by Sean Kennedy
Poor Carl had to, as he was one of Emma’s many cousins. He was staring into his locker as if it held the secrets of the universe when Micah sidled up to him.
“Hey,” Micah said.
“Oh fuck, what’s wrong?”
“How did you know something was wrong?”
“The doom-laden tone.”
“Oh.” Micah frowned. He wasn’t pretending as hard as he thought he was, obviously. “Just some shit going down on Facebook.”
“Yeah?”
“Just a secret admirer. Telling me not to come to training today. And calling me the nicest of names.”
“So they’re dumb as well as homophobic?” Carl scoffed. He stared back into his locker. “But then, I guess they are footballers.”
“Hey!”
“Oh,” Carl said quickly, pushing his glasses back up his nose as he studied Micah again. “Present company excepted. I mean, that goes without saying, right?”
“What a save,” Micah said drily. “Anyway, what are you looking for?”
“I thought I’d left my calculator in here. Guess I was wrong.”
“Just use your phone.”
Carl rolled his eyes. “Yes, because my phone’s calculator can do everything my scientific one can.”
“You’re talking to the wrong person. Mine has a thick layer of dust on the plastic packet it came in.”
“What was it I said about footballers earlier?”
Micah opened his mouth to retort, but Carl was shoved from behind as Harley Buxton “accidentally” stumbled into him.
“Sorry, Johnson! Didn’t mean to knock your boyfriend! That is your boyfriend, right?”
Micah made a move to go after him, but Carl held him back.
“Hey. Harley!” Carl yelled.
When Harley turned around, Carl gave him the finger. “I should be so lucky!”
Harley shook his head in disgust but continued down the hall.
Micah smiled, the last thing he thought he would be doing in school today when he received the Facebook message. “Carl, Carl, Carl. Quoting Kylie Minogue. Are you sure you’re straight?”
“I’d rather do Kylie than emulate her,” Carl said.
“Sexist pig.” But he was strangely humbled by Carl’s quick defence of him. He did have one true ally in the school. Even Carl’s friends tried to have as little to do with Micah as possible and wondered why Carl bothered.
“Made you laugh, though.”
“Mission accomplished. Thanks.”
“What for?”
“For just talking to me. I know Emma probably makes you do it, but—”
Carl’s smile faltered. “You think I talk to you because Emma makes me?”
“Well, I mean, she probably told you about me—”
“Hey, Emma doesn’t tell me what to do. But I would be a fucking hypocrite if I had a gay cousin who I worship, but I ignore the other gay kid I know just because the rest of the school are being shitheads.”
It seemed like Micah was always putting his foot in his mouth. “Oh.”
“Emma, however, did tell me you tend to self-sabotage so you can feel justified when people don’t like you.”
Ouch. “She didn’t tell you to be nice to me, but she psychoanalysed me with you?”
“That’s what Emma does.”
“And you worship her, huh?”
Carl flushed. “Okay, she told me to say I worshipped her. That’s the one thing I had to.”
Micah doubted that. Emma Goldsworthy was easy to worship. There would probably be a statue of her in Melbourne someday. Brandishing her hockey stick like Braveheart and ready to unleash hell.
“She’s okay for a cousin, though,” Carl said.
Micah still didn’t feel totally convinced. “Can I just ask one thing?”
“If you have to.”
“If Emma wasn’t gay, would you still go out of your way to help the other gay kid at school?”
To his credit, Carl actually thought about it for a minute. “I would like to say I would, but isn’t that kind of the point? They always say it’s hard to hate something or someone when you have a personal involvement.”
“Some people are just fine doing it. Otherwise there would never be any gay kids being thrown out of home.”
“True.”
“Or if they especially fear showering with the gay after a game.”
Carl gave him a sad smile, even though—as a straight nerd—he probably hadn’t any experience with what Micah was getting at. “I wish I could help you with that, but I don’t know.”
“It’s okay. It’s not up to you to solve.”
“See you at lunch?”
“Sure.” Although he didn’t say so, lunch was truly the highlight of Micah’s day lately. It was the one time he didn’t feel alone in school. Even with Carl’s friends usually staring daggers at him across the table.
MICAH PASSED the rest of the day in a blur. For the most part, the rest of his fellow students just tended to ignore him rather than single him out for punishment. There were only a few—boys, always boys—who wanted the queer to make sure he knew the pecking order and his place in it. They were smart too. They knew not to do it too often around the girls. Girls were generally more tolerant, and the boys wanted to stay on their good side. So Micah kept their little secret just by being quiet about it. In the long run, it really wasn’t worth it. There wasn’t even a year left to go of school—it would all be over come the end of exams in November.
It was possible he was the least popular jock who ever existed in high school. Somewhere there existed an alternate universe where Straight Micah Johnson was the king of the school, with a team who worshipped him as their captain and a girlfriend who couldn’t keep her hands off him.
The thought amused Micah.
After the day ended, he raced to the change rooms so he could get into his footy gear before anybody else showed up and made an issue out of him being in there. He was already on the field practicing some kicks when the rest of the team started joining him. Not that they joined him: they made it perfectly clear by standing apart from him. The distance could have been measured in kilometres.
