Another Life Altogether_ A Novel

Chapter TWENTY-FOUR



I RETURNED MODERN HOMOSEXUALITY TO THE LIBRARIAN’S SLUSH PILE the following week, which was the week of Mabel and Frank’s wedding. The ceremony, to be held that Saturday afternoon, was supposed to have been led by the vicar of Midham, but two weeks earlier someone had broken into the Midham church, made off with the silver collection plate and the candlesticks, and vandalized the altar by spray-painting STATUS QUO FOREVER! on the church’s massive oak table. The vicar, no more knowledgeable about popular heavy-metal bands now than he had been after the Black Sabbath fan defaced his church, apparently thought this was some sort of political statement and stormed into the monthly meeting of the local Young Conservatives Club to make several ugly accusations about its stunned members. Shortly after this, we were told that the vicar had been placed on indefinite leave by the bishop and sent off to recuperate in a rest home in Whitby. For a few days, this seemed to leave the entire wedding in jeopardy, sending my mother into a terrifying conniption and the house into complete anarchy, until Reverend Mullins stepped in and agreed to take the vicar of Midham’s place.
On the Tuesday evening before the wedding, my mother made me do a final fitting of my bridesmaid’s dress. I stood in the kitchen, surrounded by piles of boxes, stacks of folding chairs, and teetering mountains of plates, cups, glasses, and dishes on almost every surface.
“For God’s sake, Jesse, breathe in, can’t you?” she said as she tugged at the zip in the back of the dress and I felt it press against my sides.
“I am breathing in,” I protested.
“Well, breathe in more.” She tugged again, but the zip got stuck at my waist.
“I can’t.”
“You’ve gone and bloody grown again, haven’t you?” she said, looking over my shoulder to peer at me in the full-length mirror she’d placed in the corner by the door.
“I don’t know,” I said glumly, staring at my grotesque reflection. The dress, hideous under even the best of circumstances, looked absolutely awful on me. Next to the wan pink satin, my face looked sallow, and my hair seemed completely without shine. My mother was right—I must have grown, since she’d made the dress for me almost three months ago; my body seemed about to burst the seams. I reminded myself of one of the raw pink Tuggles sausages that Frank continued to bring over on a regular basis, all unruly mottled flesh pressing against its tight skin.
“Well, I haven’t got time to take the dress out,” my mother declared. “And, to be honest with you, I don’t know that there’s enough give for that in the seams. But I think if we can get rid of that flab on your stomach, that should do the trick.” She slapped a hand against my abdomen and I looked down at my belly, the sheeny fabric wrinkled and misshapen over its bulge.
“I’ll have to phone our Mabel and tell her to go and buy you a girdle,” my mother said.
I turned on her, pulling myself out of her grip. “I am not wearing a girdle!” I felt close to tears. Having to wear this dress was humiliating enough. I was not going to wear one of those ridiculous items of under-wear—that was more than I could bear.
“Yes, you are, young lady!” she screamed. “You’ll do as I bloody well say! I’ve worked my sodding socks off for this wedding. And, come hell or high water, it’s going to be our Mabel’s perfect day. If you or anybody else ruins it, there’ll be hell to pay. I’ve put my lifeblood into it, do you hear?” She held her arms out toward me, her palms turned upward, as she looked down at her wrists. The scars were healed over and far fainter now but still vivid against her pale and veiny skin.
AT SCHOOL THE FOLLOWING afternoon, Tracey was in a horrible mood after hearing that Greg Loomis had been observed sharing a cigarette with a fourth-year girl, Margery Pearson, in the bike sheds during break. Margery was known throughout the school for her willingness to flash her extraordinarily large breasts in return for a couple of bites of a Mars Bar or a few drags on a cigarette, so Tracey considered herself justifiably irked. She was frustrated, too, because Margery was one of the most ruthless girl fighters in the school, leaving anyone foolish enough to challenge her with black eyes, missing teeth, and noticeable bald spots where she’d yanked out whole handfuls of hair. So while Tracey wasn’t about to get into a confrontation with Margery, she stomped around the school corridors, barked angrily at the Debbies and me in response to any question, and seemed quite determined to take out her anger on someone before the day was out. It was Malcolm Clements who ended up getting the brunt of it.
We were in our English lesson and Dizzy, Malcolm, and a few other students had been engaged in an animated discussion about the most recent book Ms. Hastings had assigned us: To Kill a Mockingbird. I’d enjoyed the book and I was interested in the discussion, listening attentively as Malcolm talked about how he thought Atticus Finch was a hero for going against all the other small-minded people in his town to defend the black man who had been accused of rape. Sitting next to me, Tracey yelled across the room to interrupt him. “Oh, for God’s sake, shut your gob, you stupid bloody nancy boy! Nobody cares what you think, you little poof!”
“Shut up yourself,” Malcolm said, waving his hand at her.
Tracey laughed and gave a limp-wristed flap of her hand in imitation of him. “Hah! Look at the state of you, you nasty little queer.”
