I can’t bloody forget it! Every time I go to the toilet or have a shower, I wonder if God is watching. I’m beginning to think God’s a real pervert.
‘Well, just look at you, Stanley Kelly!’
‘What do you think, Mum? Do you think the girls are gonna be impressed?’
‘Yes, I do. Gosh, this takes me back. You look like you just stepped out of the sixties.’
‘That’s a good thing, right? Guys looked cool in the sixties, didn’t they?’
‘Well, yes, they did.’ Mum blushes while fixing her hair in front of the mirror. ‘Your father was very stylish in his youth. He used to wear shoes like yours and he had a beautiful purple paisley shirt that he’d wear on special occasions. He had the most gorgeous sideburns. Why men don’t grow sideburns anymore, I’ll never know.’
‘Yeah, OK. Ease up. There are some things I’d rather
not
hear about, OK?’
Mum doesn’t hear me. She has quite visibly succumbed to a daydream. A little smile creeps up the sides of her mouth. She looks at me through blank eyes, and then she says the weirdest thing. ‘You know, Father Ryan has sideburns.’
I look at her, astounded. ‘No, he doesn’t, Mum! They’re hardly sideburns, and, besides, he doesn’t count because he’s a priest. He’s not a man!’
‘He
is
a man. Being a priest doesn’t change that fact, Stanley. Under those robes, he has the same hardware as every other man on the planet.’
‘Mum! Can we please stop talking about this?’ The conversation is quite clearly over, anyway, because I look at her and she’s off with the fairies. It’s quite disturbing. What the hell is she thinking? Does she have something for the local priest? I remember her in church, nodding along to Father Ryan’s sermon, captivated by his every word. It makes me want to puke.
Mum lets out a deep sigh, which, to me, sounds like it’s filled with deep longing. I feel like shaking her back to reality, but she’s got a dreamy, faraway look in her eyes. It’s frightening. Looking at her like this reminds me of the Rolling Stones’ song that my parents play when they’ve had too much to drink – ‘Far Away Eyes’.
‘I think I might have a little whisky.’ Mum giggles and winks at me. ‘There’s some in the back of the pantry. You have a nice night, Stan. Knock ’em dead!’ She gives me an encouraging little pat on my arm.
I watch as Mum walks away down the hall, still in dreamy mode. There’s definitely something going on with her. She often seems preoccupied these days. Sometimes I have to ask her the same question over and over before I get an answer. She’s taking better care of her looks lately, too. She won’t leave the house without at least applying a bit of lipstick, but she used to think that make-up was just for bimbos. She’s always said that she can’t understand why women choose to paint their faces like clowns. Mum’s obviously had a change of heart on the matter. The thought of Mum walking into a shop to buy lipstick seems completely wacky to me.
I decide I’m going to keep a closer eye on her. I might suggest we start doing more things together as a family, as painful as that might be. Then again, perhaps I’m being ridiculous. Mum has a silly crush on Father Ryan – well, so what? I wonder what it’s like to be Mum’s age and have a crush on someone. Can that really happen? Can oldies really be attracted to one another?
A sickening feeling starts to build in the pit of my stomach, so I push such thoughts out of my mind. I’ve got a school social to go to and I’m not going to let the thought of old people lusting after each other ruin my fun. I don’t know how people can live with themselves when they get old.
I approach the recreation centre. Jon Bon Jovi is singing about livin’ on a prayer. There’ll be plenty of crap songs to sit through tonight, but Rhonda Parker will be worth every painful note. She’s different. Not only is she achingly beautiful, but she carries herself like she knows something the rest of us haven’t yet grasped. Best of all, she doesn’t go with the popular guys, even though a few of them have made it pretty obvious that they dig her. I think she has way too much substance to waste on some sweaty, sporty type.
Rhonda moved to Middleton with her mother, who works at our local art gallery. They’ve made the brave move from city to small country town – cue the duelling banjos from ‘Deliverance’. Since Rhonda arrived, it’s like the place has been transformed for me. I no longer walk dazedly down familiar streets; I now see things that I’ve never noticed before. I see the vivid colours of the gardens I pass and notice how certain plants have their own poetry. I see the pretty little fences that neatly surround the manicured gardens. I see the front porch furniture that residents have chosen and notice that the condition of the furniture often matches the condition of the yard. I see the cracks in the footpath and wonder how many love-struck individuals have walked this same path, before me. Middleton’s sky even seems to have changed colour. Most days, it’s a vivid electric blue. It’s as if this insignificant town has become the centre of the world, and there’s no place I’d rather be.