If their coach, Dale Howard, noticed the physical isolation Micah endured between plays, he didn’t say anything. He seemed to think the best way to deal with Micah was just to treat him as some unknowable and untouchable object that, although irksome, actually made his team better. But he didn’t mind giving him hell when Micah’s other football commitments, especially when it came to the semiprofessional league and the upcoming draft, clashed with the school football team.
“Three laps to start!” Howard yelled.
As usual, Micah was ahead of the pack. He wanted them in his wake to remind them that no matter what they thought, he was just as good as them. In fact, he was better.
They knew, and it burned them.
It was some satisfaction to know that his skill bothered them. It clashed with the stereotypes they believed of gay men—they expected him to prance across the field like he was in Swan Lake rather than a footy game. Not that there was anything wrong with prancing—if a gay man wanted to prance, he should have the freedom to bloody well do it. When Micah had first been forced out of the closet, he used to worry about how he presented. If he put his hand on his hip, did he look too effeminate? If he ran a certain way, did it betray his orientation?
A healthy amount of time passed before he had an epiphany—fuck it. If he did, he did. He wasn’t going to change himself or worry about how he presented to anybody. If he soared like a gazelle rather than a bull, it would improve his game anyhow. If he spent all his time on the field consumed with other issues, like the ongoing clash between perceived femininity and fragile masculinity, he would never get drafted. He played whatever way Micah Johnson had always played—because he had always been fucking good at it.
His muscles burning as he started the second lap of the oval, passing some of his team members who were struggling behin
d the others—and who gave him filthy looks as he swanned past—Micah wondered which of the possible suspects were most likely to be his new “friend” on Facebook. Although they all did a pretty good job at ignoring him en masse, Micah knew there were different levels of dislike and distrust between them. Take Joe Russo, team captain, for example. Micah knew for a fact he had a gay uncle. He had met Nick Russo at a number of GetOut events because his graphic design business donated their services. Half of the pamphlets the GetOut foundation produced were personally designed by Nick, and he had become a close friend of Declan’s. But Joe conveniently ignored that fact, and it did not affect his interactions with Micah; Micah was not one to tell tales either, so Nick was unaware his nephew willingly let homophobia run rampant in his football team.
Despite Joe’s reticence to carry a banner declaring “I love my gay uncle! And I guess my gay teammate is okay too!” Micah knew Joe wouldn’t harass him in cyberspace. That would be going a step too far. Cyberbullying was a coward’s game, because it was done in anonymity and the bully never had to take responsibility for what he did, or face any possible consequences.
So it was someone who was more low-key in their hatred of him, or at least thought they were.
Completing his final lap, Micah turned to watch the rest of the team come in. He stretched his right leg behind him, holding it up to his back as he noted their reactions as they passed by. Most ignored him, some looked with neutral expressions, but Will Deanes was furious. He also quickly dropped his gaze with the sure look of a guilty Facebook abuser.
And Micah knew he had his man.
THE FACT the culprit was probably Will Deanes was a bit of a surprise, though. Will had actually never said a word to him, unlike some of the others. But maybe that was it—Will let all his venom flow on the computer screen instead. Now that Micah had narrowed his list of suspects to one, he found himself observing Will more and more throughout practice. There were times when he caught Will looking at him, and when Will saw he had been sprung, he looked away immediately. Will Deanes was never going to have a career as a spy for the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation.
But then, neither was Micah, most likely. Because he was being watched all the time as well, by the rest of the team. They always seemed to like to know where he was, just in case he was going to sneak up on one of them and—Micah actually didn’t know what went on the mind of paranoid straight boys—accidentally finger them or something? Which was strange, seeing the only guy who had ever been accused of fingering other players on the field was straight and claimed he was doing it to discomfort the opposition. And he was a rugby player, anyway.
The one thing his team did do, however, was let him play football; as he could be relied upon to always play it well. But there still wasn’t any camaraderie between him and his teammates. Whereas they slapped each other’s backs—or arses, a nice nod to homoeroticism that amused Micah greatly—or hugged, or yelled congratulatory ripostes, whenever Micah did something deserving of the same there was silence, or a request to play on mumbled at the coach.
After one spectacular side goal that really shouldn’t have been possible from the angle he was punting from, Micah gave himself a high-five slap and yelled, “Good going, Johnson!”
The rest of the team stared blankly at him.
Micah wondered what would happen if he started strutting like Beyoncé in a victorious lap around the goals. Sometimes he thought it would be worth whatever came afterwards just to see their faces as he shattered, but also gave a nod to, every stereotype of gay people that ever crossed their tiny little minds.
Fuck it.
“Now put your hands up!” he heard himself yell. “Oh oh oh!”
He would have given anything for any other reaction than the usual carefully constructed blank faces. Giving up, Micah punted the ball towards Jaxon Simms and jogged off to the sidelines to grab a drink.
Howard joined him, looking unhappy. “I thought we had our little talk about the chip on your shoulder, Johnson?”
