by Harry Cook
“Thank you kindly,” Poppy says with what I think could be a loved-up grin. I wonder if they’re together but before I can take that thought further, I’m distracted by June’s next words.
“You all still coming to the QSA meeting after fifth period?” she asks as she takes a spoonful of yoghurt. “Got to keep on top of this campaign!”
We nod in unison, but inside my stomach cramps and I feel like bolting. What am I signing up for? Do parents automatically get notified if their kid attends one of these meetings? Will they get word of it from one of the other parents? Or will it come out in the wash anyway because of how painfully small the town we’re now living in is? I feel like the cafeteria floor is shaking but realise I’m just bouncing my knee like a jack hammer. I need to remind myself: I’m doing nothing wrong. Nothing.
“How’s Eric?” June asks Rye, finishing her yoghurt and pointing her spoon at him. “Sore head after last night?”
“Yeah, good.” Rye ignores her comment about Eric’s drinking. I get the sense he’s still embarrassed by his boyfriend. “He’s taking me somewhere special tonight, I think. It’s our two-month anniversary.”
“Two months already?” Poppy says. “Wow. It feels like it’s flown by.” I get the impression she means that sarcastically.
“Yep. I think we’re heading to that place with the curly fries? Not the regular curly fries, the ones with –”
“– with cheese inside?” June replies. “They’re uh-mazing.”
She grins happily at him; Poppy shifts in her seat uncomfortably.
I look up and catch Rye’s eye but he’s smiling and his mind is obviously elsewhere, most likely thinking of Eric.
“Does Eric go here, too?” I ask.
“No, he’s at the college up on Grandview Close. Eddison Private? He’s a bit older than us and his dad is some kind of hotshot CEO so they have a ton of money,” Rye says.
“Does he still have to wear that dumb bowler hat?” Poppy asks, squirting some ketchup on her pancake.
“They’re not dumb. I think they’re kinda cool. Also, what the hell are you putting on your pancake?” Rye replies.
“Don’t knock it till you try it, my man,” Poppy says. “And not cool. Strange. Bowler hats are strange. Very cult-like.”
Rye rolls his eyes.
“Has he taken you to any college parties yet?” June asks, seeming to be genuinely interested.
“Not yet, but he’s said he’ll take me after he tells people about us. We’re taking it slow, so –”
“He is taking it slow. You’ve told all of us. He hasn’t told anyone,” Poppy says.
“Okay, what?”
“Come on, Rye. It’s not like he isn’t out.”
“So what, though? You think he’s hiding me or something?”
Rye looks upset, but Poppy isn’t disguising her annoyance. I get the feeling this conversation has happened before.
“Guys, can we not? It’s Fin’s first day. Maybe we could wait till tomorrow before we start throwing the verbal grenades at each other.” June smiles at me. I smile sheepishly back at everyone.
The bell rings and I check my timetable for my last class of the day. Gym. My favourite – insert massive eye roll here.
*
After the clusterfuck that was my last class, it’s good to know that Poppy and Rye are both in my class. I’ll have backup if I need it.
We head to the gym lockers and get changed into our gear and meet back on the oval. Considering it looked like it might rain this morning, the weather has turned up and the sun is shining. There’s a chill in the air, but the sky is mostly blue and I can smell the salt and fish from the harbour. Nice.
“Today you will all be doing the circuit track on loop for the entire class because I have, what you kids would call, a ballin’ hangover.” Mr Prager is maybe mid-forties with ridiculous beefed-up muscles and a moustache that belongs in a seventies porno.
“Nobody would say that,” someone shouts from behind us.
“Whatever. I got lit this past weekend and I need as little interaction as possible.”
Lit. Did our gym teacher just say lit?
“Is he always like this?” I whisper to Poppy.
“He got divorced for the second time last year. Hasn’t completely recovered.”
Mr Prager blows a whistle and then heads over to take refuge in the shade of a nearby tree. I’m assuming this means we need to start the running. The circuit is basically a giant track that we run around with the occasional bench to spring over, boxes for “explosive” jumping, skipping ropes and some of those heavy battle ropes you’re supposed to whip. Mr Prager looks like he’s already asleep under the tree.
