder on my knees and do the homework I’d avoided all weekend: a heap of circuit diagrams for which we had to work out voltage, amplitude and resistance. As the train pulled into Joe’s station, he saw me and appeared at the door of my carriage.
‘Cramming? I should be doing some too. I didn’t do any work over the weekend.’ He was bursting for me to ask him why.
‘Busy weekend?’
‘Very. Pietro came back to my place after rehearsal on Saturday and he only left last night.’ He raised his eyebrows lewdly. ‘I’ve begun my experiment to prove my theory that we are all bisexual.’
‘But he’s got a girlfriend.’
‘So have I!’
I was dumbstruck. He’s had sex with Romeo. ‘How did it happen?’
‘During rehearsal we got talking about music. I told him about my synthesiser and he seemed interested. We mucked around with music, then we went for a swim. Pietro in a pair of boardshorts is worth seeing. I told him I thought he had a good body and that his girlfriend must like it, and he complained that she won’t do anything and that he was getting frustrated. Then we talked about wanking and one thing lead to another.’ He smiled a satisfied smile.
‘Does this mean you’re going out together?’
‘No. It was just some fun. He’s got Michelle and I’ve got Gina.’
‘Are you going to tell her?’
‘If Pietro was a girl it’d be different, but this way there’s no competition. Can I copy your answers when you’ve finished? I’d better start on my Latin.’
I was shocked. Wonder what Pietro is thinking now? Joe makes it sound so easy. Wonder if I could try the same thing on John? I was barely able to concentrate on the circuit diagrams.
Later, in the study hall, John sat in the desk behind me. I won’t be able to concentrate with you sitting there. He pulled books out of his bag. I was going over my lines for Romeo and Juliet.
‘When’s it on?’
‘Thursday and Friday.’ My voice was calm.
‘You must be nervous?’
‘Shitting myself.’
‘Poor Paris.’
I was taken aback by his use of that name. ‘Are you coming?’
‘I don’t know much about theatre. Or that Wobbledagger fella.’
I didn’t get it.
‘Shakespeare. Sorry, bad joke.’
‘I thought you’d be coming ’cos your brother’s in it.’
‘I guess I should try. Thursday maybe. I’d better come along and keep an eye on you.’ Beauty.
There was an air of controlled excitement in the room beneath the stage. A large curtain divided it, and on one side the girls were dressing in crushed-velvet frocks with laced bodices, hair ribbons and ballet slippers. We wore tights and velvet jackets with padded shoulders. And ballet slippers. I also scored a small cloak for the tomb scene.
The chemistry teacher had made large tubs of face cream in the school laboratory and was distributing them. As I applied the panstick I was suddenly twelve again and at my first night of Scouts, terrified that the boys in my troop would give me a hard time about my ruddy cheeks, red lips and the dark lines around my eyes. Mum’s got that cream that makes her look like she’s got a suntan. Perhaps in this drawer? Yes, Mother of Pearl Beauty Fluid. ‘Tim, you’re going to be late,’ called Mum, then stopped in her tracks. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ She handed me some Pond’s Cold Cream and tissues. ‘Your first night of Scouts and you’re putting on makeup! Your father and I worry about you.’ She sighed and left the room. A hollow feeling, the realisation that I had nearly done something dangerous, ate away at my stomach.
Chook Hennessy swanned through the dressing-room delivering copies of the program. Its front cover showed a boy and a girl holding hands inside a large heart. ‘Remember, if anyone laughs at you, they don’t have the guts to do it themselves. Good luck.’
‘You can’t say that, sir. It’s bad luck,’ Bartels prodded.
‘You’re right. Break a leg, boys.’
‘Break a leg,’ pondered one of the other boys. ‘Why don’t they just say split a bowel?’
The play began with a tableau vivant as the prince gave a run-down of the story. As we left the stage I waited in the wings. I was scared that if I went downstairs I would miss my entrance, the scene where Paris asks Capulet for Juliet’s hand. Terrified of forgetting my lines, I went over and over them till I no longer knew what they meant.
