Anyway, I take a deep breath and enter the lounge, where I know my parents await me and where I’ve strategically given myself approximately five minutes to get it all out in the open before I really have to go because Mr Walker says I need to do a “soundcheck” before everyone arrives in the gym.
“Oh, Nate, look at you!” Mum coos, coming over to tweak my bow tie needlessly.
“Hey.”
“Who’s a handsome boy?”
I grimace. “Mum, you’re doing that thing again!”
“Hmm?” She’s only half-listening, brushing down the shoulders of my jacket, making me paranoid I’ve got dandruff.
“Where you’re talking to me like I’m a dog,” I continue. “Do you want me to start weeing on the carpet?”
She frowns. “You are not going to wee on the carpet, Nate.”
“No, I know, but that’s what dogs… Oh, never mind.”
“Well?” Mum says, presenting me to my dad.
I stand awkwardly, not really knowing where to put my hands, but eventually just opting to shove them in my trouser pockets, although they turn out to be smaller and higher up than I’m used to, meaning my hands don’t really fit properly.
“Hands out of pockets,” Mum says, smiling and using her primary school teacher voice – firm, calm, slightly disappointed. “You don’t want to look slovenly.”
I clear my throat and remove my hands.
Dad is looking impressed.
“If I was thirty years younger—” Dad says.
“If you were thirty years younger, what?” I interrupt.
Dad looks flummoxed.
“That’s not a thing parents say to their kids!” I tell him. “Or to anyone!” I add.
He raises his eyebrows. “No? Doesn’t it just mean that you miss the good old days?”
Mum tuts. “No, Mick, it doesn’t. It’s really inappropriate.”
I shake my head. “Oh my god, right, listen—”
“Rose? Come and see your handsome brother!” Mum shouts through to the kitchen.
“Mum, no—”
But my six-year-old sister has already run through, blonde hair, cherubic smile, butter wouldn’t melt, and you would never tell she was actually possessed.
“OK, here I am, thank you, please go back to the kitchen,” I tell her.
Rose looks me up and down, giving nothing away in terms of whether I look OK or not. “Do a twirl,” she demands.
I grit my teeth because denying her will only make this last longer and I really do not have the time. I turn around on the spot. “Ta-da. There we go.” I gesture to the door.
Rose sits down on the sofa.
“Oh my god,” I mutter. “OK, So—”
“Photo time!” Mum declares, squinting at her phone as she tries to access the camera.
“No, but—”
“I want one of you on your own, one with Dad, one with Rose, we’ll need one of you by the front door…”
There’s a shot of me by the front door for every major, and for that matter minor, life event of the last sixteen years. First day of every new school year. Last day of every school year. Joining the Scouts. Opening night of the school production. Grandpa Henry’s funeral. The day Mum decided my voice had started fricking breaking!
“I’m putting them on Facebook and emailing them to the family – everyone wants to see!” she continues.
“OK, but—”
It’s futile. Mum starts shepherding us, adjusting sofa cushions in the background “so the family don’t think we’re messy” and telling Dad to “smile more” so that “no one thinks he’s too depressed about losing his job”. When she’s done, she starts swiping through them and then it’s all, “How do you attach a photo to an email again?” and all I want to do is just say the thing I want to say and get out of there.
“You seem tense,” Mum says, glancing up from her phone. “Remember to breathe during your important speech, and don’t gabble. You know how you gabble when you get nervous.”
Oh my god.
“And who knows,” she continues, “maybe a little romance will blossom at this prom?”
My eyes widen.
“Maybe you will lock eyes with a special someone across the crowded dance floor…”
“OK,” I say. “So, look, about that, what if … you know, maybe there already is a ‘someone’ who is … special, you know?”
Mum’s eyes light up and then fill with mild panic. “Are you using condoms?”
“Mum! We’re not… We haven’t… That’s not…”
“But you would?”
“I mean, yes, but—”
She actually breathes a sigh of relief. “So, tell us, then!”