I open the glass doors and enter the recreation centre. Inside, there’s a horrific display of tacky streamers and balloons in vulgar pastels. I cringe. I see a few people on the dance floor, doing the ‘step to the left, step to the right’ dance. But most are seated around the edges in the semi-darkness, looking sheepish, trying to muster up the courage to get up and dance. I scan the venue, looking for my friends. They spot me first and come walking towards me.
‘Hey, guys, check out the cat with the funked-up threads!’ Jeremy stands back with his head tilted, taking in the full effect of my ensemble. He nods in approval. Jeremy has a great way of making the simplest moments seem incredibly consequential.
‘Hi, guys.’
‘Hey there, Stan,’ they mumble.
‘How long have you guys been here?’ They have stupid grins on their faces and I feel as though I’ve missed something.
‘Long enough, buddy. But it’s not too late. You’ve got to come and ride the mystery train with us.’ Jeremy breaks into girlish laughter and I wonder what the hell he’s on about. I follow Mike, Jeremy and Steve to the squash courts, away from the dance floor.
‘Now, just linger here for a bit. We don’t want to look suss,’ says Steve. But he looks very suspicious. With his fidgeting hands stuffed into his pockets, he resembles a pathetic Frank Spencer, in need of a toilet.
‘Well, you already look damn suss to me. You actually look drunk.’
‘Shhh, Stan! Do you want us hung by our balls?’ Jeremy’s eyes dart about and scan the area for teachers.
‘How much have you had?’
‘Not that mush.’ Steve lets out a toxic burp.
‘Well, give me some, you bastards.’ Mike hands me his paper cup and I take a manly gulp. ‘What
is
this shit?’
‘It’s Scotch, brain-boy!’
I look into the stained cup. I feel a wave of heat creep up my face, and a vomity aftertaste hangs round my mouth. I drink some more to wash it down.
‘My old man’s got shitloads of it – bottles and bottles. He won’t miss a drop.’ Steve bares his teeth in a Scotch-ridden grin.
‘Oh, my God, there goes Strickland!’ Steve points him out and we all dash over to the dance area, hoping to conceal ourselves in a dark corner.
Strickland is our maths teacher, and he has a personality akin to Hitler’s. In fact, Mr Strickland is so devoid of any warm emotion that we’re convinced he’s a descendant of Hitler himself. We’ve constructed many theories about his personal life over years of school lunches, and have decided upon the likelihood that he’s never formed a serious relationship with anyone, let alone had sex with anyone. We’ve also theorised that his mother made a mockery of him in some unforgettable public scene and that the girl he loved in high school had sex with his best friend, right in front of his face. So, if Strickland were to catch us drinking now, he’d have a lifetime of pent-up sexual frustration to unleash upon us.
We find some chairs and settle into them. ‘Shit, that was close.’
I lean back in my chair, making sure Strickland is not in pursuit of us. And he’s not. He’s wandered off in the other direction. The alcohol that I consumed so quickly has warmed my body and the disco lights dance across my face at a nauseating tempo. I’ve looked forward to this night for ages and now here it is, staring me in the face, teasing me with its mediocrity.
‘Hey, Stan, guess who’s over there?’ Jeremy motions with several quick jerks of his head. I look to where Jeremy was motioning and catch sight of Rhonda. She’s across the room, casually leaning against a wall. Brenton Hull stands beside her, looking as charming as hell. He stoops slightly to talk in her ear, cupping a hand to his mouth to be heard above the noise. She seems to be enjoying it. The next thing he says to her must be pretty funny because she leans forward laughing, putting a hand to her mouth in an attempt to contain her overwhelming happiness. As I watch them flirt, my heart ruptures and I’m enveloped by a painful sadness that reaches and courses through every part of my body.
‘Well, she looks pretty happy, hey?’
‘Shut up, Jeremy. Stan’s got eyes of his own.’ Mike nudges me with his elbow. ‘Wanna drink, buddy?’ Mike waggles his paper cup before me.
‘Nah. Thanks, Mike. I might go grab a Coke.’ I walk over to the drinks counter.
On the way, I pass Mandy O’Connor. She gives me daggers. She still hasn’t forgiven me, and rumour has it that she’s still in love with me. She looks really cute tonight with her fringe all teased up. She’s wearing loads of black eyeliner. I smile at her but she keeps on with the daggers. I laugh to myself. If only I was still interested in Mandy. Life would be so easy.
