Imaginary Foe (17 page)

English passes and the only tiny bit of recognition I get is a quick glance. She needed to look at me briefly, so that’s something. That keeps me going for the rest of the day – that one look. I haven’t been entirely banished from her psyche.

We’re finally practicing again. And Jeremy’s drums aren’t nearly as painful and harsh as I remember. Sure, they still grate on my ears, but it’s a pleasant pain. Distraction is good. Anything that can take my mind off Rhonda is a very welcome thing. Jeremy still gives me shit and that’s OK too.

‘Hey, we should write a song about your ex, Stan,’ he says.

‘I don’t know about that. She might not be my ex for very long.’

‘What? Are you kidding yourself, man?’

‘Maybe I am. But, for the moment, I’ll continue to kid myself. It’s working for me.’

‘Guys, we’ve got a deluded one here!’ Jeremy gestures at me with his thumb.

‘That’s all right,’ Mike chimes in. ‘Delusion is underrated. Look at all the people in this world who believe in God. They’re deluded and they’re happy.’

‘Jeez, Mike, you don’t have to get all philosophical on us. I was just teasing Stan is all.’

‘Oh, sorry, Jeremy. I keep forgetting that I’ve got to keep things simple around you.’

‘Come on, you guys. Let’s start making music. Anyone for a puff on this?’ Steve passes a joint around.

I take a big hit and enjoy the way the drug seems to pass down through my body, relaxing and soothing all my muscles along the way. I plug in my bass and start mucking around with a bass line. Steve joins in with a simple beat and then Mike picks up his guitar. It takes him a while to find the chords but he gets there. His guitar starts to soar and something resembling a song emerges. Steve presses the record button on the tape deck. He plays a gentle lead guitar over the top and then surrenders himself to an impromptu monologue. It’s pure poetry.

‘She set me free. / She let the line out. / I was set adrift. / And I took some time out. / I spend my time wondering / About the world and such things. / I’m not used to keeping / My own company. / She set me free. / How could she? / How could she not want to be with me? / She set me free. / How could she? / How could she not want to be with me?’

We jam for some time. Jeremy gets a good feel for the song and pushes it along, alternating between a driving drumbeat and a subtler one. We hit the zone. We’re all along for the ride, and, for a while, I forget all my worries. This is now and this is pure joy. I don’t want to be anywhere else or with anyone else. These are my friends and they’re the most amazing people in the world. Jeremy leads us through to a climax and brings the song to an end.

Steve jumps up and down. ‘That was fucking awesome!’

‘You’re right! That was fucking awesome! Did we get it on tape? Did we get it?’ Jeremy babbles.

Steve rewinds the tape and presses play. We hear the song we just created.

‘Well, fuck me. That was incredible!’ Jeremy is buzzing. We all are. We sit down and puff on cigarettes like we’ve just had really good sex. Once again, I get a kick out of the fact that I have actually had sex. My ability to look on the bright side of things surprises me and I laugh out loud.

‘Stan, I hope you don’t mind that I drew on some of your recent experiences for the lyrics,’ Steve says.

‘Actually, you know what, I think it’s helped a bit. I feel better.’

Mike pats me on the back. ‘Yeah, those lyrics were awesome, Steve. You’ve got quite a talent there.’

‘We all have, don’t we? I mean, we’re pretty good, huh?’ Jeremy says. We all agree with him – probably for the first time ever. We
are
pretty good.

After practice, Mike and I start the long walk home down the winding road back to town. Jeremy is crashing at Steve’s and they’ll probably smoke themselves silly into the wee hours of the morning. The road mainly descends, but there are some short hills where we have to exert a bit of effort. Mike pulls out a spliff.

‘Where’d you get that?’

‘I rolled it during rehearsal. Stashed it away in my pocket, thinking it might be nice to have on our walk back. Shall we?’

‘We shall.’

Mike and I pass the joint back and forth. I start to feel weightless and I’m aware that my legs are propelling me forward somehow. My movement is automatic, as though a button marked ‘Walk’ has been pushed.

‘I … ah … I’ve got some news,’ Mike begins.

‘What’s going on?’

‘I’ve sort of started seeing someone.’