Her laugh fell from her face, however, as Ms. Hastings, in a few sweeping strides, marched across the classroom to stand next to her desk. “What did you just say, Tracey?” she asked in the quiet voice she reserved for the moments when she was most angry.
“Nothing, Ms. Hastings.” Tracey dropped her eyes to make a study of her desk.
“Really?” Ms. Hastings folded her arms and looked at Tracey steadily. “Because that’s not what I heard.”
“I didn’t say anything, Ms. Hastings,” Tracey said, still not looking away from her desk.
“I see. So I must be delusional, then, is that it?”
“What?” Tracey looked up, a perplexed frown on her face. A ripple of stifled giggles rolled across the room.
“Are you suggesting I’m hearing voices in my head, Tracey?” The giggles grew louder, but stopped abruptly when Ms. Hastings swept the room with her eyes.
“No, Ms. Hastings.”
“Good. Because I know what I heard, which was you insulting a fellow pupil in the most offensive manner.”
“I only called him a poof and—” This time the giggles erupted into a ragged wave of laughter.
“I know exactly what you called him, Tracey,” Ms. Hastings said. “I think we’ve established that there’s nothing wrong with my hearing. And if anyone else thinks there’s anything funny about using those words they can join you every afternoon next week in detention.” She lifted a single eyebrow and looked around the room. All the laughter ceased.
“Detention? Every day?” Tracey looked at Ms. Hastings with an expression of horror. “But Ms. Hastings, I—”
“Detention, a week of it,” Ms. Hastings said firmly. “And I do not want to hear those words cross your lips again.”
“No, Ms. Hastings,” Tracey muttered. Her features compressed into a picture of simmering rage, she dropped her eyes to her desk again.
Ms. Hastings returned to the front of the classroom, placed her hands on her hips, and sighed heavily. “I am very disappointed to see any of you using these sorts of words as insults,” she said gravely. “Making fun of someone because they’re different, or because you think they’re different, is hurtful and cruel and very, very wrong. I would have hoped that from our reading you’d already learned this, but I see that some people are slower than others.” One of the boys raised his hand. “Yes, Andrew?”
“But being a homo, that’s not the same as being black like the man in the book. Being a homo is … well, it’s perverted.” He turned his lips downward in an expression of disgust.
“The term, Andrew, is homosexual. And it’s a natural part of the human condition.”
I leaned forward in my seat. While Tracey grumbled beside me, I wanted to make sure I could hear every word Ms. Hastings said. “Homosexuality,” she continued, “has certainly been around for a long time, and in some societies—like ancient Greece, for example—it was considered quite normal. All those famous Greek philosophers and thinkers, a lot of them were homosexuals. Plato, Socrates, Aristotle—”
“Who the hell were they?” a boy shouted from the back.
“They were some of the most influential men of Western culture. And it wasn’t just men who were homosexual.” At this, I felt a bolt of excited interest rush through me. “One of the most talented women poets in ancient Greece was also gay. Sappho. She lived on the island of Lesbos.” At this, a few sniggers rippled around the classroom. Beside me, Tracey snorted. But I wasn’t paying any attention to Tracey at all. She could have disappeared into thin air as far as I was concerned.
“There have also been many, many writers and famous people since then who’ve been gay,” Ms. Hastings continued. “Oscar Wilde, Gertrude Stein, James Baldwin, Alexander the Great, to name just a few. In fact, homosexuals have often been some of the most influential and talented people in society.”
“But why are they like that?” another boy yelled.
With a musical jingle from her colorful bangles, Ms. Hastings folded her arms in front of her and pressed her face into a thoughtful frown. “Well, no one really knows what makes some people homosexual. There are many different theories but no definite answer. Homosexuality could be the result of social forces or it could be the result of biology. All we do know is that it occurs in humans, in every society, and during every time in history. Estimates are that about one in ten people are homosexual.” She looked around the room. “Yes, that means among the thirty of you here it is likely that three of you are gay.”
At this, everyone began looking around, and a few of the boys began pointing fingers at one another, whispering, “It’s you, it’s you,” under their breath. I looked about, afraid to discover any of those fingers pointing in my direction; I was immensely relieved to see that they were not.
Ms. Hastings sat on her desk. “Okay, okay, enough of that. Clearly, you are not getting what I am trying to say, which is, Tracey,” she said, raising her eyebrows and looking pointedly over at Tracey, “that there is absolutely nothing wrong with being gay. It is a normal part of human nature, and it certainly should not be used as an insult against anyone.” Ms. Hastings paused, looking more solemn now. “I for one do not want to hear it being used in such a fashion in my classroom again. And, if I do, I will give the guilty party a weeklong detention, just like Tracey here. Any questions?” No one spoke. “All right,” she said. “Let’s get back to our discussion of To Kill a Mockingbird. Malcolm, could you continue the point you were making before you were so rudely interrupted?”
