When she’s finished waving at a fellow popular kid across the hall, Chloe turns her attention back to me and my unanswered question. “You could win, Jack” – she casts her eyes over my cape – “if you get the LGBT sympathy vote.”
“And what the hell’s that?”
“You know, tick some boxes by voting for the LGBT.” She flashes me a cold smile.
“Chloe, first off, it’s ‘LGBTQ plus’ at the very least; secondly, if you’re using LGBT as an adjective it needs a noun after it, LGBT people for example; thirdly, if it is a noun, it’s plural; fourthly, fuck off.” I flap my gay cape at her, and she takes a step back.
“God, you people are sensitive. It’s hard being straight these days,” Chloe announces, totally serious.
I cross my arms and cock my head, ready to listen to the bullshit.
“Yeah, it’s hard,” Brandon repeats.
“I’m sure it is, sweet cheeks. Try thinking about some old politician, or maths,” I suggest, winking.
He squints at me, absolutely not getting it.
But Chloe’s still off on one. “Like, I thought Straight Pride was a really good idea, before everyone kicked off on Twitter.”
“Uh-huh?”
“But why shouldn’t we celebrate who we are, if the LGBT get to? Isn’t it supposed to be about inclusivity?”
“OK, so still missing out the word ‘people’ there, Chloe, but sure, sure, let’s … let’s imagine how great that could be.” I sweep my hands in front of me, painting the spectacular image for her. “No, I’m really just seeing a sea of beige and people dancing to ‘Mr Brightside’.”
Brandon moves behind Chloe and wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her into him. “Ba-be, why are you talking serious stuff?” he murmurs into her ear. “Let’s have some fun.”
“Exactly, Chloe,” I smile. “Go and have some fun! You don’t want to be stuck here chatting to a notorious homosexual who’s going to absolutely whip your ass in the voting later this evening.”
Chloe’s about to bite back when Dylan arrives with a couple of cups of punch for us.
“Hey, Dylan!” she says. “You look great!”
“Cheers, Chloe. You too.” Dylan passes me a cup and nods at Michelin Man. “Brandon.”
“Dude.”
“Lewis has vodka if you want to top up your punch,” Dylan says.
“Monkeeeeeeey!” Brandon squeals.
“Monkeeeeeey!” Dylan squeals back.
I have no idea what any of this means. It’s some entirely separate language that Dylan must have learned before he came out.
The boys start making monkey noises.
And then what sounds like a parakeet.
And finally an elephant, after which they both collapse into laughter.
Christ, it’s intolerable.
“Good luck with prom king, dude!” Brandon says to Dylan. “May the best bro win!”
And they bump fists.
When Chloe and Brandon have gone to be straight somewhere else, I turn to Dylan. “Such charming people.”
“Yeah,” Dylan says. “Oh. Are you being sarcastic?”
I smile at him winningly. “Sarcastique? Moi? Is it time to dance yet?”
“I need another drink,” he says, finishing the one in his hand.
“Allow me,” I say, giving him a little wink and heading over to the punch table. I get two more cups, and surreptitiously slip the little item I’ve been hiding in my pocket into Dylan’s drink. I’ve seen this in films. It’s going to be so great.
I hand Dylan his cup. “A toast!” I say.
But he’s already downing it. No, no, no, that’s not—
Dylan starts choking. “Agh! Argh!” He’s smacking his chest with his hand. “Argh!”
“Oh no! Oh, lordy!” I squeal. “OK, OK, do you know first aid?”
He makes a frantic pointing gesture to his throat.
OK, no time. How difficult can the Heimlich manoeuvre be anyway? I scurry behind him, place my fist above his navel with my other hand over it, and push inwards and upwards, once, twice—
“GAAAAAAHHH!” Dylan splutters, the object flying out on to the floor. “Christ!” He pushes me off him, where the correct response would be some form of gratitude, but I guess he’s in shock and not thinking straight.
He bends down and picks up the thing he was choking on.
I’ll admit, the moment has somewhat been ruined, but it’s happening now, and this is the sort of hilarious story that will be relayed at a later date, during a wedding breakfast, for example.
“What the hell?” he says, with the ring in his hand. Then he turns to me and sees I’m on one knee. “WHAT THE HELL?”
“Dylan!” I say.
“Oh god, Jack, get up! Christ!”
“No, but Dylan—”
“Everyone’s starting to look, get up, stop being a dick!”
“Dylan Hooper—”
“I’m not marrying you.”
Well, that stings a bit, but I press on. “I’m not asking you to marry me … not yet … but what this ring—”
“Ugh!” Dylan says, glaring at me. Is it me he’s disgusted with? Is it the ring? The ring is sterling silver. Chosen for a lifetime of durability!
“It’s a promise ring!” I tell him.
He stares at me. “What are you promising? To endlessly embarrass me?” He glances around at the small crowd who have gathered around us. “Put the phone away,” he mutters to Zoe Cole, who has clearly decided to film this magical moment for a possible cute viral video on social.
“No,” I stand up. “We are making a promise to each other, about our relationship.”
He nods. “What about it?” He’s not really looking at me, he’s still clocking who’s watching this and checking their reactions.
“It’s a sign of commitment.” I look at him hopefully.
He flicks his eyes back to me and sniffs. “Uh-huh. Very nice. I haven’t got you anything.”
“That’s OK, I … I brought my own.” I take the other ring out of my pocket. “So.”
“Right, so what now?”
“Shall we … put them on each other?” I suggest. “Here, at this most romantic of proms? A moment to remember and treasure? A story to tell the grandkids – how we gave each other promise rings at prom when we were just sixteen!” I mean, as narratives go, it’s a good one, it’s Hollywood in its perfection.
Dylan screws his face up. “Grandkids?” He laughs. “You’re funny.” His eyes dart around the crowd again and he actually nods to a couple of his football mates. “Maybe later, yeah? Let’s just have some fun for now, yeah? It’s prom, chill out! Don’t need to get all lovey-dovey until the slow songs at the end. Yeah?”
“Sure.” Luckily, I’ve had a fair bit of practice at masking how I really feel, so I keep my voice light and my face happy, rather than, you know, crushed, disappointed and embarrassed.
I sigh and glance around the room. Nate Harrison is pacing in the far corner, a manky and wet-looking bit of paper in his hand, gesticulating to himself while he mouths the words to his speech. Cute how it’s so important to him. He’s always gone full out on things: school projects, hobbies, not speaking to me ever again after I came out. I wonder if he’ll get over himself in our final two years of school, or whether we’ll just end up leaving this nowhere town and living our lives without ever saying another word to each other?