Should I ask him whether he goes to Easton Grammar? No, I don’t want to know. “I can’t wait until this year ends,” I say instead.
“Same,” he agrees. “I can’t wait to be an adult. I mean, I’m already eighteen, but I want to be a proper grown-up.”
“Like moving out of your parent’s place?” I can relate. I’m eighteen too, but my parents still do all the grocery shopping and Mum still washes my clothes and Dad still cooks me dinner. I’m grateful they do those things, but I’m eager to be independent.
“Yeah,” the stranger says. “I literally countdown the days until I can move out of my mum’s. I’ve got the numbers listed in my diary and everything.” He cuts himself off quickly as if he’s said too much.
“I get that,” I say, hoping to make him feel comfortable.
We sit without speaking for a bit. I consider taking out my phone to check the time, but I don’t want the screen to illuminate the closet. I fear that everything will be ruined if I even get a flash of the guy’s identity. I’ll have to confront the fact that I blurted so much stuff to a total stranger.
It was cathartic, though, to say how I feel aloud. It’s as if the weight of all my worries has lessened.
“I can’t believe I’m hiding in a literal closet,” the stranger murmurs. “How fitting.”
I straighten up. “What do you mean?”
“Oh,” he says as if realising he had spoken aloud. “Nothing.” He clears his throat, and somehow, it seems extremely dignified. “So, are you planning to go to university after graduation?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “What did you mean just then about hiding in a closet?”
I’m aware I’m pushing when he obviously changed the topic, but I want to know what he meant.
“I’m sure you know,” he replies, voice a shade shyer than before.
I can’t help myself. “Are you…um...”
“Gay? Yes. In the closet? Yes. I suppose. No one at my school knows, and my family doesn’t either.” His tone becomes defensive, and if I could see, I’m sure he’d be tensing up. “Why, are you disgusted?”
“What? No, of course not.”
“We know how boys can be around here. They say the F slur so often, it’s like it’s a preoccupation.”
“I’m not disgusted,” I insist. Then, in a moment of true madness, I add, “I’m the same.”
“The same?”
“Gay. And in the closet. Not because I’m ashamed or anything!” I hurry to say. “I just don’t want to go through allthe drama of, you know, coming out. I’ll be moving away soon anyway.”
The stranger’s voice is very quiet. “You’re gay?”
“Don’t tell anyone. Please.”
“Of course, I won’t.” He sounds insulted. “I don’t even know who you are.”
“Right. Same.” I slump against the wall, suddenly feeling kilos lighter. “That’s the first time I’ve ever told anyone.”
“Really?” the stranger asks.
“Yeah. I don’t know why I told you. I guess it must be because I’ve never been in this situation.”
Sure, there are gay people at my school. Last year, when I was in year 11, a few Year 12 guys were in relationships. Liam Ford and Curtis Claridge, for one. Jasper Harvey and Kieran Phillips for another. I know their names even if they don’t know mine.
As for my own year level, there is one gay couple I know of: Noah Rosselli and Henry Cross. They started dating last year. But we’ve been in different classes all high school, so I’ve never gotten close to either. Even if I did, I’m not sure what I’d say.
I was never planning to let anyone know. But tonight, I’ve told a total stranger. Because he’s like me — not only gay, but closeted.
“I feel…weirdly honoured,” the stranger says.
