The Sidekicks

by Will Kostakis

  ‘The photos in the programme are nice,’ Mum says.

  It barely registers. Mum must feel my distance. She grabs my hand. I look to her and she says she loves me. I count to twenty before I free my hand to check my phone.

  A message from Todd. I angle the screen so Mum can’t see.

  Brother Mitchell starts proceedings. He welcomes guests to the school and to his chapel, and invites us to stand for the first hymn. ‘Isaac was such a fan of hymns,’ he says with the roughness of a former chain-smoker. ‘I know he gave some staff members trouble . . .’ He pauses for grief-tinged laughter, ‘but I have never seen a boy his age so committed to belting out a hymn.’

  Isaac’s love of hymns stemmed from his love of unintended sexual innuendo. Brother Mitchell knows this. He’s made the selection accordingly. ‘Have Thine own way, Lord’ is a laugh factory. I snigger partway through the first line.

  ‘Don’t,’ Mum whispers, lips curled into a smile.

  The room is largely playing it straight. I notice a guy standing in the back row in a hoodie and well-worn jeans. There are dark rings around his eyes. He chews on his thumbnail. Harley.

  Our gazes meet. I nod and he gives me nothing.

  ‘Turn around,’ Mum urges, before committing to the final line of the song. ‘You know,’ she adds as we both sit, ‘it’s not a bad song.’

  ‘Mm.’ Harley’s thrown me.

  Mrs Roberts walks to the pulpit. She clears her throat and lays a crisp sheet of paper down in front of her. She doesn’t consult it.

  She walks us through Isaac’s life – the first steps, the first stern call from a teacher, the first girlfriend. I haven’t heard these stories before. Isaac was so fully formed by the time we became friends in Year Five. While the rest of us tumbled through adolescence, he was already eighteen, just going through the motions until everyone else caught up.

  Mrs Roberts’s speech ends suddenly. She consults her paper – that’s all she’s written. She looks back up and soaks in the audience. She takes a breath.

  ‘There are so many of Isaac’s peers here, and . . . I want to say Isaac lived a full life, and retroactively justify him not being here by saying he lived more in his sixteen years than most ever would, but that isn’t true. He didn’t live enough, he didn’t love enough, he didn’t see enough, and if there’s a lesson in all this: do more. You don’t know how long you have, do what makes you happy. Live, love and be remarkable.’

  Her words linger.

  She clears her throat once more. ‘Thank you all for being here. To see so many of his friends . . . I know it was compulsory. He would have liked that.’

  Everybody laughs. She consults the programme and adds, ‘I think there’s another hymn now . . .’ Brother Mitchell rises, and there’s an awkward back and forth about who should introduce the song. ‘Oh, I can do it,’ Mrs Roberts says.

  She does. The organ starts and the room is slow to its feet. I check back at Harley. He’s struggling with the door. He opens it wide enough to escape. The music masks the door shutting behind him.

  Mum nudges me and I turn back. She has the programme open between us. Everyone starts singing. Mum’s mumbling the words and I’m looking past the lyrics. It says Mrs Evans is scheduled to speak next.

  I can miss that. I ought to.

  I squeeze past the others in our row and ignore Mum asking where I’m going. I powerwalk down the aisle and heave the door open. I expect Harley on the other side of it.

  The corridor is empty.

  He’s bailed. I sprint past reception, out the door, down the front steps and through the gate. The street pavement is swollen with businesspeople on their way to lunch. I turn, hoping for a glimpse of Harley’s hood, a teenage blip on a corporate radar. Nothing.

  The doorbell goes off a second time. Mum waits for me to descend the stairs before she opens up. The way she bellows, ‘Hello!’ it’s like she hasn’t seen Hank today, or every other school day. I try not to roll my eyes. It’s been just the two of us long enough for me to spot her schemes a mile off. Apparently she and Hank made dinner plans for tonight a while ago. Yeah, and I’m a unicorn. I appreciate it though. The pageantry of a staff dinner will keep tonight from being a total downer.

  ‘And you brought Jonathan!’ Mum’s quick to embrace the second man to cross the threshold. When she pulls back, she prompts me. ‘Ryan, you remember Hank’s housemate?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I shake their hands.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Hank says. ‘I mentioned I was coming, and he remembers Christmas.’

