Invisible Boys

by Holden Sheppard

  He disappears. All I’m aware of is throbbing dance music from the speakers and muffled voices in the backyard, like they’re coming through a tin can telephone.

  A hand grabs my shoulder again.

  ‘This way,’ Zeke says.

  ‘I thought Sabrina was with you?’ I say. ‘Did she do a disappearing spell or something?’

  ‘I left her with some friends for a minute. You are so hammered. No pun intended.’

  ‘Poor Sabrina. She could be hot if she wasn’t so up herself.’

  ‘Wait – so you are into girls?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know? You big horse’s hoof.’

  Before long, I realise the throb of the speakers and the talking and the smell of piss and vomit and spilled rum and Coke has faded. We’re walking on the side of the road. Then we’re in a dark cluster of trees. The bush? No. It’s the park next door to Amber’s. We’re in the shadows.

  ‘You still with me, Hammer? I think you’ve had too much to drink.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because you called me sexy in front of everyone. You groped me. I don’t think you really want other people to know, do you?’

  ‘That you’re sexy? Everyone probably already knows, the way you walk around with that bubble butt …’ I reach out and give him a tap on the arse. He doesn’t move away.

  ‘I’ve pinched myself like three times since you said I was a sexy angel,’ Zeke says slowly. ‘I can’t believe this is happening. Are you really? Gay?’

  ‘Nah. I just think you’re a sexy little fucker.’

  ‘Right …’ Zeke pulls away slightly. ‘Look, whatever’s going on … I think you’ll regret it tomorrow if you accidentally say something public tonight.’ He presses a bottle of cold spring water into my hands. ‘Drink. Sober up.’

  ‘Look at you,’ I say, trying to unscrew the bottle’s lid off. ‘You’re being nice to me again. What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Just trying to help.’

  ‘No. There has to be something wrong with you. I’m a horrible person, ya know.’

  ‘No you’re not. Here.’

  He finally intervenes and opens the bottle for me. I scull some fresh water. I feel my head melting somehow. I’m not sure if the water is helping or not.

  ‘I am horrible, actually,’ I say. ‘It’s because everyone wants to fuck me. It gives you a big head. I read about it on the Internet. I’ve become a real dick. Like how I gave you a hard time about your man boobs. Or like, at the party just then, I made that fat girl cry. I didn’t mean for her to hear that. I don’t wanna hurt anyone.’

  Zeke props me against a tree trunk. I can see him, but his face is blurry. ‘This is so weird,’ he says. ‘You’re like a different person when you’re drunk. It’s like you have feelings.’

  ‘I do have feelings. Who said I didn’t?’

  ‘You did.’

  I launch myself forwards, throwing my arms around Zeke’s shoulders as I land my lips on his.

  For a second, he just stands there, holding my body weight with his, our lips pressed together, cold and wet.

  And then his lips press back into mine.

  My tongue sneaks between his lips, and our mouths part.

  Suddenly, our mouths are on fire, and we’re raging, clutching at each other, our tongues fighting for power and dominance.

  I drop the bottle of spring water and MC Hammer springs to life in my pants. My whole body tingles.

  This is the best feeling I have ever had.

  Zeke puts his arms around my middle and squeezes me. I hug him back, my arms wrapped around his shoulders. Our mouths are locked together, tongues thrashing like warring snakes.

  ‘Oh, God,’ Zeke breathes, finally breaking for oxygen. ‘You’re so hot.’

  ‘You’re so hot, too.’

  ‘We can’t stay here,’ Zeke says. ‘Everyone will notice we’re gone. We have to get back to the party.’

  I know he’s right.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ I say, nibbling at his neck. I feel his body twitch and spasm to my touch.

  ‘Yes,’ he pants.

  ‘It’s really dumb.’ I press my pelvis into his, and feel him hard against me. ‘You can’t make fun of me.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  I swallow, and bring my forehead to rest against his. I can’t feel my teeth. I can’t feel half my body.

  But I can feel my heart throbbing like a thrashed-out V8 engine.

  ‘Zeke Calogero,’ I say. ‘Will you be my Valentine?’

  He laughs.

  ‘I said you couldn’t make fun of me.’