I reach the drinks counter and I’m pleased to see that Mr Rogers is staffing it. ‘Hi, Mr Rogers.’
‘Hi, Stanley. Enjoying the dance?’
I consider answering politely, but then think to hell with it. ‘Well, not really. Sometimes life just isn’t fair, is it?’
Mr Rogers looks at me with raised eyebrows. ‘Well, sure. Life can be unfair. But maybe you could turn this low point around and go ahead and do something bold. Why not ask someone for a dance?’
I appreciate Mr Rogers’ encouragement. For a teacher, he’s pretty cool. ‘Yeah. Maybe. We’ll see.’
Mr Rogers smiles victoriously, knowing that he’s planted a seed in my mind. I buy a Coke and sit back down next to Mike. We’re facing the dance floor. ‘So, Mike, you see anything you like?’
‘Yes, I do, actually.’
‘Really? Who is she?’
‘I’m not telling.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t want to.’
‘What? Oh, come on, man! Who is it?’
‘I said, I’m not telling.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t want to!’
‘That’s bullshit, man! You can’t say you’re interested in someone and then not say who it is. Pals just don’t do that to each other. So, come on, man, who is it?’
‘Stan, I find your attempt at emotional blackmail quite offensive. What small chance you had of knowing has completely vamoosed. Bad luck,
pal
!’
I look at Mike, thrown by the emotion in his voice. ‘You’re drunk, aren’t you? Where else would this weird-arse shit be coming from?’ He turns his head and gives me his finest look of indifference. Then he resumes his perusal of the dance floor. ‘Oh, I get it. It all makes sense now. It’s Rhonda! You’ve got a thing for Rhonda! Well, shit, man, that’s OK. I completely understand. I mean, who the hell wouldn’t?’
Just then, I feel a hand on my right shoulder. I turn and find Rhonda herself standing there, looking a little nervous. ‘Hi, Stan.’
‘Oh! Hi, Rhonda!’
‘Do you mind if I sit here for a while?’
‘No. Not at all. I was just…’ I turn back to Mike, only to find that he’s gone.
‘It looked like you guys were having a fairly serious conversation. Is Mike all right?’
‘Yeah. He’s cool. We were just mucking around.’ I look around but I can’t see him anywhere.
‘Should I come back later?’ Rhonda’s beautiful voice hangs in the air and I’m in heaven. Not a Christian Heaven, but my own heaven, where Rhonda and I spend hours and hours discussing our favourite books, music and movies.
‘No, no, it’s cool. Take a seat.’ I pat the seat that Mike has just vacated and she slumps herself down next to me. We just sit there for a while; it’s nice.
Rhonda is the first to speak. ‘Have you been having a good night?’
‘Well, yeah, kind of. It’s been a strange one, actually.’
‘Really? What’s happened?’ Rhonda turns to me and, once again, I’m flabbergasted by her beauty. What am I going to tell her?
Well, Rhonda, I’ve got this major crush on you, which is doing my head in. I want to kiss you but I noticed you have this thing going on with dick-wad Brenton and now my heart is broken and life sucks
.
After some hesitation, I manage to pull myself together and answer her question. ‘Oh, nothing, really. It’s too hard to explain.’
‘Fair enough.’ Rhonda turns her head away and I feel like I’ve just missed the opportunity to do something bold, like Mr Rogers suggested. I sit there feeling the weight of my missed opportunity and then Rhonda’s voice lulls me out of my regret.
‘Well, I’ve had a bit of a strange night too.’
‘Really?’ I turn to her, all ears and all eyes.
‘Yeah, I had to put up with Brenton telling me how wonderful he is. He just went on and on about football and how he wants to play the game professionally when he gets older. It was so hard trying not to laugh.’
‘Really? Wow, that guy is an inspiration!’ Rhonda playfully punches me in the arm and we both laugh. Then we turn our attention to the dance floor.
‘Check out that kid in the blue shirt! He’s sure got the moves.’ Rhonda looks over to where I’m pointing and witnesses the hurricane that is sweeping the dance floor.
‘My God, is he for real?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Wow. Some people really get into it, don’t they?’
I’m feeling really content. This is one of those moments where having a cigarette would just top things off nicely. Everything appears heightened somehow, like I’ve just popped a really good pill. The strobe light catches blue-toned snapshots of Rhonda’s face. I decide to make conversation just so I can look at her. ‘How’re you finding Middleton?’