“Er, um, I guess, yes? OK, then?”
And just as we got to mine, he added,
“You do know I don’t study history, don’t you?”
And I smirked at him. “I do know that, Dylan, yes.” Bless.
To start with, whenever we would “do history homework” together it was always me suggesting it. But after a while (at least until exams got in the way and literally everything was put on hold), it would be him. It’s always been behind closed doors, usually his bedroom, which is a monument to dreary masculinity, with its simple, functional decoration and pungent smell of Deep Heat (a far cry from my own fairy light, scatter cushion, lavender pillow mist kingdom), but he seems a bit more comfortable in his own skin these days. It’s nice.
We break away from the kiss. “We should get some pics,” I say.
“For Instagram.” Dylan does not like Instagram. He reluctantly lets me post pictures of us, but he refuses to be involved – doesn’t even have an account. That’s the reason I haven’t told him that any pictures of him always get significantly more likes than anything I post without him. And the comments are something else. But I don’t want his head to get big, so blissful ignorance is best.
I take a few selfies of us, a few of him looking all smouldering and James Bond, and then a bit of video of me romping around the garden with my gay cape, before he checks the time on his phone and suggests we make a move, because god knows it would be catastrophic if we got there so late the non-alcoholic punch had run out.
But this is the bit I’m most looking forward to actually. Dylan has a motorbike. Not only that, he has passed his test and is legally allowed to ride it with a pillion passenger – aka me. Which means I am going to roar into the schoolyard for the year eleven prom on the back of a motorcycle driven by a massive hunk, like some glorious moment in an American coming-of-age movie circa 1985. If he also does the Dirty Dancing lift with me, like I’ve made him promise, the prom is going to be so kitsch and camp it will literally explode into confetti.
We walk towards my front door. “Are we technically supposed to be wearing motorbike leathers for this?” I ask.
“You do know it’s a moped, right? Not a motorbike,” Dylan replies.
“I mean, what’s the actual difference?”
And then he opens the door, I step outside and I see the thing.
CHAPTER TWO
NATE
I’m pretty sure prom is something you’re meant to look forward to, but somehow I’ve made sure I’m not. Which is me all over. I’m really good at making sure I don’t have a good time.
Elements of Dread in Ascending Order of Dreadfulness
1.My outfit. My tux is hired because money is tight and we couldn’t afford to buy one that you can get altered. That’s no one’s fault, but it’s classic bad luck that the hire shop didn’t have anything left in my size. So now I look like a year seven kid on the first day of term, all dressed up in an oversized blazer and trousers that are slightly too long.
2.The speech. Oh god, the speech. “Someone’s got to do it, Nate!” the head merrily told me. “And you’re the spokesman for your year!” I mean, I’m really not. I was voted senior prefect, but it wasn’t a vote of popularity or respect – it was malicious. The title confers no benefits whatsoever, only loads of horrible responsibilities, like monitoring the lunch queue, putting away chairs after assembly and giving speeches to people who are just waiting for you to fail, preferably hilariously, so they can upload it somewhere.
3.The BIG THING. You see? And there I go again, already building this one up by calling it “the big thing” in the first place, when I could just call it, “The really stupid thing that I’ve no idea why I’m doing and maybe I won’t.” Except, of course, thanks to a certain someone, I finally feel like I actually want to, so there’s that. Yes, I’m going to come out to everyone. And I’m doing it big-gesture style because I’m an idiot (a) it’s a special prom surprise for Tariq, and I know it’ll make him proud and happy, and what more could I want? And (b) I don’t want everyone gossiping about it, I just want to get it out there, all at once, really clear, fresh start, new page, all that stuff. Plus, it saves me having the same conversation, like, over a hundred times, and the only other effective way of doing it would be to take an advert out in the end-of-term school newsletter: Nate Harrison would like to proudly announce that he is officially gay – flowers are not necessary, but please send any donations to his PayPal account so his wardrobe becomes befitting of his new status.
Yeah, I’m not doing that.
But first, I have to deal with THE BIG THING (must stop calling it that) with my parents because if I don’t, they’ll hear about it anyway from some third party (probably Linda at number fifty-five) and Mum will be upset because she’ll think me not telling her first means our parent-child relationship has broken down and that I’ve got other secrets, like being addicted to meth, or keeping a scrapbook under my mattress full of my favourite BTS pics and self-insert fan fiction, with a list of all the boys ranked in order of how cute I think they are, with detailed explanatory notes and appendices. For example.
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