  ‘I’m not making fun of you. I’m just trying to get my head around this new Hammer.’ His lips graze my earlobe. ‘Of course I’ll be your Valentine.’

  ‘Cool,’ I say.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he says.

  ‘One more thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You don’t have to call me Hammer,’ I tell him. ‘You can call me Kade.’

  13: Ragazzi

  Zeke

  Three months ago, at the end of year ten, I won a whole bunch of school awards for my good grades. At the Speech Day ceremony in the huge orange Byzantine-style St Francis Xavier Cathedral, the principal called my name out five times. Five times, I had to get up, my shirt plastered with sweat in the November heat; and five times, I went back to my varnished pew to the sight of Hammer and Razor muttering stuff that was clearly about me, but not for my ears.

  But the faces I didn’t look for in the crowd were those of my parents. I knew better by this point.

  After Speech Day was done, I fought my way out of the bottleneck at the stained glass doors of the cathedral, splashing holy water on my forehead to cool myself down. I found my parents standing quite still in the sunny throng outside.

  ‘Well done, son,’ Dad said, plucking one of the little maroon velvet sacks from my grip. ‘Straight to the pool room!’ he declared boldly. Dad’s favourite movie is The Castle.

  ‘It’s impressive to get five awards in the one year,’ Mum said. ‘I noticed that Sabrina Sefton got three – she must be quite bright as well.’

  ‘She is. Her parents push her really hard. She studies a lot, too,’ I said.

  ‘Study never beats raw intelligence, though, does it?’ Mum said. ‘Let’s face it – three is good, but it’s not five.’

  ‘Can we go?’ I said at once.

  My parents always made me uncomfortable at Speech Day. Dad always looked on edge, eyeing up the white-collar dads in their nice suits while he wore a button-up shirt over dark denim. If anyone congratulated him on my success, he’d brush it off fast, like even talking to these parents sent him into a panic. Mum was the opposite. She’d try to catch the eyes of mothers whose kids had won fewer awards than me. She wanted to gloat: even though the medallions were engraved with my name, for her I was the trophy. And yet at the same time, she’d be comparing me to other students. She’d point out guys like Hammer, who would win the award for PE. Adjusting her big sunglasses, she’d give a high little laugh. ‘Phys Ed! There’s one award that’s never going to make it your way, hey, Zeke?’

  But what actually bothered me the most was that once we got in the car, my awards were never mentioned again. Mum and Dad would start gossiping about some of the other parents, or bicker about the business, and I’d sit in the back seat and watch the Norfolk Island pines whiz past as the Monaro sped down the avenue.

  When we got home, I’d carry my swag of maroon velvet sacks to my bedroom. On my desk was a wooden safety-glasses holder. It was our project in year seven woodwork, and I got a B for it, which I was always proud of since I sucked at doing anything manual. I slid the dusty Perspex off the oiled wooden box – on which you could still see the pen lines where I’d failed to cut precisely – and cram the sacks in. Never to be seen or spoken of again.

  The night after Amber’s party, all I could think about was my stupid, useless gold medallions locked away in my
safety-glasses case. In four years, I’d won fourteen of the fucking things, but the only time my parents ever raved about me like I was a superstar was when I took a girl out to a party.

  And a good girl, according to their rumour mill.

  ‘Sabrina’s mother used to work at the bank with me before I moved into insurance,’ Mum says, chopping onions on Wednesday arvo. ‘I think her parents are quite well-off.’

  ‘George Sefton Building Company … is that her old man, then?’ Dad says, cutting me a sliver of provolone cheese.

  ‘Yes, Delilah used to talk about a George – that’ll be him,’ Mum says, knife clunking against the breadboard. ‘And she’s smart, too, Zeke – didn’t she win some school awards last year?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good-looking, too,’ Mum says. ‘She’ll look nice on your arm at the Summer Dance. Pretty, but classy. Not too much of that horrible eyebrow stuff. And not trashy like some of those little sluts downtown. Some of them barely have their backsides covered at all!’

  ‘It’s distasteful,’ Dad says, not making eye contact with me. He focuses on the provolone.

  ‘And you said you had a good time with her, Zeke, but you didn’t give any details,’ Mum goes on.