Malcolm nodded. “What I was saying was that people like Atticus Finch, people who stand up for other people’s rights, no matter what they look like or where they come from or how much everybody else hates them—well, those people are heroes.” He looked around the classroom, daring anyone to contradict him.
“Excellent point, Malcolm,” Ms. Hastings beamed. “Anyone else have any thoughts on that?”
I might have ventured to say something myself, but I was far too distracted as I tried to recall every word that Ms. Hastings had just said and to fathom the implications of those words. If being gay wasn’t perverted, as Frank and everyone at school seemed to think—if it was, as Ms. Hastings asserted, “natural” and “normal”—I wondered what that meant for me. And if my feelings about Amanda did mean that I was gay, then, according to Ms. Hastings I wasn’t alone.
I was still preoccupied with these thoughts when the lesson ended and we straggled out of the classroom and into the corridor. Consequently, I wasn’t paying much attention to Tracey at all. It was impossible, of course, not to notice that she was very unhappy about the prospect of detention for all of next week, since she’d mumbled complaints about it throughout the remainder of the lesson. But I hadn’t realized how angry she was until I looked up to see her, a few feet away from me in the corridor, jostling against Malcolm.
“You f*cking little poofter,” she said, sticking her finger into his face. “Getting me into trouble like that. Well, I’m not going to put up with it. A whole f*cking week of detention. That’s your f*cking fault, that is.”
“It’s your own fault,” Malcolm said, swiping her hand away. “You should keep your big mouth shut for a change.”
“Oh, is that right?” Tracey said. “Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we?”
“Get lost,” Malcolm said, trying to push past her. “You don’t scare me, Tracey Grasby.”
Tracey shoved herself into him. “Well, you’d better be scared. You bloody well better be!” And with that she spun on her heels and stalked off down the corridor, her whole body rigid with rage.


THE NEXT MORNING when I entered the chaos of the kitchen to make some breakfast, I looked out the window to see my mother in the back garden. Although there were a couple of workmen coming to the house later, she’d already begun putting up the massive marquee tent alone, swinging an enormous sledgehammer to sink the metal tent stakes into the ground. Each blow she landed made the glass in the kitchen window shiver in its frame. She looked a strange sight through the quivering glass, partly because she had an odd technique for using the hammer that involved making little jumps every time she delivered a blow, and partly because her face, neck, and arms (exposed because she’d stripped down to her white cotton vest for the task) were a very unsettling color.
When I’d returned home the previous afternoon, I’d found her in the bathroom, a bottle of Tanfastic in her hand. “This’ll make your grandma think twice,” she’d said as she smoothed the gelatinous beige cream over her face and arms. “I’ll tell her we’ve had such good weather this spring that I’ve been sitting out in the garden getting a tan.” She let out a high yodeling laugh, as if she were telling herself an enormously funny joke. “If she sees me like this, who knows, maybe she’ll change her mind about staying in Australia.”
The bottle had said, “Get all the tan without all the trouble. Achieve a natural-looking glow without sitting in the sun for hours. You’ll be the envy of all your friends!” However, “natural-looking” was one thing my mother was not, and I doubted that friends, relatives, or enemies would envy the way she appeared. Almost as soon as she applied the Tanfastic, it turned her skin a rather disturbingly bright and very streaky orange. Fortunately, my mother didn’t realize how very bizarre she looked. In fact, she seemed quite satisfied with the results, declaring, as she admired her reflection in the bathroom mirror, “I can’t wait to see the look on your grandma’s face when she gets here and sees this.” Neither could I.
As I stood by the window sipping a cup of tea and eating a few stale chocolate digestives and watching my mother work, I took in the transformation of the garden. It really was quite spectacular. What had been a virtual jungle of thistles, bramble bushes, and overgrown shrubs less than a year ago had become a wide green lawn with a complicated pond and fountain at its center. The surrounding trees—except for the dead and dying elms—were clothed in leaves, lush with burgeoning life. One side of the garden was bordered completely by a hawthorn hedge, and though my mother hadn’t planted it, she had cleared the garden so that it was now possible to see the blossom there that had begun blooming in late April. Creamy white against the dark hawthorn leaves, it filled the air with a sweet, heady aroma that made me want to close my eyes and breathe deeply whenever I caught its scent. The lawn itself was bisected by a stone path and surrounded on all sides by neat little borders filled with flowers that included, much to my delight, bright-faced little pansies, as well as white and pink alyssums, yellow primroses, and golden marigolds. She’d even planted rosebushes, which had started to develop slim little buds that I knew would open into fat, fragrant blooms as soon as summer came. The pond, finished only a couple of weeks before, was now filled, and the fountain at its center—an enormous fake-marble affair sporting chubby-cheeked little cherubs with fig leafs on their groins—merrily spilled water over its three wedding cake–like layers. A week earlier, my father had purchased a dozen huge goldfish at a pet shop in Hull, bringing them home in several buckets he’d put in the boot of his car. Although the water had slopped about as my father drove the curvy road home and half of it had ended up in the boot rather than in the buckets, the fish had miraculously survived. Now, in the pond, they wove serenely between clumps of slimy green weed, their big convex eyes staring sideways, bodies flashing as they moved.