  Jonathan lights up. ‘That meal was sublime.’

  ‘Well, taper your expectations,’ Mum warns. ‘I haven’t made a turkey.’

  ‘You haven’t had long to prepare,’ I tease.

  ‘I’ve had weeks.’ She’s committed to the story, I’ll give her that much.

  She leads us past the blue-glass tile feature wall. Hank says he loves what we’ve done to modernise the place. Mum tells him to shut up. He laughs.

  When she gets to the kitchen, she fetches a third glass and starts pouring. The first bottle of red doesn’t last very long, so the adults leap from polite dinner conversation to, ‘I can’t believe you said that in front of Ryan,’ in record time.

  ‘Nothing leaves this table.’ Mum gestures wildly, as if which table she was referring to could be a point of future contention.

  I cross my heart with one finger.

  ‘You’ll understand, one day.’

  Oh, I understand red wine.

  I smirk down at my cleared plate. I’m still hungry, but my seconds are Jonathan’s firsts.

  He picks at my food slowly. ‘In the car over, Hank was explaining Twelvies,’ he says.

  ‘Twelvies?’ Mum asks.

  ‘The younger kids who act tough,’ Hank says. ‘I look at them and think, You’re twelve. I could break you. Grow up.’

  Mum nods. ‘Oh.’

  ‘That’s the good thing about living with a teacher,’ Jonathan says. ‘You’re always learning.’

  Jonathan bounces against Hank softly. It reminds me of Todd.

  I call out to Mum on her way past my bedroom.

  She stops. ‘Mm?’

  My mouth is suddenly dry. ‘Hank and Jonathan, they’re more than housemates, aren’t they?’

  She drags her feet as she approaches. She tells me to shove over and I do. She sits up against the headboard.

  ‘It’s delicate,’ she says eventually. ‘The school has policies and if they were more than housemates, it would cause . . . difficulties.’

  I tilt my head back at her. ‘Would they fire him?’

  She lowers her chin into her chest. Her gaze wavers as she finds the right phrasing. ‘There’d be pressure. The school would never own the decision though. They’d blame square parents.’

  ‘And you’ve known a while?’

  She laughs. ‘Hon, I knew when I hired him.’ Her eyes meet mine. ‘Your mum’s a sharp cookie. Not much gets past her.’

  I feel like the subject’s changed. She’s looking at me and she knows. No, she can’t . . . My chest tightens. I’ve been careful. But I was careful and Todd noticed me. She knows. She knows . . . And the panic melts. There’s relief. I can kick the door down and let the light in. No more hiding, no more retreating to the shadows, only standing in the sun. Only. Everything will be scrutinised. There’ll be . . . difficulties.

  What of them? I’ll have Mum. I want what Hank and Jonathan have, but not exactly that. I want a partner, not a housemate.

  And this is my chance.

  I go to speak and Mum speaks first. ‘As much as I can’t wait for you to bring a girl home so I have an excuse to entertain, playing host exhausts me.’

  I exhale. ‘Oh.’

  She pecks the side of my forehead. ‘I need to go to sleep.’

  Mum pushes off the bed and on her way out, I say her name. She turns, I hesitate.

  ‘Goodnight,’ I add.

  Squad’s always light the m
orning of a meet. If anybody’s going to lose by an arm’s length tonight, there’s no amount of morning prep that will change it. We’re here because we always are, devout believers in the back and forth. Dive, break the water – shit, it’s freezing – tumble turn, swim back, find a rhythm, tumble, tumble, back, forth, back, forth.

  Back. Mum pushes off the bed and on her way out, I say her name.

  Forth. She barely turns before I blurt it. It’s not poetic or careful, just the truth: ‘I’m gay.’ Her gaze softens, like it wounds her.

  No, that isn’t right.

  Back. Mum pushes off the bed and on her way out, I say her name.

  Forth. She turns. I take a breath, and on the exhale, I tell her what I’ve owed her. She smiles like she already knows. She invites Todd over for lunch on Sunday. He squeezes my hand on the table, not under it. He takes me to the movies, and kisses me before they dim the lights. Someone mutters, ‘Poofs.’

