“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?
“Anyway,” I say, “I should really—”
“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