My next memory was of leaving the stage after my first scene, my hands and feet tingling. Maybe it went all right. By interval I was feeling more confident. Not much to this acting game.
For the final scene the lights went down and the dry ice started to bubble. The stage became a mausoleum. I marched on, asked for my torch and dismissed my page. The audience was quiet. I suddenly realised the crutch of my tights was getting lower. Shit, I must look like a baby with a full nappy. My mind went blank. I stood there afloat in nothingness, the words refusing to come. The line, what’s the line? Graveside. John dead. From the wings I heard Chook whisper, ‘With flowers thy bridal bed …’
The flowers in my hand started to shake. I struggled my way to the end of the speech and then walked off as calmly as I could, though tempted to run. I was devastated. What must John think of me?
After the show Chook triumphantly thanked us all. He spotted me taking off my makeup. ‘Bit of brain death?’ he laughed. ‘Believe me, no one noticed.’
Dad stood in the foyer with Mum. ‘Here’s our own Larry Olivier. We’re proud of you, son.’
‘I forgot my lines.’ I was scanning the foyer to locate John. Perhaps he’s gone to the toilet.
‘We wouldn’t have noticed except for the prompt you got.’
Pepe came over with her mother. ‘Tim, this is Marie.’
‘These are my parents, Gert and Dick.’
‘You must be very proud of your daughter, Marie,’ said Dad.
‘And you of your son.’
‘Few shaky flowers at the cemetery,’ Dad chuckled, ‘but we’re very proud.’ The numbers in the foyer were dwindling. John was nowhere to be seen. Dad rubbed his hands. ‘We should get going, you’ve got school tomorrow, son.’
Pepe and I walked back to the change-room to get our bags.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘We all forget our lines sometimes.’
‘I thought a friend of mine was going to be here tonight.’
Lying in bed that night I tossed around all kinds of scenarios. Perhaps he was sick. Perhaps he forgot. Perhaps he was only being polite when he’d said he’d come.
As I showered next morning, as I ate my tomatoes on toast, and as I sat on the train to school watching the aniseed plants beside the railway line whizzing by, I wondered how to find out if he’d seen the show. And if he did see it, why he didn’t stay. And if he hadn’t come at all, why not. I didn’t want to interrogate him or make him feel uncomfortable. I didn’t want to hassle him. Well, I did but I didn’t want him to feel hassled.
As I entered the study hall I could see John from the door, hunched over some work. The desk behind him was free, so I sat down casually. Brother Cahlill was walking slowly down the aisle, his eyes fixed on me. Shit, what have I done? ‘Fine performance last night, Tim. The girl who played Juliet is very good.’ I thanked him and he walked on.
John turned round. ‘Sounds pretty good.’
‘I take it you weren’t there?’ Shit, I sound like I’m ticking him off. He wasn’t. He apologised. More. I need more. ‘Are you coming tonight? I’d really like you to.’ Shit. Too far. He said he’d have to see.
I wanted to jump on his desk and throttle him. What do you mean, you’ll have to see? There is no reasonable excuse. It’s a Friday night. What could be better than seeing me in the play? Would you rather do homework? I nonchalantly mentioned that there was a party after tonight’s show. That sounded good to him. He’s going to come! Perhaps – don’t jump to conclusions. But imagine if he did.
That night I walked out into the foyer, my face still greasy and my fringe wet. I was on a high, having given what I thought was a good performance. John would be waiting for me. I spotted his brother Paul with people who could only have been his parents. His mother was a very tall, neat woman, her hair immaculately set. Her husband was a fumbly wombat of a man, his hands formally crossed in front of him. Both wore their Sunday best. John was not with them. I was crestfallen.
‘Your friend’s not here again?’ Pepe put her arm through mine. I shook my head. ‘He doesn’t know what he missed.’ She rubbed my hand reassuringly. ‘You like this boy?’
