“Oh god, sorry,” he said straight away afterwards.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I don’t think I’m gay, though. Sorry.”
“Oh god, sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I nodded. Then kissed him again. And we spent all that night kissing, and the next morning, down at breakfast, I was like, “Behold! I have extra confidence and swagger, because I, Nate Harrison, have now officially kissed another person, I am desirable and desired, I am a stud!” but that was obviously all in my head because no way did I want anyone at school to know what we’d done, and no way did I want anyone to think I might be gay because I wasn’t even ready to admit that to myself yet, even if I had just spent all night snogging another boy.
It has taken me a while to get to the point where I’m ready, but I think that’s OK. Tariq has been patient – he actually came out shortly after Dylan Hooper, the football captain, though he said it was cool if I wasn’t ready to yet – but I clocked the look of disappointment on his face when he asked if we were going to turn up to this prom as a couple and I said, several weeks ago, maybe not. It didn’t feel right at the time. Plus, it was the middle of GCSEs and there was other stuff to think about. But now I have thought, and it feels right, it feels like something I want to do, and I feel I owe it to Tariq to do it big style. I want him to know that I’m proud. Of him. Of me. Of us.
I notice Luke tense as a white limo glides into the yard, and at least three of the boys responsible for the lion’s share of all the bullying over the years hop out, like they’re full-on reality TV stars. Jordan, Mason, Brandon and Tyler all have skinny-fit suits, worn with no socks and slip-on shoes, and I immediately feel like a full-on knob in my oversized dinner jacket and bow tie.
The Mean Boys help four Mean Girls out of the car, all in what look like hugely expensive prom dresses. Chloe, Megan, Jas and Amanda – the girls who ripped the piss out of my dancing at the year seven disco so badly I’ve never danced since. Funny how both me and Luke remember the things those kids have done to us so clearly, but as they laugh and hug each other and call one another “babe” they don’t even acknowledge us. It’s like we don’t even exist.
They all pose in various combinations in front of the limo.
They’re the sort of people that life always seems easy for.
Luckily, before I’m sucked into a vortex of despair, there’s this gentle humming noise, the sort of high-pitched buzz you hear when a fly’s trapped in a spider’s web, and then in pootles Jack Parker on the back of Dylan Hooper’s scooter and, honestly, he may as well have just arrived on the back of a sewing machine on wheels. Simultaneously with his arrival, Theo Appleby, who is secretary of the LGBTQ+ society committee, fires up that St Elmo’s Fire song on a portable speaker system he’s rigged up.
A-mazing.
I can’t help but smile. Jack and I may have gone our separate ways in the last few years, but one thing I’ve always admired about him (not that I’d ever tell him; not that he’d ever tolerate a conversation with me anyway) is his dry sense of humour and the way he subverts everything so many times over, you can’t quite tell where the genuine ends and the sarcasm begins. No one’s looking at the limo kids any more, which must be really annoying for them when they’ve spent all that money on hiring it and, knowing Jack, arriving just moments after them and stealing their thunder was probably not accidental.
Jack comes to a gentle halt and steps off the scooter, and there’s an actual round of applause and cheers from various year elevens who are standing around, waiting to go in. Jack laps it up, does a twirl with this insane gay cape thing he’s wearing, and a theatrical bow. I’m well aware that Jack hasn’t had an easy ride of it over the last few years, so what does it take to have confidence like that? It’s like a switch flipped with him at some point, and he was all, This is who I am and I don’t care what any of you think. And somehow because he didn’t care, the bullies started caring less too. The thing with Jack is, he’s really good-looking – he’s five ten, so he’s tall, but not too tall; he’s got a good physique, toned, but not too toned; his hair always looks great (textured, blond) and his skin is always clear and radiant. If that wasn’t enough, he’s bright, like top-set bright, but he’s not geeky. He’s witty, he’s sharp, he just sparkles, and he’s completely happy to be himself. He’s basically A-list gay. Lucky him, because I feel like that helps. I haven’t even come out yet and I already know, with my stunning ability to be awkward in any social situation, complete lack of fashion sense, appalling lack of knowledge about the gay “scene” and even s-e-x, plus low-level anxiety and occasional paranoia that I’m destined to be the messiest sort of disaster gay. In fact, that will probably be on my gravestone, which everyone will see soon enough because I’ll probably die onstage tonight during my speech, metaphorically and literally:
Nate Harrison
2004–2020
Gay Disaster
Why am I thinking about death? Why can’t I just be happy?