As I finished my tea, I thought of going into the garden to look at the fishpond before I went to school. But with my mother out there wielding her sledgehammer it was hard to imagine that even the fish felt protected as she slammed those stakes into the shuddering ground. So, instead, I put on my coat, lifted the strap of my satchel over my shoulder, and headed out the door.
When I arrived at the bus stop, Tracey was already there and, much to my relief, in a considerably better mood than she’d been in the previous day. Apparently, she and Greg had patched things up the night before.
“I gave him a right good telling off for smoking with that slag Margery Pearson.” She was splayed across the bench, her elbow resting on its wooden arm, her head propped on her palm. I sat down beside her and dropped my satchel, which was overstuffed and very heavy, since I’d begun lugging all my letters around. “He promised me he’d never do it again. Said he doesn’t like her anyway. He was just cadging a cig off her, that’s all. Anyway, I made him drive me home and we rode right by Margery Pearson’s bus on the way back. With a bit of luck, she’ll have seen him with me and she’ll know to keep her greasy hands off him from now on.”
Just then Dizzy arrived, shuffling up to the bus stop without even looking at us.
“Hiya, Dizzy,” Tracey said brightly.
Dizzy, who was used to being either completely ignored by Tracey or the target of her insults, blinked at Tracey. Her brown eyes, magnified through the thick lenses of her glasses, made me think of the saucer-shaped stares of goldfish as they eased themselves beneath the water of our pond.
“You all right?” Tracey asked, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder.
Dizzy nodded cautiously. “Yeah.”
“Hey, why don’t you come and sit down here, on the bench.” Tracey pulled herself out of her slouch so there was more space between the two of us. “There’s plenty of room for you here,” she said, patting the wooden slats next to her and flashing Dizzy another smile.
Dizzy looked at me, as if seeking some hint as to why Tracey was being so uncharacteristically pleasant. I gave a little shrug. I had no idea what had got into her. I could only think that perhaps making up with Greg had made her so happy that she was prepared to be warm and friendly toward even those she normally despised. “I’m fine here,” Dizzy concluded, taking a step back and stuffing her hands into the pockets of her scruffy anorak.
“Suit yourself,” Tracey said. “I just wanted to ask you something, that’s all. You’re still friends with Malcolm Clements, aren’t you?” Tracey’s tone was cheery, not a hint of a threat in it.
“Yeah.” Dizzy gave me another suspicious glance. Then, finding no clue there, she looked back at Tracey. “What about it?”
“Nothing, really. It’s just that I want you to give him a message. Can you do that?”
“I suppose so,” Dizzy said.
Naturally, I expected Tracey to issue another threat to Malcolm, or ask Dizzy to convey another slew of insults. So I was taken aback when I heard her speak to Dizzy in her sweetest tone. “Can you tell him that I want to apologize to him? That I’m sorry about what I said.”
“You are?” I burst out, unable to contain my surprise. This was certainly a first for Tracey. Particularly after the display she’d put on yesterday in the corridor after Ms. Hastings’s lesson, it came as quite a shock.
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about what Ms. Hastings said yesterday and I realized that what I said to Malcolm wasn’t very nice.” Tracey regarded Dizzy with a look of unwrinkled sincerity. “I mean, calling him a poof and all that. It’s … well … I realize that Ms. Hastings is right—I shouldn’t use words like that.”
The idea that Tracey had given Ms. Hastings’s remarks such consideration warmed me. It wasn’t that I expected to confide in her about my confused feelings for Amanda, but the idea that she was even open to thinking about these things gave me a little thrill of hope.
“Will you tell him?” She looked at Dizzy expectantly.
Dizzy shrugged. “I’ll tell him. I don’t know what he’ll say, but I’ll tell him.”
Tracey beamed. “Thanks. Because I probably won’t see him in school. I haven’t got any lessons with him today.” She put her hand in one of her coat pockets and pulled out a packet of chewing gum. “Want a piece of chewy?” she said, offering the packet to Dizzy.
Dizzy shook her head, and Tracey took out a piece and started unwrapping it. Before she was done, though, she looked up at Dizzy, as if a thought had suddenly come to her. “Hey, maybe you could tell Malcolm I’d really like to make up for things by apologizing to his face? It’d be nice if we could clear the air. I’ll be by the gates, right after school. Can you tell him that?” Her voice was high, filled with eagerness. It seemed, amazingly, as if she really wanted to put things right.
“I don’t know if he’ll want to talk to you,” Dizzy responded. She was blinking fast, and I noticed how pale and sparse her eyelashes were. Under her glasses they looked frondlike and alive.
“Yeah, I understand. But, really, I do want him to know how bad I feel.”
Dizzy’s blinking eased. “I’ll definitely tell him,” she said.