‘What do you mean?’ Perhaps I was a little too defensive.
‘Whatever you like.’ She was smiling gently.
Pepe and I rode to her party with Jackie and Juliet, two of the Sacre Coeur girls, babbling away: it was so much fun; they’d miss everybody; we must keep in touch.
Pepe’s place was a rustic open-plan house. Her attempts at sculpture graced bookshelves flanked by the biggest stereo speakers I had ever seen. It was perfect for a party. Pepe handed me a glass of green liquid with mint leaves floating in it. ‘I hope we’re going to be friends. I have this feeling about you. So who is this boy?’
She smiled. I had no choice but to answer. ‘His name is John. He’s a boy at school, Paul’s brother actually.’
‘And you like him? Perhaps more than like?’
I felt a rush of warmth mixed with sadness. ‘I’m bisexual.’
‘I’ve grown up with gay people all my life. Mum’s best friend is a lesbian. How are we going to get you two together? Dinner at your place Wednesday night, I’m cooking. And we should ask some of the others. It’s settled.’
I sat smiling, content. I raised my glass to Pepe. ‘Here’s to our friendship.’
‘And here’s to your relationship.’
‘You’re so pushy.’
Through the sea of boys in the corridor preparing for the first class of the week, I caught the eye of John walking towards me. He opened the locker a few along from mine. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there on Friday. How did it go?’
‘It went okay. Good actually.’ I was trying to smile, but my face was in a wrestling match with the disappointment I felt.
‘Paul said the party was good.’ Would have been much better if you’d been there. ‘I was out on a run and when I got back there was this note from Mum saying that she and Dad had gone to see Paul’s play. That’s when I remembered. Sorry. I’d better get off to Latin. I’ll see you at the break.’ He started to walk away. Does he want to see me at the break or was that just a throwaway?
‘John?’ He turned. ‘I’m having an end-of-term dinner on Wednesday night with some of the girls from the play. Would you like to come?’
‘Getting home might be a bit difficult.’ You can stay over.
‘
Pepe lives over your way. I’m sure you could get a lift with her.’
‘Sounds good.’
At the break John was with his footy mates in the coffee-room discussing the grand final, so I had to stand by, listening. Still, over the next couple of days I felt there was a secret between John and me. Okay, I couldn’t go toe-to-toe about football, but it didn’t matter – John was coming to dinner at my place. And then an ugly thought descended. Perhaps he’s only coming to meet some girls.
On Wednesday night I was cutting up tomatoes for a salad when Pepe arrived with a large ceramic pot and a bottle of champagne. She gave me a kiss. Jackie and Juliet followed. ‘We wanted to get here before lover-boy,’ said Juliet, handing me another bottle of champagne. I was taken aback. ‘It’s all right darling, I knew from the moment I met you.’
We lounged around on the couches in the living-room. I munched on pretzels, unable to relax or join the conversation. I looked at my watch. It was quarter to eight. Pepe caught my concerned look and told me to relax.
At that moment the doorbell went, ripping through me like a bolt of lightning. I stood and cleared the pretzel out of the corners of my mouth with my finger. I took a swig of champagne, braced myself and headed to the front door, where his silhouette showed through the glass, schoolbag over his shoulder. I opened the door. He was dressed quite formally and looked nervous.
‘I got lost on the way from the station.’ He pulled from his bag a bottle of soda water and a bottle of lime juice.
I took him in, introduced him, organised drinks and sat down on the arm of the couch next to him. Pepe, Jackie and Juliet were all staring at John in silence. An agonising silence.
‘You and Tim are at school together?’ burst out Jackie. Pepe and Juliet looked at her in disbelief. Again we fell silent. John fumbled with his glass.
It was Juliet’s turn. ‘What did you think of the play?’
‘I didn’t see it,’ John said apologetically.
‘So I can tell you that we were fabulous?’
‘I’d better serve up the ravioli,’ Pepe said. ‘Tim, can I have a hand?’
Holding the Man Page 7