Jack catches me looking at him, and he gives me a nod.
I nod back, then look away quickly. Part of me does wish we were twelve again, mucking about in my room, before things got weird and we never spoke again. I wonder what he’ll think tonight, when I come out?
I watch as Jack gives Dylan a kiss, then they stride off hand in hand towards the entrance. I glance at Tariq, who gives me a small smile. I know Tariq would love it if we kissed and held hands in front of everyone, and, sooner than he knows, I guess we will be.
The thought of that suddenly makes me very happy indeed.
CHAPTER FIVE
JACK
I don’t want to sound mean, but I was not expecting much. Let’s be clear, this is a British secondary school; compared to what happens in the US (if the movies and TV shows are accurate, which I assume they are!), our prom was going to be the equivalent of their cheese: an abomination.
And yet, hats off to Maddie Maddison (yes, her parents really called her that) and her prom committee because I walk into the school gym and it looks fantastic.
After persuading the school governors that Netflix probably wouldn’t sue for IP infringement, the theme was announced as Stranger Things. They’ve decorated the whole gym like the Upside Down: white and grey drapes cover the ceilings and walls, there’s dry ice billowing over the floor, a mirrorball casting specks of light everywhere, and they must have used hundreds of cans of that spray-on cobweb stuff you get at Halloween, which is covering pretty much everything else. The DJ is playing eighties tunes, and Ms Munroe and Mr Walker, our heads of year, are dressed up in Scoops Ahoy outfits, serving ice creams. The centrepiece is this huge Demogorgon, about six metres high, which must have taken the committee months to construct. It’s impressive, somewhat precarious-looking, almost certainly a fire risk, but, hey, it’s in an enclosed space with a hundred and fifty fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds, half of whom are already hammered on the alcohol they hid around school before we went on exam leave, so what could go wrong?
I pull Dylan over to the photo booth area, where there’s a cool red neon sign which reads “Class of 2020” in the Stranger Things title font. We put our arms around each other and pose for a couple of “formal” pics, then we do a couple with our mouths wide open like manic muppets, and then some where I’m kissing him, and then I jokingly try to dry-hump him, and then he’s had enough and pushes me off and the photographer says he’s going to delete that last one.
“Kids in America” by the icon that is Kim Wilde starts to play. “Let’s dance!” I tell Dylan.
“Let’s get a drink,” he replies.
“And then dance?”
“We should get some food too.”
“And then dance?”
“Maybe,” he says.
He slopes off towards where the punch is. He’s being way more moody than usual. Dylan is always fairly aloof and moody – obviously, that was one of the main things that attracted me to him – but tonight he’s extra. I bet it’s the gay cape thing. H
e’s still cross with me. Doubtless sensing an opportunity to stick a knife in, Chloe Kendall is suddenly by my side with her meathead boyfriend, Brandon, who spent most of the last five years (until I got together with Dylan) as one of my tormentors. His skinny-fit suit looks several sizes too small, barely containing his ridiculous muscles, the overall effect being reminiscent of the Michelin Man. She’s in a full-on ballgown, her bright blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, like the sort of Disney princess we’re all bored of seeing. “You know he’ll cheat on you, right?” she says, glancing over at Dylan by the punch table. “The hot ones always do.”
Brandon laughs, then frowns and says, “Not always, babe.” I look him up and down. It’s amazing how people can look so different to each other at sixteen. If I didn’t know any better, I would say he’d had some help along the way. I mean, I’m not saying he’s taking steroids, but I did see him in the showers after PE one time, and his balls are the size of peanut M&M’s.
Anyway, I’m not going to play Chloe’s game. “When are they announcing prom king and queen?”
“About twenty minutes, once everyone’s inside. Why?” she asks, crossing her arms. “Fancy your chances?”