‘Really? Who is it?’ I’m amazed. Images of boys’ faces from school whizz through my mind. But I just can’t think of anyone who might be gay. How can you tell anyway? Are they better looking than most boys? Most of the good-looking guys at school are the macho-type, the kind who like having a pretty girl hanging off their arm. None of them seem very gay to me.

‘He’s a year younger than us. He’s in Year Nine.’

‘Wow! Really? And he thinks he’s gay?’

‘He doesn’t just think he’s gay; he
is
gay.’

‘I wanted to ask you, actually, when did you first realise? You know, that you’re gay?’

‘When I was about twelve, I realised that I liked the way boys look. I thought that some girls were pretty, but that was that. I didn’t feel like kissing girls. But I felt like kissing one or two boys.’

‘That’s amazing.’

‘No, it’s not. You just don’t get it because you’re boring and straight.’ We start laughing.

‘Boring and straight. Yeah, that’s me! Add to that “heartbroken” and we’re really getting somewhere. But this is killing me – who is it?’

‘His name is Blake Paige.’

‘He sounds like a poet.’ In my marijuana-addled mind, I picture a guy dressed in a brown nineteenth-century suit. He clutches a book, and a scarf hangs neatly around his neck. He wears an expression that suggests he knows more than the average man.

‘Well, he
is
interested in writing. He writes short stories.’

‘How did you guys meet? I mean, how did you know that…’

‘I didn’t know at first. But I was walking past some lockers and he was hanging out with a group of his friends. As I passed, he said “Hi Mike”. And he looked at me with so much confidence and conviction that it almost bowled me over.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘I couldn’t get him out of my head. I’d see him around, and he’d always be looking my way. Then one day after school, he caught up with me and gave me a short story that he’d written.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He just said, “I’ve written a story and I’d like to share it with you. I think you might find it interesting.” And as he gave me the story, he sort of stroked my hand.’

‘Wow! He’s brave.’

‘Yes. He’s incredibly brave.’

‘What was the story about?’

‘It was about a little boy whose father is a drunk. The boy copes by losing himself in picture books. It wasn’t a gay story or anything. But it was really touching. It was beautifully written.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘I saw him at school and told him that his story was beautiful. And he said, “You’re beautiful.” Anyway, to cut a long story short, I went back to his place after school and we hung out in his room. We talked for ages and we kissed for ages too.’

‘Holy shit! That’s amazing.’

‘It’s incredibly amazing. He’s amazing. He’s so strong-minded, I can’t believe it. He doesn’t care what other people think about him. He asked me if anyone knows that I’m gay. I told him that I’d talked to you about it and that you were supportive of me. He was impressed by that.’

‘I can’t believe it. You’ve got a boyfriend!’

‘Yeah. I’ve got a boyfriend!’

‘So, when do we get to meet him?’

‘I’ll introduce you on Monday. But I don’t know what the other guys are gonna think, Stan. I’m not sure if I’m ready to put up with any shit from them.’

‘Hey, we can deal with it together. If they give you any shit, they’ll have me to answer to.’

‘Thanks, dude.’

‘You’re welcome, lover boy!’

Mike punches me playfully and we continue our walk home.

Everything is bathed in moonlight. I love the blue light that comes from the moon. It seems supernatural. The hills that slope up from the road look eerie; I think of the scene at the start of
An American Werewolf in London
, when two American backpackers are walking through the Yorkshire moors in England, completely unaware of the danger nearby. I start looking at the darker patches around us, hoping a werewolf isn’t hidden there, salivating at the thought of having two fifteen-year-olds for dinner. But I’m kind of excited by my own fear in my stoned state – because I know that there is no way we could be attacked by werewolves. But there could be a mad person lurking in the shadows. That’s not so far-fetched. People are capable of doing atrocious things to each other. As I start to entertain the idea that a psychopathic murderer is about to leap out in front of us and ask us some innocuous question (as they always do to being with), I decide to force myself to focus my attention elsewhere.

The stars are so very bright tonight and I find comfort in the immensity of the night sky. Feeling insignificant always calms me. I think of Rhonda, and the pain that comes with it is a little bit less than usual. Things can get better. Mike starts singing the line “There’s a bad moon on the rise,” and it immediately takes me back to the Yorkshire moors. But I greet the fear face on and join in with Mike, singing the song loud and proud all the way home.