“Yes, tell us all about him!” Dad says.
“Yes, him, that’s right, because I’m— Hang on, what?”
Everyone’s just looking back at me expectantly. This was not as I’d planned it in my head. At least one person should have been crying by now.
“What’s his name?” Mum asks.
“OK, so, it’s Tariq, but can we just backpedal a little here?” I look at my parents, who are smiling inanely at me. “OK, so, I am” – I pause, because drama – “gaaaaay.”
“Yes,” Mum says, with this sort of manic fixed grin on her face.
“I like boys.”
“I like boys,” Rose adds.
“No, but I really like them,” I tell her. “I don’t like girls, I like boys.”
She frowns at me. “I’m a girl.”
“Right, but—” I glance at Mum for help, but she doesn’t seem to clock any problem. “I like girls, but I don’t like like girls, Rose? OK? Makes sense? Good.”
“No.”
“OK. Mum?” I look at her pleadingly.
“Well, you haven’t explained it very well, Nate,” she says.
I take a deep breath. “So, like, Cinderella falls in love with the prince, but instead of Cinderella, it’s … Colin.” It was the first name I could think of. It’s a shit example. Everyone knows it.
Rose shakes her head. “I’m winding you up, dumbo. Someone actually like likes you? Wow!” And she flounces out.
That girl.
I turn back to my parents. “How are you not surprised? I never told you any of this.”
Dad furrows his brow. “I think you did.”
Mum nods. “You definitely did.”
“I definitely did not.”
“Yes, because in year nine you went to school with nail varnish on that time.”
I blink at her. “Mum! Me going to school with nail varnish on was not me coming out to you!” I glare at them. Are they actually serious? “What did you think I was doing that evening after school that would require nail varnish?”
“Going to Gay Club?” Dad shrugs.
“Gay Club? Gay Club?” My voice is squeaking it’s so high at this point. “It was the drama department trip to The Rocky Horror Show!”
“Oh,” Mum says weakly. “Aren’t you meant to wear stockings and suspenders for that show?”
“The school wouldn’t let us, in case of complaints. I don’t know, nail varnish was as far as they’d let us go. Maybe a bit of eyeliner.” I look at them both and shake my head. I’ve been fretting about this moment for months, but it seems they knew all along – or they thought they did.
Dad’s already grabbed the framed year eleven group photo we had taken on our last day before exam leave from the mantelpiece and is scanning over it. “Which one is Tariq?”
“He’s the kid standing next to me.”
“On your right?” Mum says.
“Well, the other option is a white girl called Lucy on my other side, so place your bets.”
“Ooh, he’s handsome! Isn’t he handsome, Mick?” Mum says.
“Mmm,” Dad replies. “Done well there, Nate.”
Not sure how to take that, to be honest. I think he’s implying I’m punching above my weight, which, OK, I am, but to say that. Your own father?
“Whoa, hold on a sec there, Nate!” Dad says, standing up and reaching behind the back of the sofa. He pulls out a bottle and twists the cork out with a pop.
“It’s just Prosecco, not champagne,” he says, pouring some glasses.
“Why?” I ask.
“Well, because champagne is, like, thirty or forty quid a—”
“No,” I interrupt. “Why are we celebrating with bubbles?”
Dad smiles at me. “End of an era, right? Finished GCSEs, it’s your prom, you’ve got your whole future ahead of you…” He thrusts a glass into my hands. I can’t drink this, I have to give a speech, but then, maybe it’ll help me relax?
“I should get a photo of this to email too,” Mum says. “Actually, scrap that, Mum’ll think it’s irresponsible to give him alcohol at his age.” She looks at my dad. “And she already thinks you’ve got an alcohol problem.”
Dad screws his face up, like, what?
“Well,” Mum says. “You downed all those beers in front of her last Christmas.”
“Anyone would, spending three days in her company,” Dad replies.