“Do you fancy yours?” I ask, even though she’s no longer looking at me.
When she’s finished waving at a fellow popular kid across the hall, Chloe turns her attention back to me and my unanswered question. “You could win, Jack” – she casts her eyes over my cape – “if you get the LGBT sympathy vote.”
“And what the hell’s that?”
“You know, tick some boxes by voting for the LGBT.” She flashes me a cold smile.
“Chloe, first off, it’s ‘LGBTQ plus’ at the very least; secondly, if you’re using LGBT as an adjective it needs a noun after it, LGBT people for example; thirdly, if it is a noun, it’s plural; fourthly, fuck off.” I flap my gay cape at her, and she takes a step back.
“God, you people are sensitive. It’s hard being straight these days,” Chloe announces, totally serious.
I cross my arms and cock my head, ready to listen to the bullshit.
“Yeah, it’s hard,” Brandon repeats.
“I’m sure it is, sweet cheeks. Try thinking about some old politician, or maths,” I suggest, winking.
He squints at me, absolutely not getting it.
But Chloe’s still off on one. “Like, I thought Straight Pride was a really good idea, before everyone kicked off on Twitter.”
“Uh-huh?”
“But why shouldn’t we celebrate who we are, if the LGBT get to? Isn’t it supposed to be about inclusivity?”
“OK, so still missing out the word ‘people’ there, Chloe, but sure, sure, let’s … let’s imagine how great that could be.” I sweep my hands in front of me, painting the spectacular image for her. “No, I’m really just seeing a sea of beige and people dancing to ‘Mr Brightside’.”
Brandon moves behind Chloe and wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her into him. “Ba-be, why are you talking serious stuff?” he murmurs into her ear. “Let’s have some fun.”
“Exactly, Chloe,” I smile. “Go and have some fun! You don’t want to be stuck here chatting to a notorious homosexual who’s going to absolutely whip your ass in the voting later this evening.”
Chloe’s about to bite back when Dylan arrives with a couple of cups of punch for us.
“Hey, Dylan!” she says. “You look great!”
“Cheers, Chloe. You too.” Dylan passes me a cup and nods at Michelin Man. “Brandon.”
“Dude.”
“Lewis has vodka if you want to top up your punch,” Dylan says.
“Monkeeeeeeey!” Brandon squeals.
“Monkeeeeeey!” Dylan squeals back.
I have no idea what any of this means. It’s some entirely separate language that Dylan must have learned before he came out.
The boys start making monkey noises.
And then what sounds like a parakeet.
And finally an elephant, after which they both collapse into laughter.
Christ, it’s intolerable.
“Good luck with prom king, dude!” Brandon says to Dylan. “May the best bro win!”
And they bump fists.
When Chloe and Brandon have gone to be straight somewhere else, I turn to Dylan. “Such charming people.”
“Yeah,” Dylan says. “Oh. Are you being sarcastic?”
I smile at him winningly. “Sarcastique? Moi? Is it time to dance yet?”
“I need another drink,” he says, finishing the one in his hand.
“Allow me,” I say, giving him a little wink and heading over to the punch table. I get two more cups, and surreptitiously slip the little item I’ve been hiding in my pocket into Dylan’s drink. I’ve seen this in films. It’s going to be so great.
I hand Dylan his cup. “A toast!” I say.
But he’s already downing it. No, no, no, that’s not—
Dylan starts choking. “Agh! Argh!” He’s smacking his chest with his hand. “Argh!”
“Oh no! Oh, lordy!” I squeal. “OK, OK, do you know first aid?”
He makes a frantic pointing gesture to his throat.
OK, no time. How difficult can the Heimlich manoeuvre be anyway? I scurry behind him, place my fist above his navel with my other hand over it, and push inwards and upwards, once, twice—
“GAAAAAAHHH!” Dylan splutters, the object flying out on to the floor. “Christ!” He pushes me off him, where the correct response would be some form of gratitude, but I guess he’s in shock and not thinking straight.
He bends down and picks up the thing he was choking on.