“You coming?” Poppy says to Rye, who has found himself a spot in the shade too.
“Can’t. Mum said Saturn is in retrograde and that if I do any exercise today, I’ll break my leg.”
Poppy smiles. I giggle. We start jogging.
“Rye’s mum is amazing,” Poppy says. “She’s a cleaner. And a psychic.”
“A psychic?”
“I guess that’s the word. Tarot card reader? Mystic? She’s into crystals and sage and stuff like that.”
“Cool.”
“Very. Karen also has one of the best record collections I have ever seen.”
We get to the first station on our circuit and do push-ups, and by “do push-ups” I mean kneel on the ground and pretend.
“I’m talking all the greats. Fleetwood Mac, Cher, Cyndi Lauper, Led Zeppelin, Bob Marley, Streisand, Midler, etc. Their house is like a gay utopia of music. What are you into?”
“All of the above,” I say.
“Nice. Rye isn’t much of a fan of the show tune stuff. But his mum loves her Broadway musicals and when Rye came out she spent the night playing ‘I Am What I Am’ from La Cage Aux Folles and creating a rainbow crystal shrine to meditate around. He was stoked that it wasn’t a big deal to her, but maybe not so keen on being thrown a pride parade on day one. Rye’s not one for a spectacle.”
“What about his dad?” I ask, attempting an actual push-up just to see if I can. Surprisingly I manage to do twelve before buckling. Not bad.
“Long gone. Left when he was a kid.”
Poppy smashes out some push-ups, an easy fifteen in a row. I attempt another couple and then we start jogging again.
“What were your parents like when you came out?” Poppy asks.
I look across at her. My chest feels tight and it’s not from the jogging.
“They um . . .” I start.
At that moment, as if by divine intervention, or my stratospheric clumsiness, I trip and face plant into the grass. I’m talking full blown, ass-in-the-air-level of plunging into the dirt.
“Ow –” I say, lifting my head slowly.
“Shit. Are you hurt?” Poppy looks genuinely concerned until she realises I’m okay, then bursts into a laugh and collapses in a heap next to me.
I giggle too. Then my nose starts bleeding. Between gulps of air to catch her breath, Poppy leads me to the nurse’s station and I’m given an ice pack and a bunch of tissues.
Rye must have seen my Saturn in Retrograde idiocy from afar, asking, “My GOD, Fin. Are you okay?” when he arrives not long after.
I give a thumbs-up.
“The QSA meeting starts as soon as the bell goes. You think you’ll be in a fit state for it?” Poppy asks, still unable to contain her giggles every time she looks at me.
I give a thumbs-up again. “Mmhmm.”
*
About a dozen students are standing around waiting outside a music room in C-block. We arrive just as June does and we follow her in; I’m trying not to drag my feet. But you can tell she was born to lead. She’s glowing as she stands at the front and does a roll-call in which people introduce themselves and identify. I’m thinking this is perhaps for my benefit as a new QSA member.
“Alan, gay.”
“Chrissy, bi.”
“Gus, ally.”
“Poppy, pan.”
I look around as everyone says who they are and I feel this rush like butterflies in my stomach, but different to butterflies because it’s not constant. It’s sporadic. It glows and it dims. Glows and then dims.
It feels like fireflies.
“Ali, lesbian.”
“Rye, gay.”
“Fin . . .” I take a breath. “Gay.”
I can feel Rye’s eyes on me, and when I turn to him, he’s smiling at me. More fireflies.
“And me, June, trans,” June says, beaming at everyone. “Thanks for coming, you bunch of legends.” She smiles and gestures at me. “First things first, we need to bring our newest member up to speed. As the rest of you know, since the start of senior year, the mothers of our favourite comrades – Paisley and Bronwyn – have been having a conniption about trans students using the bathroom they identify with.”
Everyone groans.