A smile eased across Tracey’s face. “Thanks a lot. And, er … now that I’m saying this, I want to say I’m sorry for all the horrible things I said about you as well.” I was struck by the profound contrition in her voice and expression. I felt such warmth toward her. She might be hard-edged a lot of the time, but underneath she could be soft and caring, the kind of person you wanted as a best friend.
“Thanks, Tracey,” Dizzy said. The suspicious look fell completely from her face. A smile itched at the edges of her mouth.
“Yeah, well, don’t you forget to tell Malcolm that I want to say the same thing to him as well. I want him to know I mean it.” She finished pulling the wrapping off the chewing gum and popped it into her mouth. “Sure you don’t want a piece?” she said to Dizzy, offering her the packet again.
“Okay,” Dizzy said, moving closer to Tracey and taking a piece of gum.
“What are you up to, Tracey? Picking on Dizzy again?” It was Amanda. Normally, I watched out for her approach, but I’d been so taken aback by Tracey’s dramatic change of heart that I hadn’t noticed her walking up the street. She was almost at the bus stop now. I was surprised to see her carrying a black suitcase. It had silver buckles on the sides and looked heavy. Before she reached us, she put the suitcase on the ground, took a deep breath, then switched hands to lug it the last few steps.
“I’m not picking on anybody,” Tracey said gruffly.
“That’ll be the day,” Amanda said. When she reached us, she dropped the suitcase onto the ground next to my satchel; it hit the pavement with an enormous thud. Then, panting, she fell onto the bench, in the space between Tracey and me. “Hiya, Jesse,” she said.
“Hiya.” There on the bench her body was pushed against mine. I shuffled uncomfortably. “Where are you going?”
“Oh, that?” Amanda said, looking down at the suitcase as if she’d only just noticed it there. “I’m going away for the weekend, to Leeds. It’s a trip with school, with my drama class. We’re going to see a couple of plays.”
I frowned at the suitcase. It was huge—a small adolescent could have folded herself into it and there would still be room for several items of clothing.
“Oh, I know,” she said, giving the suitcase a little kick. “I’ve never been very good at packing. I end up taking everything except the kitchen sink. That’s right, isn’t it, Tracey?” She turned to her sister, giving her a gentle dig with her elbow.
“How the bloody hell would I know?” Tracey said, slapping Amanda away. “And why would I care? You can go away forever for all I mind.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not, am I? I’m going for a weekend, on a school trip.”
“Which plays are you going to see?” I asked.
“You know what, Jesse,” Amanda said, her eyes still on Tracey, “I don’t really remember.” Then she turned to me, smiling. “Something by Shakespeare, I think. I’ll tell you when I get back, all right?”
“All right,” I said, hoping and fearing that we could sit like this, pressed together, when she returned and told me about her trip.
When the bus arrived, I leaped up and grabbed Amanda’s suitcase. “I’ll carry it on for you,” I said.
“No, Jesse, really—”
“It’s all right.” As I lifted the suitcase, Amanda bent down to pick up my satchel. “No,” I said, dropping the suitcase and snatching the satchel from her grasp. For a second, I clung to it, and then, realizing how odd this behavior probably seemed, I eased my grip and tried to evoke a more casual attitude as I slung the strap across my shoulder.
Amanda laughed. “What’s wrong, Jesse? Carrying top-secret documents for the government or something?”
“No,” I said, my face burning as the weight of all my letters to Amanda hung there at my side. “I just … I just didn’t want you to strain yourself. It’s very heavy.”
“Come on, Jesse,” Tracey said, pushing past me to join the rest of the little crowd as they climbed onto the bus. “Keep messing about like that and you’re going to make us late.”
“Maybe it’s best if we take our own bags, eh?” Amanda leaned across me to grasp the suitcase’s handle. She hoisted it up and made her way over to the bus. I followed behind, feeling like an idiot. As Amanda reached the door of the bus, she set the suitcase on the ground and turned to me. “Thanks, Jesse,” she said.
“For what?” I asked. After all, I hadn’t even helped her with her suitcase.
“For wanting to carry my case for me. And for just … well, for being so nice, so sweet.” She smiled.
I shrugged, but inside I was singing. Amanda still liked me. Despite knowing that I had tried to kiss her, despite everything she might suspect about my feelings for her, she still liked me.
Her expression became more serious. “Listen, Jesse, you take care, now, won’t you? Don’t let our Tracey pick on you. And don’t … well, you take care, all right?”
“I will,” I said, confused by the intensity in her face. The last time she looked at me like this was that night after the disco, when she had kissed me. For a moment, I felt awash in all the feelings I’d had then, wanting to reach out and run my hand over the impossible softness of her cheek, the sleekness of her hair. Instead, I watched as she turned to lift her suitcase again and struggled up the stairs. “Have a nice trip, Amanda!” I called after her as she struggled to the back of the bus.
