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 everyone arrives in the gym.
“Oh, Nate, look at you!” Mum coos, coming over to tweak my bow tie needlessly.
“Hey.”
“Who’s a handsome boy?”
I grimace. “Mum, you’re doing that thing again!”
“Hmm?” She’s only half-listening, brushing down the shoulders of my jacket, making me paranoid I’ve got dandruff.
“Where you’re talking to me like I’m a dog,” I continue. “Do you want me to start weeing on the carpet?”
She frowns. “You are not going to wee on the carpet, Nate.”
“No, I know, but that’s what dogs… Oh, never mind.”
“Well?” Mum says, presenting me to my dad.
I stand awkwardly, not really knowing where to put my hands, but eventually just opting to shove them in my trouser pockets, although they turn out to be smaller and higher up than I’m used to, meaning my hands don’t really fit properly.
“Hands out of pockets,” Mum says, smiling and using her primary school teacher voice – firm, calm, slightly disappointed. “You don’t want to look slovenly.”
I clear my throat and remove my hands.
Dad is looking impressed.
“If I was thirty years younger—” Dad says.
“If you were thirty years younger, what?” I interrupt.
Dad looks flummoxed.
“That’s not a thing parents say to their kids!” I tell him. “Or to anyone!” I add.
He raises his eyebrows. “No? Doesn’t it just mean that you miss the good old days?”
Mum tuts. “No, Mick, it doesn’t. It’s really inappropriate.”
I shake my head. “Oh my god, right, listen—”
“Rose? Come and see your handsome brother!” Mum shouts through to the kitchen.
“Mum, no—”
But my six-year-old sister has already run through, blonde hair, cherubic smile, butter wouldn’t melt, and you would never tell she was actually possessed.
“OK, here I am, thank you, please go back to the kitchen,” I tell her.
Rose looks me up and down, giving nothing away in terms of whether I look OK or not. “Do a twirl,” she demands.
I grit my teeth because denying her will only make this last longer and I really do not have the time. I turn around on the spot. “Ta-da. There we go.” I gesture to the door.
Rose sits down on the sofa.
“Oh my god,” I mutter. “OK, So—”
“Photo time!” Mum declares, squinting at her phone as she tries to access the camera.
“No, but—”
“I want one of you on your own, one with Dad, one with Rose, we’ll need one of you by the front door…”
There’s a shot of me by the front door for every major, and for that matter minor, life event of the last sixteen years. First day of every new school year. Last day of every school year. Joining the Scouts. Opening night of the school production. Grandpa Henry’s funeral. The day Mum decided my voice had started fricking breaking!
“I’m putting them on Facebook and emailing them to the family – everyone wants to see!” she continues.
“OK, but—”
It’s futile. Mum starts shepherding us, adjusting sofa cushions in the background “so the family don’t think we’re messy” and telling Dad to “smile more” so that “no one thinks he’s too depressed about losing his job”. When she’s done, she starts swiping through them and then it’s all, “How do you attach a photo to an email again?” and all I want to do is just say the thing I want to say and get out of there.
“You seem tense,” Mum says, glancing up from her phone. “Remember to breathe during your important speech, and don’t gabble. You know how you gabble when you get nervous.”
Oh my god.
“And who knows,” she continues, “maybe a little romance will blossom at this prom?”
My eyes widen.
“Maybe you will lock eyes with a special someone across the crowded dance floor…”
“OK,” I say. “So, look, about that, what if … you know, maybe there already is a ‘someone’ who is … special, you know?”
Mum’s eyes light up and then fill with mild panic. “Are you using condoms?”
“Mum! We’re not… We haven’t… That’s not…”
“But you would?”
“I mean, yes, but—”
She actually breathes a sigh of relief. “So, tell us, then!”
“Yes, tell us all about him!” Dad says.
“Yes, him, that’s right, because I’m— Hang on, what?”
Everyone’s just looking back at me expectantly. This was not as I’d planned it in my head. At least one person should have been crying by now.
“What’s his name?” Mum asks.
“OK, so, it’s Tariq, but can we just backpedal a little here?” I look at my parents, who are smiling inanely at me. “OK, so, I am” – I pause, because drama – “gaaaaay.”
“Yes,” Mum says, with this sort of manic fixed grin on her face.
“I like boys.”
“I like boys,” Rose adds.
“No, but I really like them,” I tell her. “I don’t like girls, I like boys.”