“Uh-huh.” June raises her hands at our frustration. “They want to stage a protest at the school. We’re taking serious action to squish their bigotry once and for all.”
Everyone’s groans turn to nods of approval, and there’s a woop! from Poppy at the back of the room.
From there, June highlights her ideas for the counter-protest before we go around the room and each one of us gets a chance to talk about anything we’re struggling with: school, home, after-school jobs, emotions or whatever. We then announce to the room some stuff that’s going great.
I feel a bit overwhelmed and I pass when it’s my turn; the thought of sharing more than my name and sexuality seems like shooting for the moon for my first meeting. Thankfully, it’s no big deal. I keep sensing Rye looking over at me, but I’m too nervous to meet his eye.
After everyone has had a turn, June hands around some leaflets about sexual health, online support forums and youth counsellors. It seems like these are for my benefit too, as everyone else declines like they’ve seen them a hundred times already.
*
Before long, the meeting’s over and we head out together into the afternoon sunlight. It’s that time of year where the sun feels like a cuddle and the air is crisp and perfect. But the mood is spoiled for me when I realise it’s getting late and I know Dad will be suspicious that I’m not home yet.
“I’m gonna head to Kettle Lake for a bit,” Rye says. He smiles and heads off.
“You need a lift?” Poppy asks as we near her ancient grass-green Toyota Corolla.
“I’m good, thanks,” I say. I’ve decided to walk the fifteen minutes home because I need to figure out an adequate story about the day’s events that will pass as “correct and entirely normal straight guy” behaviour at home.
But before I head off . . .
“What’s at Kettle Lake anyway?” I ask Poppy, attempting to sound nonchalant.
“Rye goes there to watch the fireflies. He’s sweet like that.”
My heart rattles around in my chest like some insane parrot in a cage.
I stand rooted to the spot for a minute, my whole body vibrating.
Fireflies.
10
Rye
I love this time of year so much. The leaves are dry and crackly, the air is salty and smoky from beach bonfires nearby, and the sky permanently looks like a watercolour painting.
It’s a good season for my large collection of shirts – one that I am extremely proud of too. Today I’m wearing an oversized one that is burnt red in colour with a mustard stripe across one arm. It’s weird and vintagey and I’m a bit obsessed.
I leave Poppy, June and Fin in the car park at school and head straight for the track through the forest. Mum has Carl over tonight for dinner which is fine because, whatever, I guess she has to date, but middle-aged lovebirds, not my jam. I figured I’d give them some alone time before I get home and make things awkward.
I arrive at the entrance to Gully Forest and my phone vibrates in my back pocket.
Poppy: Have fun tonight with E. If it goes to shit and you wanna hang, hit me up.
I roll my eyes and don’t even bother to reply. Like, I get it. Eric can be a bit hit and miss and maybe he’s not always the greatest, but who is? I wish Poppy would back off a little. She hasn’t liked him from the beginning and I get so tired of being in the middle of them. Secondly, it’s our anniversary and he has been telling me to prepare for an amazing date night. I know he can be flaky, but he’ll come through.
I find the makeshift track I’ve created from years of coming here and make my way through the undergrowth. The light pools in fragments around my feet as it makes its way through the gaps in the canopy of branches and leaves overhead and the last of the afternoon light warms my skin.
Gully’s Forest is magic and I love everything about it. Ever since I can remember, anxiety has been part of my life, but when I’m here it seems to all go away and I finally feel myself settle. At least for a little while.
I arrive at my home away from home, but instead of heading to my usual decked-out cave that I’ve created, I instead head to my rock – yes, I know that technically it’s not my rock, but nobody else knows about it, so shhh – and put my backpack next to me. I breathe in and out a few times and sit still and watch the tiny stream in front of me. Old branches and leaves are carried down over the rocks and the water splashes up at me every now and then, bringing me back to the moment. I take a few more breaths and then close my eyes and lie on my back. I don’t know of anywhere so peaceful. This is my happy place.