I’ll admit, the moment has somewhat been ruined, but it’s happening now, and this is the sort of hilarious story that will be relayed at a later date, during a wedding breakfast, for example.
“What the hell?” he says, with the ring in his hand. Then he turns to me and sees I’m on one knee. “WHAT THE HELL?”
“Dylan!” I say.
“Oh god, Jack, get up! Christ!”
“No, but Dylan—”
“Everyone’s starting to look, get up, stop being a dick!”
“Dylan Hooper—”
“I’m not marrying you.”
Well, that stings a bit, but I press on. “I’m not asking you to marry me … not yet … but what this ring—”
“Ugh!” Dylan says, glaring at me. Is it me he’s disgusted with? Is it the ring? The ring is sterling silver. Chosen for a lifetime of durability!
“It’s a promise ring!” I tell him.
He stares at me. “What are you promising? To endlessly embarrass me?” He glances around at the small crowd who have gathered around us. “Put the phone away,” he mutters to Zoe Cole, who has clearly decided to film this magical moment for a possible cute viral video on social.
“No,” I stand up. “We are making a promise to each other, about our relationship.”
He nods. “What about it?” He’s not really looking at me, he’s still clocking who’s watching this and checking their reactions.
“It’s a sign of commitment.” I look at him hopefully.
He flicks his eyes back to me and sniffs. “Uh-huh. Very nice. I haven’t got you anything.”
“That’s OK, I … I brought my own.” I take the other ring out of my pocket. “So.”
“Right, so what now?”
“Shall we … put them on each other?” I suggest. “Here, at this most romantic of proms? A moment to remember and treasure? A story to tell the grandkids – how we gave each other promise rings at prom when we were just sixteen!” I mean, as narratives go, it’s a good one, it’s Hollywood in its perfection.
Dylan screws his face up. “Grandkids?” He laughs. “You’re funny.” His eyes dart around the crowd again and he actually nods to a couple of his football mates. “Maybe later, yeah? Let’s just have some fun for now, yeah? It’s prom, chill out! Don’t need to get all lovey-dovey until the slow songs at the end. Yeah?
”
“Sure.” Luckily, I’ve had a fair bit of practice at masking how I really feel, so I keep my voice light and my face happy, rather than, you know, crushed, disappointed and embarrassed.
I sigh and glance around the room. Nate Harrison is pacing in the far corner, a manky and wet-looking bit of paper in his hand, gesticulating to himself while he mouths the words to his speech. Cute how it’s so important to him. He’s always gone full out on things: school projects, hobbies, not speaking to me ever again after I came out. I wonder if he’ll get over himself in our final two years of school, or whether we’ll just end up leaving this nowhere town and living our lives without ever saying another word to each other?
“OK. If it’ll make you happy, I’m good to dance.” He sighs and holds out his hand.
I glance back at Nate, wondering if he’s clocked what song is playing – “Embers” by Owl City – but he’s too deep in his rehearsal, I think.
“Actually, maybe later,” I say, flicking my eyes from Nate back to Dylan. “This isn’t our song.”
I’m waiting by the side of the stage with the other prom king and queen nominees. Dylan seems way too obviously drunk for an event which isn’t meant to have any alcohol. I hope there isn’t some clause preventing the prom king from being inebriated, or if there is, I hope Dylan can hold it together long enough for this announcement to be over. His general offish-ness tonight has been totally unnecessary (over a rainbow cape? I mean, c’mon!), but if he screws up the prom, and all the Instagram opportunities it presents, I will never, ever forgive him, or his perfect abs.
I can tell Nate’s unsure about his speech as he delivers it. He keeps saying lines, then glancing at different mates in the audience, looking for affirmation it’s going OK. And, actually, it is going OK. He opened by saying he was going to “keep it short and sweet so we can all get on with the main event of the night – watching Finn Walker throw up everywhere and claim it’s food poisoning again”. Finn Walker has dramatically thrown up at every party for the last two years and claimed he wasn’t drinking, it was food poisoning; and in a marvellous moment of serendipity, Finn wasn’t even in the hall to hear Nate say this, because he was in the boys’ toilets … throwing up.
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