  I tumble.

  Back. He takes me to the movies, and kisses me before they dim the lights.

  Forth. No one says a word. He comes to a swim meet. I introduce him to the team. They turn away from me in the showers. I’m the gay one now.

  I don’t want them to look at me and see a rainbow, but is it any better that they look at me and see a lie?

  I go back and forth.

  Mr Watkins says I don’t need to race today. He doesn’t get it. I’m not doing this for the school.

  When they call my race, I approach my starting block. I lower the goggles. We step onto the blocks in unison.

  Twenty-four seconds is all I need.

  On my mark.

  The gun fires. I launch into the water and I rebuild my life, piece by piece, stroke by stroke. I seize the lead and keep it. I push myself harder. They can’t take this.

  I touch. First. I collapse against the wall. Every inhale is violent. The timekeeper congratulates me. 23.89 seconds.

  The guy in the lane beside mine nods. I look past him to the cheering Barton contingent. Joys of a home meet, they’re half the crowd. And I’m their champion. I’m Ryan Patrick Thomson, Olympic hopeful.

  That is certain.

  My heart thumps against my naked chest.

  ‘You can still come tonight, if you want.’ There’s a hopeful nervousness in Todd’s voice.

  My heart sinks. Dinner’s my way of avoiding tonight without feeling like a flake. We sit with our legs over the edge, eating grilled fish and rice. It isn’t a night out clubbing. He doesn’t get to introduce me to his mates.

  Like all compromises, it comes up short.

  I’m not ready to be introduced as somebody’s boyfriend. Instead of saying that, I tell him I’m tired, that after the week I’ve had I want to hibernate all weekend.

  I feel bad, hiding behind Isaac like that.

  Todd’s smile is warm. ‘No worries. Thought I’d try again.’

  He bounces against me. I think of Hank and Jonathan, and Mum walking out of my bedroom without me saying anything.

  ‘I almost came out to Mum last night,’ I say. ‘She invited this teacher over for dinner. He’s gay, which was news to me. He brought his boyfriend and it was a fun night. Afterwards, Mum and I were talking about it, and she said something about not much getting past her. I don’t know if I read too much into it, but lying there, I thought it was her telling me she knew, encouraging me to say something to confirm it. But I didn’t. My chance was right there and I didn’t take it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I’m gay. I’m sure of it, but I’m scared of it. Once I say it, I’ll be in that box forever. I tell him. ‘I don’t want to be seen as the gay kid.’

  Todd’s reply is swift. ‘But you are though.’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  He tilts his head. ‘Is it?’

  ‘I don’t want to be just that.’

  ‘Am I just that?’

  I can feel the conversation slipping away from me. ‘No, I . . . I don’t know.’

  We’re both quiet. I scoop some rice but stop myself. My appetite is gone.

  Todd speaks up. ‘I won’t lie, some people will see you as just that. It’s inevitable. But you can’t live your life for them. They aren’t worth knowing, let alone living for. I came out one –’

  ‘Month after you first kissed a guy.’ I’ve heard it before.

  ‘That’s about as long as I could handle hiding it,’ he continues. ‘I know you want to find the right time, I get that, but there isn’t one. As much as I can’t handle it, I’m hiding again, because of you, Ryan. I don’t want to pressure you, but . . .’ He abandons it.

  The ocean laps against the rocks.

  ‘But what?’

  ‘It’s nothing . . . It’s . . . There’s only so much longer I can wait.’

  I collapse onto the carpet, wrecked. Nothing strips my mind like working my core. But as my breathing steadies and the burn in my abs fades, our message history pops back into my head. I turn to the left, to my phone facedown on the floor. Todd hasn’t replied. I would have heard it if he had.

  I draw my bellybutton in and start over. One. I lift up off the floor. Hold for one, down for two. Two. Core tight, I lift myself again, hold for one, down for two. Three. I focus on the count until I lose count. Then there’s just the burn and my strength to push through it. One builds, the other depletes, until I collapse onto the carpet, wrecked.

  I see Todd sitting on the edge and telling me my time is running out. My phone pulls my focus. I texted him before lunch. Surely he’s replied. I just haven’t heard it.