“Mick,” Mum warns.
Dad smiles and hands Mum a drink, then pours one for himself. “Life’s hard, so enjoy it while you can,” Dad says, raising his glass.
Well, that’s certainly inspirational, although I don’t blame him for saying it. Dad was made redundant from the yoghurt factory three months ago, and then his best mate was killed while riding his bike. He’s had a pretty crappy year so far. “Great!” I say. “Hooray.”
Mum just quietly chuckles, looking like she’s in her own world. “Well, he’s not wrong! I thought I’d have it all when I was younger – now, I’d be happy with curtains that had blackout lining.”
We spend about thirty seconds (feels like thirty minutes) sipping the drinks while I wait for any more downers Mum and Dad can come up with.
“Best days of your life, school days,” Dad says.
And here we go!
“Life drags you down after about twenty.” (Mum.)
“Earn money, pay bills, stress, stress…” (Dad.)
“Jo Carter’s husband had a stroke he was so stressed!”
“…On this tax treadmill, like little tax hamsters…”
“He’s partially paralysed down the left-hand side now…”
I blow my cheeks out. “ANYWAY, yay for life!” I say. “I can’t wait for all the things to look forward to.”
“Well, there’s some good stuff too,” Mum mutters, entirely unconvincingly.
There’s another awkward silence. “I really need to go,” I say, downing the rest of my glass and placing it down on the coffee table.
“Have a great evening, Nate!” Dad says. “Take lots of photos!”
“And don’t gabble your speech!” Mum says again.
“Mum,” I say, “I’ve done stuff onstage before, I’m OK. Remember the Tin Man in Wizard of Oz?”
They both look at me, an expression of concern and mild horror on their faces.
“Oh my god, I’ll see you later.”
CHAPTER THREE
JACK
So, it’s not exactly as I’d hoped. I had been thinking about roaring into the school, sitting astride this powerful, throbbing machinery, skidding to a halt, before my leather-jacket wearing boyfriend helped me down from the bike and I removed my helmet and shook down my hair in slow motion and soft focus.
The first problematic point being that I don’t have long hair to shake down. It’s short. And one of my concerns is that the helmet threatens to mess up the product I spent at least twenty minutes very carefully applying.
The other issue is that Dylan doesn’t have a leather jacket, but he has got an anorak, which his mum made him bring, “in case it rains”. I’m not a vacuous, image-obsessed airhead, but I had to draw the line at the anorak, and made him leave it at mine – it’s a beautiful summer evening, not a cloud in the sky. It’s not gonna rain.
Dylan informs me, with a ridiculous amount of pride, that the moped has a top speed of – wait for it – twenty-eight miles per hour. But when you’re actually on it and you’re zipping along, it does feel faster. And the wind is blowing in my face, and it’s really quite loud and impressive. My gay cape is billowing behind me, and I’m proud that I’m not in one of those hired limos, or the double-decker party bus, because doing my own thing – even though it was forced upon me in year nine – has become something I’m finally happy about. It was survival back then, walking down the corridor to find that almost every kid in my year had arranged to mutter “gay” under their breath at me as I passed by. I responded by embracing it. “Yes, I am!” “No shit?” and, “Here and queer, baby!” I trilled as I bigged it up, head held high, inspired by the loud and proud camp of Drag Race but actually dying inside. But now I absolutely want to be that person, because why should I hide? And screw you, every single one of you who made my life hell. And tonight, Dylan and I will take the prom king and queen crowns and VICTORY SHALL BE OURS!
Also, the pics are going to go down a storm on Instagram – I honestly think it could be our most popular yet. I am so ready for all the brands to start getting in touch.
And I have another little surprise for Dylan that is really going to be the icing on this fabulous gay cake!