I’m sitting in the sun on the lawn in front of our school. Jeremy and Steve are goofing around and rating all the girls who pass by out of ten. Mike and Blake are having an intense discussion about metaphysical poets. I have no idea what they’re banging on about.

‘Hey, Mike. Who do you think you are? Some kind of poofter? We’re trying to rate girls here and you’re raving on like a queer! Just keep it down, would you?’ I look up in horror. It’s Jeremy.

Mike looks at me briefly before responding. ‘Actually, I
am
a queer and that’s something you’re just gonna have to get used to.’

‘What?’ Jeremy is shocked. He looks at Mike and Blake, and then he looks at me.

‘Yeah, Jeremy,’ I say casually, ‘get with the program.’

Jeremy looks at Mike and then looks at me again. He pauses and I wonder for a minute where this is going to go. ‘All right. I’ll get with the program, but you owe me a packet of smokes, Stan.’

‘Whatever,’ I say. Jeremy and Steve return to their rating game and Mike and Blake resume their conversation as if nothing happened. I’m flabbergasted that, all within the space of a short conversation, a huge hurdle was overcome. Human beings can be so strange.

Mandy and Susan are hanging out with us. Mandy has forgiven me for breaking her heart. In fact, she’s been very consoling since Rhonda and I split. It’s no secret that she still has the hots for me. She makes it pretty obvious. I find a long blade of grass and entwine it into a skinny plait in her hair. She’s enjoying the close proximity of our bodies and she’s also enjoying being seen with me. I sound like a doofus, I know, but it’s true and I like it. It helps take my mind off Rhonda.

In fact, things are a lot easier for me now in that regard. Rhonda has maintained a strict distance from me. If she even detects that I’m in the vicinity, she’ll walk the other way. It hurt a lot at first, but now I can see that it’s the most sensible course of action. Being rejected outright has helped me. I’ve suffered a broken heart and I’ve come out the other end feeling stronger for it. It’s the most painful experience I’ve ever had in my life. It envelops and imprisons you. It tags along with you everywhere you go. It’s in every song you hear sung, it’s in every word you hear spoken, and it’s in every act you perform each day, whether you are doing something as mundane as washing dishes, washing a car or washing your own body. It’s with you when you’re walking; it’s with you when you’re sleeping; and it’s with you when you’re crying like a baby before falling to sleep for the fiftieth time in one night. Having your heart broken is a pain that transcends all others. That’s why so many people have written songs about it. But the one consolation I have is that it’s me fighting this fight – it’s not me and Bruce. It’s me versus heartbreak. It’s
me
versus the world, and I’m persevering. And now here I am, flirting with a girl who’s obviously head-over-heels for me. Am I going to break her heart? Probably. But I won’t let her know that I’m not in love with her. I’ll string along this flirtatious thing we’ve got going for as long as possible. It’s nice and it’s easy. And anyhow, she’s really cute. The bold black eyeliner she wears is a real turn on.

‘Stanley?’

It’s her voice. There’s no mistaking it. Hearing her say my name takes me back to the night of the social, when she came and sat with me and we talked a whole lot of crap together. And then we danced. Now, here we are, worlds apart. As if nothing ever happened.

I look up at her. She’s standing between the sun and me and I have to hold an arm up in front of my face so I can make her out. I let go of Mandy’s plait.

‘Have you got a minute?’

‘No, he hasn’t.’ Mandy is not pleased that Rhonda has made an appearance, and gives her daggers. For a moment, even Mike and Blake’s back and forth about the work of John Donne ceases. Steve and Jeremy fall silent too; it’s like that hackneyed movie moment when a stranger swings open the doors to a saloon and everyone stops what they’re doing and stares. All eyes are on Rhonda.

‘Sure. I’ve got a moment.’ Blake resumes his rant on the complexities of John Donne’s work and I’m pleased that he’s trying to smooth over the awkward moment. I get up and brush myself down. Rhonda takes a few steps away from the group and I follow, like a dog on a chain. What does she want? Does she want to get back together again? I can smell her perfume. It has infused with her body odour; it’s the most heavenly scent on the planet. Why am I so weak? Why am I so easily overcome by her?

We wander down to the oval. For a minute, I think she’s going to lead me out to the cricket pitch where we had our first conversation. But she stops abruptly at the edge of the oval, where the free-moving love grass meets the forensic line of the mowed lawn.