“I remember some things about it, I guess.”
“Don’t be a smartarse. What was that little performance out there?”
“Choreography by Beyoncé, vocal stylings by me based on the lyrics of Beyoncé.”
Fuming, Howard shook his head. “I’m beginning to think you like trying to make things harder for yourself.”
Was this guy serious? “You mean it could be harder? In case you haven’t noticed, they are treating me like I’m nothing out there!”
“If they were treating you like nothing, you would never get the ball.”
He was either stupid or just pretending that he was. “No, they’re smart enough to let me play the ball because they know I’ll get the job done better than they will. They still want to win, at least. Even if that means kicking the ball my way.”
“I also remember telling you to keep your ego in check, too. You’re part of a team, Johnson.”
“So you keep saying. Doesn’t feel like it.”
He knew it was a mistake. AFL recruiters were already starting to hit the schools and scope out the local coaches for intel on potential players. Micah knew that Howard, although fair enough to tell them Micah had professional skills as a player, would probably also tell them that Micah was full of attitude and most likely to cause trouble for any club that tried to take him on.
But although Howard glared at him, he turned to yell at the team. “That’s enough for today! Hit the showers!”
They did as they were told, although they were obviously interested in the coach and Micah having a heated discussion as well. Micah stood still, not knowing what to do. All he knew was that he was not going to join the others in the change room while they were in various states of nakedness and most prone to seeing him as a threat.
When they were alone on the field, Howard bent and picked up a ball lying at his feet. “Help me get the equipment.”
Great, a punishment.
“I know things haven’t been easy lately,” Howard said, grabbing a mesh bag to put the balls in. “But you’re not making it easy, either.”
“What, by existing? I have tried everything with those guys.”
“You haven’t tried at all.”
“That’s bullshit!”
“Watch your mouth!”
“There’s been worse said on the field. And in the change rooms. And on my Facebook.”
“If you paint yourself as a victim, that’s all you’ll ever be.”
Of course he would go the victim route. Because victims wanted to be victims, right? It was so much fun. “You don’t understand,” Micah said, knowing it was a typical moody teenager’s response, but it didn’t make it any less truthful. How could Howard know anything about what he was going through? He didn’t even try to understand—or else he would have been doing more to try and integrate Micah with the team, and make some attempt at hauling their arses over the coals and getting them to behave.
“Every kid on the team has problems. You’re not special, Johnson.”
“And if you can’t see the difference in my situation, then you’re a fucking lousy coach.” Micah spat it out before he could stop himself, and the insult hung heavily in the air between them.
Howard almost dropped the bag of balls. “Get out of my sight. Get your shit together, or else the team will get exactly what they want—you off it.”
Micah resisted yelling a fuck you as he left the oval. There was no fucking point.
He had to get out of this school. Maybe he could even approach Carla, the principal at the school he’d addressed yesterday, and see if he could get a transfer. They didn’t have the best football team, but it was so close to the draft, it probably wouldn’t matter. Carla might not be his biggest fan at the moment, but even she would be able to see the worth of a good footballer who could also help lead the new GSA they were implementing.
Hell, he would become president of the gay-straight alliance if they wanted him to.
BY THEN the change rooms were almost empty—nobody wanted to hang around much anymore in case they gave the gay guy some form of jollies, or a quick glimpse of their butt that could be stored in the spank bank for use later. They showered, dressed, and disappeared.
But Bailey Olsen was standing shirtless at his locker. When he saw Micah, he grew panicked and threw his shirt on.
“Oh, relax,” Micah said on his way through. “Your birdcage chest does nothing for me.”
“Arsehole!” Bailey spat.
“I’m pretty sure your arsehole won’t do anything for me either.”
Rather than continue the fight, Bailey picked up his bag and left.
“Tweet tweet!” Micah mumbled to himself. He would have felt sorry for Bailey, if he’d actually cared enough. It was so easy to disarm and scare away straight seventeen-year-old boys. At the moment it seemed to be Micah’s superpower.
Micah fumbled with his locker and pulled out his clothes. He stripped down to his boxers and shoved his muddy football gear into his sports bag. The air was cool, and he was looking forward to a hot shower. He grabbed his towel and turned to find he wasn’t alone.
It turned out his prime suspect for cyberbullying was still there. Will Deanes, a towel wrapped around his waist, was still wet from the shower as he stood by his locker staring at Micah. Micah suddenly became aware of his own near nakedness and for a moment felt exposed and vulnerable.
Until he saw a flush spread over Will that Micah would swear in a court of law had nothing to do with the hot water Will had just been under.
And he didn’t feel vulnerable any longer. He had the power again. Micah Johnson was in control of the situation, and his bravado was stronger than his actual bravery.
“Hello,” he practically purred.
“What do you want?” Will asked.
He didn’t sound that demanding; in fact, his voice broke a little. Sweat was beading on his forehead, and a fine trickle ran down the side of his neck. Micah had never really paid that much attention to Will before, and he observed, almost detachedly, that he was pretty good-looking. Shame he was a prick.