CHAPTER FOUR
NATE
People are gathering in the yard outside the main entrance to the school because they’re doing group photos as you go in, so everyone’s waiting to make sure all their friends are there. I’m standing with Tariq, Alfie, Connie and Luke – a group I suppose you would call “the kids who survived five years at secondary school by being in the library every lunchtime”. The library’s the only place there’s guaranteed adult supervision during lunch – the rest of the school is pretty much a war zone.
The library is also where I first spoke to Tariq. In the last term of year ten, Mrs Davidson put this big display up, with a giant rainbow flag, loads of coloured bunting, a sign saying “Read with Pride”, and all these books about LGBT stuff. I’d casually walked past it, pretending to be on my way to do something very different and not connected to the display, like, three or four times, and I really wanted to pick some of them up, but didn’t quite dare. So then I did this thing where I pretended I’d dropped my pen, when actually I’d literally just thrown it so it rolled right by the display. I was doing a pretty good job of looking for my pen, all huffing and puffing and like, “Oh, gosh, where could my pen be?” while getting closer to the books, and trying to memorize them so I could look them up online later, and suddenly this voice says,
“This one’s really good.”
I looked up, and it was Tariq, pointing to a book with a big banana on the front.
My cheeks went hot in a flash. “Oh, right, yeah, but I’m not—”
“You don’t have to be gay to read a book with gay characters in it,” he said. And then he smiled and walked off and I scrambled back to the desk I was sitting at, hot, embarrassed and ashamed.
I didn’t dare even glance at that display again.
The next day, after school, I found a wrapped package in my bag – brown paper, string, no message or anything. I opened it, and it was the banana book with a little card, which said:
I took it out on my account so please return it! Tariq
Points for being thoughtful.
Points for knowing me better than I knew myself.
Points for being concerned about potential library fines.
I think I fell in love with him a bit right then.
And after that, every few weeks or so, a new book would magically appear in my bag. I don’t know how he got them in there – I never once saw him – but from me barely acknowledging what he’d done, we progressed to one-word conversations:
“Enjoy it?”
“Yup.”
And then longer ones, in quiet corners, where I’d admit how much I shippe
d the two boys in whatever book it happened to be, and he’d agree with an “I know, right? Cuuuuuute!” And I’d smile and blush again and say, “Yeah. Cute.”
One afternoon in June, I was sitting next to him in class, the blinds drawn because we were watching some video about coastal landscapes, and he shifted his left leg so it was pressed up against my right. And that’s how our legs stayed, for the whole lesson. I think it’s one of the most excitingly erotic things that has ever happened to me. I couldn’t focus on the video. All I could hear was the rhythm of his breathing. The warmth of his leg against mine, and the tingles that touch was sending through my body.
I was careful at school. I was careful not to be seen with him too much. I was careful not to look at him too much. I’d seen exactly what happens when people decide you’re not like them, and I couldn’t face any of that. A few weeks later, fate put us together to work on an English project, so there was a reason for him to come round to my house after school.
“Are your parents at work?” he said.
“Yes. WOULD YOU LIKE SOME SQUASH?” I replied, completely failing to play it cool by randomly shouting about squash at him.
He nodded. I made some. We drank it. We moved to put our glasses down at the same time and ended up standing really close.
“Sorry!” we both said.
And that was that, until two days later, when he needed to come round again for the same project.
“Are your parents in?” he asked.
“No. WOULD YOU LIKE A COOKIE?” I replied.
He nodded. We had cookies. We moved to go upstairs to start the work at the same time and got wedged in the kitchen door.
“Sorry!” we both said.
Two days later, he turned up again.
“But the project is done and my parents are in!” I said.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
He turned to go.
“Wait!” I said.
He turned back.
I just stared at him.
“See you at school, then,” I said.
He gave me a small smile. “See you at school.”
See, I like Tariq because he’s an awkward kid like me, but the problem with two awkward kids is that the process of anything actually happening is completely fraught with … well, awkwardness. And so, it wasn’t until the start of year eleven, and a field trip which fate had decreed would see me end up in a hostel bedroom with Tariq, when he actually kissed me.
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