My phone buzzes again and I decide to ignore it. It can wait. I’m focusing on the now. Now is all that ma– it buzzes again, twice this time. I breathe in deeply and retrieve it from my back pocket.
Eric: Running a bit late. Pick U up around 8 instead of 7. Hope that’s k?
Me: Sure, see you then x
I take another few breaths and remind myself to focus on my chest moving up and down, feeling my breath travelling along the length of my spine. I let my mind drift and it throws random things at me: calculus homework, what to wear tomorrow, what to wear tonight, Poppy, June and Fin, raspberry liquorice (my favourite), Fin again – this time no Poppy or June, what I should make Thelma for her bulldog birthday dinner next week, cinnamon scrolls, iced coffee.
I sit up and rub my eyes. The sun is almost gone, the sky a deep pink after its slow descent, when I catch my first glimpse. As it twinkles to life just across the stream, I see the first firefly. Less than ten seconds later another one glows to life and then disappears. It’s almost completely dark now and the reeds, logs and undergrowth of the forest are alight and twinkling and I feel myself completely and utterly relax. Every last muscle in my body releases.
After half an hour or so, I grab my backpack, brush the bits of twig and dirt off my clothes and head through the clearing and back to the track towards home.
When I arrive at our street, Thelma is sitting in the front yard waiting for me. Well, technically she is sound asleep and snoring, but I prefer to think that Thelma is moping and longing for me while I’m at school all day.
“Hey, my beautiful girl,” I say, throwing my backpack down and army crawling on the grass towards her. She looks up, stretches and does the same towards me, her jowls sagging and her beautiful big brown eyes looking at me like I’m the only person on the planet. Dogs are the best. And Thelma is the bestest.
Thelma follows me inside and, as I enter the kitchen, the smell of cinnamon chai lattes instantly assaults my nostrils. Cher’s “Believe” is blaring from the Bluetooth speaker I bought Mum from the Downtown Discount store last week.
“Hey,” I say, turning it down and wafting the burnt chai smell from my face.
“Hiiiiii –” Mum says, turning it way back up and grabbing my hands to pull me in for a dance.
“I can furrrrrl some thurrrrng insaaaaade maserrrrrlf.”
Mum singing sounds kinda similar to Cher, but her attempt at the over-the-shoulder hair flick is a miss. I can’t help but smile. Mum’s energy is magic.<
br />
“How was school?” she asks.
“Good,” I say. “Where’s Carl?”
“Left about fifteen minutes ago. Work.” Mum rolls her eyes. “His chakras are all out of whack because of that job he has.”
Carl is the manager of a gym in town and is beyond smitten with Mum. She likes him back and I guess he’s not awful. He’s always friendly to me and even offered me a complimentary gym membership to help him with his social media accounts. I helped him for free because the thought of going to Steel Bros for anything other than checking out the guys who train there is about as appealing as shutting my privates in a car door. I know, I know. Graphic. Plus, I got to ogle all the professional photos of male fitness models that Carl hired to rep his Steel Bros merch.
I grab a slice of bread from the cupboard and tear it into little pieces.
“Thelma, come!” I yell and in bounds my little pudding.
“You want some risotto?” Mum asks, stirring a pot next to the cinnamon milk on the stove.
“I’m good, thanks, Mum. Eric is taking me out,” I say, giving Thelma a piece of bread and rubbing her ears.
“Okay. No probs,” Mum says, and I immediately sense that she wants to say something more, but she’s holding herself back.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Hmm?” She’s good at keeping her feelings under control, but not that good. Ever since Eric turned up mad drunk at three a.m. a week after we “officially” started being a couple and banged on our front door asking for “sexy time” (no, I’m not kidding. I was mortified), Mum has been a little uneasy around him. Which I guess is somewhat fair.
“What’s up?” I ask again, my eyebrows raised.
“It’s . . . Look, promise you won’t get mad? Otherwise I won’t say a word.”
I take a deep breath. I have a feeling this is another version of a conversation we’ve had before.
“I just think he –”
I brace myself, but she stops. I can see she is thinking of a productive way to express what she is desperate to say.