AS SOON AS THE bus pulled away from the bus stop, I looked at Tracey, excited. “You know, I think that’s really great what you said to Dizzy, Trace,” I said. “And I know Malcolm will be—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t be so bloody stupid, Jesse,” Tracey interrupted, shoving me against the window with both hands. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m not going to say sorry to that stupid little tosspot. And that fat four-eyed lump Dizzy can go to hell as far as I’m concerned.”
“So why did you apologize to her? Why did you—” Tracey gave me an exasperated look. “God, Jesse, for somebody that’s supposed to be clever, you’re right bloody thick sometimes.”
“But I thought—”
“Yeah, I know what you thought.” She grinned, keeping her voice to an animated whisper. “And I suppose it was all right that you did, because that means I did a good job of convincing Dizzy as well. But I didn’t mean a bloody word of it.”
“You didn’t?” I tried not to reveal my pitching disappointment.
“Of course I didn’t. God, Jesse, don’t you know me by now?”
“So why did you say it?”
She looked at me, her face aglow. “Because I want to get him outside the school gates tonight. Because Stan and Greg are going to be there as well. And when that little poofter arrives they’re going to beat the living daylights out of him. It’s perfect, see. With goody-two-shoes Amanda gone on her stupid school trip, there’ll be nobody who’ll try to stop them. Stan and Greg are going to teach that little queer a lesson that he will never forget.” She looked utterly gleeful. “Great, isn’t it?” she said, jostling me with her arm. When I didn’t respond, she jabbed me with her elbow. “Hey,” she said, “don’t you say a word to anybody about this, Jesse. I’m not telling anyone, not even the Debbies. They’ll never keep their mouths shut, and then that poof will find out. But you’re my best friend. I know you can keep a secret.”
I SAW MALCOLM once that morning, across the playground as Tracey and I made our way to the gym for PE. Later, at lunchtime in the dining hall, I didn’t see him or Dizzy at their usual table by the door. During the afternoon break, I thought I caught sight of him moving among the crowds in the cloakroom in front of me and I had a momentary urge to push my way through all those uniformed bodies so that I could warn him not to go to the gates after school. But I didn’t. Instead, while Tracey became ever more excited as the end of the day approached, I felt my stomach fill with a sour and rising dread.
There had been only one occasion on which I had felt quite as torn as I did now, and that was in the cloakroom at the Christmas disco, when I watched Stan threaten to burn Kevin and beat up Malcolm, and gave Dizzy the opportunity to seek help by spraying the whiskey around the room. But even that surreptitious act had cost me dearly and, until Greg Loomis asked her to dance, I’d spent the rest of the evening convinced that Tracey would never be my friend again. I knew that if I did anything to help Malcolm escape her wrath today and Tracey found out she would never forgive me. But as the day went on I felt more and more uneasy, so that by the time our final lesson came along I realized, with sudden perfect clarity, that I did not want to see Malcolm hurt.
With only fifteen minutes left until the bell sounded the conclusion of our final lesson of the day, Tracey was finding it hard to concentrate on her work. “I can’t wait to see that little poofter’s face when he gets it,” she said as she doodled in the textbook The Wonders of Tudor England, drawing an enormous fist that looked as if it were about to punch a ruffle-collared Sir Francis Drake right in the face. “Tracey,” I said cautiously.
“What?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t get Malcolm like this. I mean, Stan and Greg—well, they’re a lot bigger than him. They could really hurt him.”
She dropped her pen and looked at me, flabbergasted. “That’s the bloody point, Jesse.”
“But why? He hasn’t done anything to anyone. He hasn’t really done anything to you. He’s just being himself, he just—”
“Jesse, he’s a poof.”
“But Ms. Hastings said—”
Tracey batted my arm. “God, don’t tell me you actually listen to what that stupid hippie cow has to say? I told my dad what she said about that stuff and he was dead mad. Said she shouldn’t be filling our heads with all that rubbish. Said she needs a bloody good hiding.” She laughed. “God, I’d like to see that, I would.”
I looked at Tracey, at her grinning hunger, and I felt defeated. Short of betraying her and telling Malcolm not to show up at the school gates, there was nothing I could do. And that, I knew, was a step I was not prepared to take.
“Maybe he won’t be there,” I said. “Maybe he’ll realize that you’re just pretending to be sorry.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Tracey said. “But, whatever he thinks, I bet he ends up showing up. I know that little nancy boy. He might be weedy, might be a big bloody queer, but he likes a challenge and, even if he’s wetting his knickers, he doesn’t like to look as if he’s scared.”
THOUGH IT HAD BEEN warm and sunny that morning, by the time we left the school building the air had turned cold. I shivered as I trudged after Tracey and the Debbies toward the school gates, pulling my coat tight around me and trying not to think about what lay ahead. It had crossed my mind to make some excuse so that I could leave them and walk instead to the car park, where I could wait for the bus. There, I could pretend I didn’t know what was about to happen, that this was just another ordinary day. No matter how tempting that prospect was, however, I felt oddly compelled to go with Tracey. Besides, I knew she expected me to accompany her, that this was another required duty of her best friend.