  I take the slice of provola from Dad and chuck it in my mouth. It’s like a delicious mouthguard to stop me grinding my teeth down to the gums. A quiet, long-squashed voice in my head starts to rally. Go on. Tell her you made out with the school footy star in some bushes. Tell them you’re a big faggot and no amount of Hail Marys will ever change that.

  ‘Nothing special, Mum. We just hung out with everyone else at the party. Talking and stuff. Couple of drinks.’

  ‘You’re respectful of her,’ Mum says. There’s genuine joy in her tone. ‘I’m proud.’

  ‘Good man, Zeke,’ Dad says.

  ‘Sam, can you write on the whiteboard for me to buy Father Mulroney a bottle of red?’ Mum says.

  Now, that’s about as overt as we’ll ever get to discussing the whole gay porn situation. Mum wants to buy the priest some grog to thank him for fixing me. But the one benefit of my date with Sabrina is that all my crimes against humanity – the wanking, the homosexuality, the Destruction of the Tennis Balls and running away from Uncle Mario’s house – are all forgiven.

  My parents are such good Catholics in that sense.

  I stare at them, absent-mindedly sliding more provolone into my mouth as they go into a rabbit hole about Delilah and George Sefton’s investment property. Did the Seftons really want to sell it off, or were they forced to for financial reasons? Maybe their business is going bankrupt. And what about Delilah Sefton’s pregnant sister? Was it planned, or an accident?

  Ten, fifteen minutes pass this way, and it’s long enough for me to realise they will never change. This is their most stimulating topic of conversation: who’s good and who’s trash. And if someone’s good, how could they potentially fall and become trash?

  ‘Sam! Dammit!’ Mum shouts, backing away from the sink and waving her oniony knife in the air. ‘Another frigging mouse! It went behind the dishwasher this time.’

  I rock on the bar stool at the bench as I watch Dad hunt for a fresh glue trap. He pulls out two white strips of glue and places one on each side of the dishwasher.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what way that little bastard tries to get out,’ Dad says. ‘Either way, he’s dead as a brick.’

  Robbie emerges from the bathroom, keys jangling. ‘Ready, bro?’

  ‘Later, olds,’ I call to my parents.

  ‘Have fun with Kade, darling,’ Mum trills. ‘I’m so glad you two are becoming friends.’

  The glimpse I have of my mother’s face as I follow Robbie out the door isn’t pride in me. It’s relief for her. You can see the rigid, programmed little cogs twitching in her brain. A date with a girl and a new mate who doesn’t spend all his spare time playing internet chess – all in the same week? Perhaps there’s a chance the second son will turn out as normal as the first.

  Robbie cranks the speakers all the way into town. Drum and bass shakes my bones as we crest the hill over Phelps Street and are instantly blinded by the sun setting over the Indian Ocean. Simultaneous sight and sound assault.

  As he flicks through his phone at the traffic lights near Hungry Jack’s, he says, ‘Since when do you and Hammer ever hang out?’

  Even though I’ve practised my response, his question still electrocutes me.

  ‘Since we’re both groomsmen,’ I say. ‘I had him pegged as a meathead but he’s alright.’

  ‘Huh. Fair enough.’

  When Robbie dies and is buried and the Five Families finally pass through the seven years of mourning, I hope someone engraves the words ‘fair enough’ on his tombstone. Everything is just fair enough to Robbie. Some guy at the pub could tell him he prefers acoustic music to Robbie’s electro stuff and he’d say, ‘Fair enough.’ The same guy could then admit to being a Nazi skinhead and he’d get another, ‘Fair enough.’ Robbie’s eternally neutral: as undetectably inoffensive as an eggshell-coloured wall.

  ‘Looking forward to getting married?’ I ask.

  ‘Yep.’

  He puts the radio back on.

  As we pass the old train station and the big ugly box of white tin that is the licensing centre beside it, I spot a familiar scooter in the car park.

  ‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘Pull in at the Chook Shed.’

  ‘What for?’ Robbie asks.

  ‘Seen someone I wanna say hi to.’

  He brakes, and takes a hard right into the licensing centre car park. ‘Fair enough.’

  I get out. ‘Thanks for the lift. I’ll walk to meet Hammer from here. Have a nice Valentine’s dinner with Nattie, ay.’

