They all pose in various combinations in front of the limo.
They’re the sort of people that life always seems easy for.
Luckily, before I’m sucked into a vortex of despair, there’s this gentle humming noise, the sort of high-pitched buzz you hear when a fly’s trapped in a spider’s web, and then in pootles Jack Parker on the back of Dylan Hooper’s scooter and, honestly, he may as well have just arrived on the back of a sewing machine on wheels. Simultaneously with his arrival, Theo Appleby, who is secretary of the LGBTQ+ society committee, fires up that St Elmo’s Fire song on a portable speaker system he’s rigged up.
A-mazing.
I can’t help but smile. Jack and I may have gone our separate ways in the last few years, but one thing I’ve always admired about him (not that I’d ever tell him; not that he’d ever tolerate a conversation with me anyway) is his dry sense of humour and the way he subverts everything so many times over, you can’t quite tell where the genuine ends and the sarcasm begins. No one’s looking at the limo kids any more, which must be really annoying for them when they’ve spent all that money on hiring it and, knowing Jack, arriving just moments after them and stealing their thunder was probably not accidental.
Jack comes to a gentle halt and steps off the scooter, and there’s an actual round of applause and cheers from various year elevens who are standing around, waiting to go in. Jack laps it up, does a twirl with this insane gay cape thing he’s wearing, and a theatrical bow. I’m well aware that Jack hasn’t had an easy ride of it over the last few years, so what does it take to have confidence like that? It’s like a switch flipped with him at some point, and he was all, This is who I am and I don’t care what any of you think. And somehow because he didn’t care, the bullies started caring less too. The thing with Jack is, he’s really good-looking – he’s five ten, so he’s tall, but not too tall; he’s got a good physique, toned, but not too toned; his hair always looks great (textured, blond) and his skin is always clear and radiant. If that wasn’t enough, he’s bright, like top-set bright, but he’s not geeky. He’s witty, he’s sharp, he just sparkles, and he’s completely happy to be himself. He’s basically A-list gay. Lucky him, because I feel like that helps. I haven’t even come out yet and I already know, with my stunning ability to be awkward in any social situation, complete lack of fashion sense, appalling lack of knowledge about the gay “scene” and even s-e-x, plus low-level anxiety and occasional paranoia that I’m destined to be the messiest sort of disaster gay. In fact, that will probably be on my gravestone, which everyone will see soon enough because I’ll probably die onstage tonight during my speech, metaphorically and literally:
Nate Harrison
2004–2020
Gay Disaster
Why am I thinking about death? Why can’t I just be happy?
Jack catches me looking at him, and he gives me a nod.
I nod back, then look away quickly. Part of me does wish we were twelve again, mucking about in my room, before things got weird and we never spoke again. I wonder what he’ll think tonight, when I come out?
I watch as Jack gives Dylan a kiss, then they stride off hand in hand towards the entrance. I glance at Tariq, who gives me a small smile. I know Tariq would love it if we kissed and held hands in front of everyone, and, sooner than he knows, I guess we will be.
The thought of that suddenly makes me very happy indeed.
CHAPTER FIVE
JACK
I don’t want to sound mean, but I was not expecting much. Let’s be clear, this is a British secondary school; compared to what happens in the US (if the movies and TV shows are accurate, which I assume they are!), our prom was going to be the equivalent of their cheese: an abomination.
And yet, hats off to Maddie Maddison (yes, her parents really called her that) and her prom committee because I walk into the school gym and it looks fantastic.
After persuading the school governors that Netflix probably wouldn’t sue for IP infringement, the theme was announced as Stranger Things. They’ve decorated the whole gym like the Upside Down: white and grey drapes cover the ceilings and walls, there’s dry ice billowing over the floor, a mirrorball casting specks of light everywhere, and they must have used hundreds of cans of that spray-on cobweb stuff you get at Halloween, which is covering pretty much everything else. The DJ is playing eighties tunes, and Ms Munroe and Mr Walker, our heads of year, are dressed up in Scoops Ahoy outfits, serving ice creams. The centrepiece is this huge Demogorgon, about six metres high, which must have taken the committee months to construct. It’s impressive, somewhat precarious-looking, almost certainly a fire risk, but, hey, it’s in an enclosed space with a hundred and fifty fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds, half of whom are already hammered on the alcohol they hid around school before we went on exam leave, so what could go wrong?
I pull Dylan over to the photo booth area, where there’s a cool red neon sign which reads “Class of 2020” in the Stranger Things title font. We put our arms around each other and pose for a couple of “formal” pics, then we do a couple with our mouths wide open like manic muppets, and then some where I’m kissing him, and then I jokingly try to dry-hump him, and then he’s had enough and pushes me off and the photographer says he’s going to delete that last one.
“Kids in America” by the icon that is Kim Wilde starts to play. “Let’s dance!” I tell Dylan.
“Let’s get a drink,” he replies.
“And then dance?”
“We should get some food too.”
“And then dance?”
“Maybe,” he says.
He slopes off towards where the punch is. He’s being way more moody than usual. Dylan is always fairly aloof and moody – obviously, that was one of the main things that attracted me to him – but tonight he’s extra. I bet it’s the gay cape thing. He’s still cross with me. Doubtless sensing an opportunity to stick a knife in, Chloe Kendall is suddenly by my side with her meathead boyfriend, Brandon, who spent most of the last five years (until I got together with Dylan) as one of my tormentors. His skinny-fit suit looks several sizes too small, barely containing his ridiculous muscles, the overall effect being reminiscent of the Michelin Man. She’s in a full-on ballgown, her bright blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, like the sort of Disney princess we’re all bored of seeing. “You know he’ll cheat on you, right?” she says, glancing over at Dylan by the punch table. “The hot ones always do.”
Brandon laughs, then frowns and says, “Not always, babe.” I look him up and down. It’s amazing how people can look so different to each other at sixteen. If I didn’t know any better, I would say he’d had some help along the way. I mean, I’m not saying he’s taking steroids, but I did see him in the showers after PE one time, and his balls are the size of peanut M&M’s.
Anyway, I’m not going to play Chloe’s game. “When are they announcing prom king and queen?”
“About twenty minutes, once everyone’s inside. Why?” she asks, crossing her arms. “Fancy your chances?”
“Do you fancy yours?” I ask, even though she’s no longer looking at me.