As we walked, swept along in the river of students exiting the school, I thought about Malcolm and what he said to me after we left detention together, how he’d been so angry at me for worrying about what other people thought. I’d considered what he said many times since then, imagining how light I’d feel if I said what was on my mind. I’d tell Tracey to stop being so petty and mean-spirited; I’d tell the Debbies that they needed to start doing their own homework and I never wanted to hear another word about the Bay City Rollers again. I’d tell Stan Heaphy that he was a coward and a bully, and I’d tell Greg Loomis that he was vain and shallow and that he looked a complete moron in his ridiculous clothes. I’d tell Mabel I thought she was a fool for marrying Frank, and I’d take great pleasure in telling Frank how much I hated him. I’d tell Uncle Ted to get up early, go out, and not come back until he had a job. I’d tell my father to stop pretending that my mother wasn’t bonkers, and I’d tell my mother that she was ruining my life. Of course, I’d tell Amanda that I loved her. I’d say all of this and more, loud and without inhibition, relishing the way my voice carried through the air. Except all of this was nothing more than an impossible fantasy. The punishment Malcolm was about to get for speaking out, for simply being himself, was evidence of that.
When we reached the gates, I felt a surge of hope when I saw that Stan and Greg weren’t there and their motorbikes were nowhere to be seen, but when Tracey’s expression brightened and she gave a little fluttery wave I turned to see Stan and Greg standing about thirty yards away, their bodies tucked behind a stand of trees. She rapidly explained her plan to the Debbies. “Stan and Greg are hiding,” she told them, “until nancy boy shows up. Wouldn’t want to frighten him off, now, would we?” The Debbies nodded, exchanging eager looks.
As I watched Tracey strut about, the picture of impatience, I stood rooted to the spot while my heart resounded through my body, as loud as my mother’s sledgehammer when she’d driven those metal stakes into the ground. I kept hoping that Malcolm would see through Tracey’s ruse, make his way instead to the car park, get on his bus, and go home. But this was not to be. And when I saw Malcolm leave the main entrance of the school and begin walking toward us, his long-limbed gait unmistakable even from that distance, it was as if one of those cold metal stakes had been driven into my gut.
Tracey, on the other hand, let out a joyful little gasp, and as Malcolm came closer she smiled and waved at him, as if she were greeting a long-awaited friend. Then she turned to the Debbies and me. “Move back from the gates a bit,” she said, gesturing us to follow her as she stepped a few yards from the entrance. “I don’t want anyone in the school to see us. Besides, I want to get closer to Stan and Greg.” The two of them had ducked all the way behind the trees now.
“Hiya,” Tracey said when Malcolm was within a few feet of us. “I’d almost given up on you. Thought you weren’t going to show up.” She swung her ponytail and smiled. I gnawed on my lip as I watched.
“I heard that you wanted to talk to me,” he said.
“Yeah,” Tracey said. “There’s something I want to tell you.” She stepped toward him. I clenched my hands into fists so tight I could feel my fingernails pressing like tiny blades into my palms. “I just wanted to say—” And then Tracey reached out and grabbed hold of both of Malcolm’s arms.
“What the hell are you doing?” he said, jerking his arms about and trying to shake her off.
Tracey held on tight, clutching at the thick woolen fabric of his blazer. “I’ve got him, I’ve got him!” she yelled over her shoulder.
At this, Malcolm ceased his struggle for a moment. “What the hell—?” And then his voice faltered as he saw Greg and Stan charge out from behind the stand of trees.
“You’re going to get your head kicked in.” Stan sang the words as he galloped over the grassy verge and onto the path. As he ran his blond hair flared behind him, his lips twisted into a lopsided snarl, and his eyes, narrowed and focused completely on Malcolm, glinted like coins catching the sun. He moved faster than Greg, who was wearing platform shoes and stumbled clumsily over the uneven grass before reaching the pavement to clunk along the asphalt after Stan.
Malcolm struggled to free himself from Tracey’s hold, fighting more fiercely now, his arms flailing while he kicked and shoved and tried to pry her fingers from his sleeves. Even next to Tracey he looked slight, but in contrast to the looming forms of Greg and Stan he seemed scrawny, hopelessly light, as if with a single blow they might send him flying into the air and he would land lifeless on the pavement.
This was not, however, what made me do it. It was the look Malcolm gave me as he wrestled with Tracey. At first I saw his fear, a sheer animal panic. It blazed, a conflagration in his cheeks, flames in his eyes. But beneath that fear I saw the fire of his accusation. When, that look demanded of me, will you stand up for what you know is right? So it was then, with Stan fast approaching me on the footpath, that I lifted my satchel from my shoulder, grabbed the strap, swung it back, and hurled it with as much strength as I could muster, right into Stan’s face.
First there was the sound, an enormous hollow thud as the satchel struck him, and then there was Stan’s roar—a simultaneous cry of pain and consternation. I saw his head snap upward, his back arch, and then he took two, three, four staggering steps back. My satchel continued upward, spinning on itself, sweeping loose, so that for a moment it looked as if it might take flight and never return to earth. Then, caught by the tug of gravity, it ceased spinning and fell, like a rock, to the ground.