  ‘Yep.’

  He leaves.

  I stride across the packed car park. A blue-painted Greyhound bus is parked in front of the old red-brick train station. A small crowd is gathered around the bus, waiting to board, with squishy neck pillows already affixed to their shoulders.

  I scan the faces in the crowd, recognising a few but not finding the one I want. My heart starts to beat faster.

  He wouldn’t do this, would he?

  It hasn’t gotten so bad that he’d actually skip town?

  Just as I’m starting to panic at the thought – and wondering why it bothers me as much as it does – I see his slim frame appear through the crowd. His hands are in his pockets, his mouth downcast.

  ‘Hey, Zeke,’ Charlie says, taking his earphones out. ‘You heading to Perth for something?’

  ‘No. Of course not. Are you?’

  Charlie squints at me. ‘Why would I be going to Perth? I just came back to school.’

  Relief chills my arteries. Typical me, overthinking stuff. Maybe I’ve got the same gene as my parents – the gene that likes to make rumours up about other people.

  ‘I just saw your scooter parked there and thought you might be bailing or something.’

  Charlie strokes an imaginary goatee. ‘You know, that’s not a bad thought. Getting out of this hole would be nice.’ He shakes his head. ‘Nothing like that. I was just helping Mum and Fitzy out with lifting their luggage. Fitzy’s just too weak, poor petal.’

  I laugh, without thinking whether or not that’s even appropriate. ‘What’s his deal?’

  ‘He’s a dole bludger. A leech. Claims disability. Reckons he hurt his back. He legit hasn’t. I’ve literally heard him admit to Mum that he’s fine. But he can’t be seen in public lifting anything heavy, so I had to come here and do the heavy stuff.’

  ‘That’s bull,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t get me started,’ Charlie quips, wrapping his earphones up. ‘The only reason I agreed was because I wanted to actually see them get on the bus and know for sure that they’d left town.’

  ‘How long are they gone for?’

  ‘Only a week. Not long enough. Fitzy’s ex is having some crisis down in Perth and he needs to take custody of their two kids until she’s out of the lo
ony bin.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘That just sounds … unpleasant.’

  ‘If it’s unpleasant for him, it’s good for me,’ Charlie says. A savage, rebellious grin crosses his face. ‘I hate him so much. If I could dob him in to Centrelink without us losing half our income, I’d do it.’

  The bus driver, a grey-hair situation, cups his hands together around his mouth and calls everyone to board the bus.

  People say their goodbyes and shuffle forward. Sweaty hugs everywhere. Sad faces that metamorphose to plastered-on grins when a selfie stick comes out for the last time.

  A big shape shifts into my line of vision, heading for Charlie, and my first instinct is that it’s an oversized suitcase, but then I realise it’s a woman. Holy shit, she is fat. I don’t usually call people fat but this is not a case of being a bit soft around the edges – this woman is morbidly obese. Her thigh-width arms protrude from an oversized black Harley Davidson T-shirt; they look like two thick, melted candles. Her body has even started storing fat in her forehead, which gives her an uncomfortable, permanent frown. Her oily, limp brown hair dangles in tendrils around her sweaty face, like a drowned Medusa.

  ‘Don’t forget to feed the budgie,’ she says to Charlie, squishing her hand over his shoulder. ‘And don’t forget to take the bins out tomorrow after school. If you miss it, the whole house will smell like off meat when we get home.’

  She clambers onto the first step with help from the bus driver. I can’t even fathom how uncomfortable she’s going to be crammed in a bus seat for six hours.

  A big, tattooed bloke with a beer gut approaches, bringing his face close to Charlie’s. His teeth are various shades of yellow and black. His breath carries that shoe-polish scent of hard liquor. A crumpled, half-empty pouch of rolling tobacco sticks out of the chest pocket of his tent-like navy blue polo shirt.

  ‘No funny business while we’re out of town,’ he says. ‘We’ve got enough shit to deal with in Perth.’

  ‘That’s what I am, ay? Shit to deal with?’ Charlie says.

  ‘No prancing around in your mother’s dresses, either, ya bloody poof,’ the guy says, glancing at me and laughing as if sharing the joke with me. I stare at him in shock.