  I snatch up the phone.

  His battery’s dead. Obviously. It’s Mardi Gras. It’s a big day, he’s out early, taking a million pics. I check his feed. I don’t have an account, but I know his username. His last pic was uploaded ten minutes ago. He’s standing on the kerb, beaming, dressed as an eighties pro-wrestler. He’s a string bean busting out of fluoro tights. It’s as funny as he said it would be.

  His battery isn’t dead, he just hasn’t replied.

  It’s hard not to feel crappy.

  I see myself beside him, beaming, busting out of my own fluoro tights. He has his arm around my waist. He pecks my cheek in time for the photo. We watch the parade, drinking vodka lemonade from water bottles. He takes my hand and leads me to a club. The strobe lights slice the air. We dance close. My eyes catch his. And then we kiss.

  I’m on my bedroom floor, the taste of what he’s drinking almost on my lips.

  I wish I could call Isaac. Words would bounce between us, and even if nothing really changed afterwards, I’d feel better. Now my words have nowhere to go. I think of him and see the coffin. And I hear his mum saying he didn’t live enough.

  You don’t know how long you have, do what makes you happy.

  I can tell Mum I’m going to Miles’s for help with Modern, say I’m staying the night. It’s too late to match Todd’s costume, but I still have the junior uniform I was supposed to donate to the school clothing pool. That’ll do.

  Live, love and be remarkable.

  I launch off the floor and slide my cupboard open. The uniform hangs in the corner – light grey shirt, darker shorts. I toss them on and check myself in the mirrored door. I look like a schoolkid. I pull the shirt over my shoulders, grab my scissors and cut it three buttons shorter. I try it on again. The lower half of my eight-pack and swimmer’s V are exposed. Now that’s a pride costume.

  I exhale. It looks gay. I think it like it’s a bad thing. But gay is my hand slipping into Todd’s lap in the movie theatre. Gay is kicking our feet over the edge. I like gay; I am gay.

  I force myself to think it again.

  It looks gay.

  It still feels like an insult. I try again.

  I look gay.

  Again.

  I like being gay.

  ‘I like being gay,’ I repeat out loud. I smile at my reflection.

  ‘Ryan,’ Mum says.

  My heart slams against my chest. My lungs shatter.
I gasp for air and look to the door. It’s closed. Mum isn’t standing there. But I heard her. I – The intercom. I slump forwards and exhale in bursts. I’m relieved, depleted. She hasn’t seen me like this.

  Click. A little red dot lights up beside the living room button. ‘Ryan?’ Click.

  I need to answer. I pull off the shirt and climb over my bed to the intercom. I push the button. ‘Yeah?’

  She wants to know what took me so long. I tell her I was sleeping. She says dinner’s ready.

  I stuff the altered shirt under my mattress.

  I wait for a lonely moment, for the space between the sixth and seventh drinks when Todd thinks of me and texts. When a message doesn’t come by eleven, I shut my eyes and wait for sleep. It comes in stutters. I want feature-length dreams and I barely get the trailers. I reach for the phone each time and nothing.

  I know what he’s doing. The summer before we met, there was Justin. I visited this chatroom for years. I never had the guts to meet anyone off it. Instead, I existed on the fringes, peering into this world that felt so foreign, but at the same time, so familiar. These guys were just like me, and they were everywhere. Justin was a regular. I was afraid someone would figure out who I was, so I never used the same username twice. Every time Justin and I spoke, he met someone different. Ashton from Marrickville. Freddie from St Ives. He told the same introductory anecdotes, and every time, I wanted to learn that little bit more. I committed to a regular username one night. I introduced myself as Ryan from Bondi-ish. We traded numbers. He asked to meet on Town Hall steps one afternoon. I agreed. I watched him from across the street. He paced in figure eights. He checked his phone. He rang. I freaked. I faded away. I didn’t message him, and when he messaged me, I didn’t write back. He got the hint and faded too.

  The longer the message goes unanswered, the more certain of it I feel: Todd’s fading. There’s a heaviness in my heart, it’s tearing stitch by stitch. If this is the end, I want the worst of it in an instant. I want a clean break.