It was just at this moment that Greg caught up with Stan. He’d seen me slam Stan with the satchel, and he was enraged, yelling at the top of his lungs. “What the f*ck do you think you’re doing, you stupid cow?”
I stood there gaping at Stan as he floundered, appearing for a moment to find his balance before teetering forward, and then, like one of those unfortunate murder victims shot during the opening sequence of Columbo, he crumpled to the ground. I looked up, horrified, expecting now to feel the full force of Greg’s fury. But Greg, like me, hadn’t expected my blow to have such an impact, and he hadn’t anticipated Stan’s sudden fall. So, as he continued to run forward, pulling back his arm, readying to land his fist on me, he careened into the buckling Stan and fell with him, headlong onto the ground.
I simply stood, blinking, staring at the bundle of tangled arms and legs at my feet. Then I looked around, feeling as disoriented as if I’d been woken from a deep sleep. Everyone’s eyes were on me—Tracey, the Debbies, Malcolm. They were all motionless as they gawked, mouths flaccid and wide open, eyebrows arched high, foreheads creased with shock. And then Greg let out a little moan and began trying to haul himself up. I felt a surge of fear and energy, and I began to run.
“Run!” I yelled at Malcolm as I approached him. I saw him turn and try to move away, but he was pulled to a halt as Tracey grabbed him again.
“Come on!” she cried at Greg, who was pulling himself to his feet. “I’ve still got him, Greg. Come and get him. Smash this little poofter’s face.” Then she let go of one of Malcolm’s arms only to grab hold of a hank of his hair. “I’ve got him!” she yelled, her voice shrill and victorious. “Come on, Greg, he’s not going to get away!” Malcolm flailed and pummeled at Tracey, then yelped in pain as she twisted his hair around her clenched hand and yanked his head back, hard. At the same time, I saw Greg finally lift himself off the ground, and I saw the Debbies move closer to Tracey, apparently readying to help her hold Malcolm down. So I did the only thing I could think of. As I came level with Tracey, I halted, swung my leg back, and issued the hardest kick I could muster to her shin. As she screamed, I prepared to kick her again, but she relinquished her grip on Malcolm to double over and grab her leg.
“Run!” I yelled at Malcolm again as Greg ran toward us. We both turned on our heels and ran back along the path and through the school gates. We kept running at full tilt into the car park, sweeping over the dark asphalt and easing to a stop when we reached the single bus still standing there, its passengers already loaded, all of them staring out the windows at us.
“That’s my bus,” Malcolm said, panting. “Quick, get on. It’s leaving.” He tugged at my arm.
I hesitated and looked back. Greg and Tracey hadn’t pursued us. They were standing just inside the school gates, their faces furious. “You f*cking bitch, Jesse!” Tracey yelled.
“Come on,” Malcolm said, pulling at my arm again. “Otherwise you’ll be left here with them.”
I followed him onto the bus, flopping down into the nearest seat as the doors swished shut and the engine rumbled to a start.
“Are you all right?” Malcolm asked me. There were no other empty seats close to mine, and he stood over me in the aisle.
I nodded. “Are you?” I asked.
“Yeah, my head’s a bit sore.” He patted the place on his head where Tracey had pulled so viciously on his hair. “I think I—”
“Hey, can you sit yourself down?” It was the bus driver. He frowned over his shoulder at Malcolm, his brows knotted into a single heavy line. “As you know full well, lad, I can’t move this bus an inch until you put your bum on one of them seats.”
“Sorry,” Malcolm said. But before moving away he looked down at me again. “Thanks, Jesse,” he said. “That was really—” He paused in apparent embarrassment. “Well, I just want you to know that I thought you were really brave.”
As he smiled at me I felt pride, a burst of glorious yellow light, flood through me.
“You want chucking off this bus, lad?” the bus driver bellowed.
“Sorry,” Malcolm said again, and shuffled along the aisle to find an empty seat.
I didn’t look out the window at Tracey and Greg as we drove through the school gates. Instead, I closed my eyes and let my head loll against the seat back. As the bus pulled away, my heartbeat slowed and my breaths began to lengthen, while a feeling of utter satisfaction thrilled through my veins. I had stopped something terrible from happening. For once, the fear of consequences hadn’t left me silent and afraid. I had, as Malcolm said, finally been brave. I knew I ought to be worried about Tracey’s anger, the threat of reprisals from Stan Heaphy and Greg Loomis. I knew that I’d stepped over a line that would separate me from them, and that now that I’d done it there would be no going back. But instead of worrying I felt deliciously carefree. I felt weightless, unhampered, as if, like my satchel after I’d thrown it into Stan’s face, I could defy gravity, dance upward, spinning, through the air.
And then I remembered. The thought plummeting into me with all the force of something heavy falling and then crashing to the ground. I had left my satchel behind.