Ahmed grabs his iPhone and hurls it across the room. The phone smashes against the wall and crashes to the floorboards, screen shattered. He screams something after Curtis in what I assume is Arabic, then turns his rage on the rest of us. ‘Get out of my house, you freeloading sluts!’
Our usually tranquil and tree-lined Inglewood street is momentarily very trash.
Hammer’s storming towards his car, kicking twigs and pebbles on the path.
Curtis is running after him, bellowing at him to wait up.
Rex jumps into his Hilux, wheeling away and doing a burnout for good measure.
I unlock my car and gesture at Charlie to jump in, but Charlie pulls his middle finger.
‘What?’ I say.
‘You really thought I’d out a closeted guy?’ Charlie says, through gritted teeth. ‘Your opinion of me is that low?’
‘Charlie, the way you goaded Hammer – it’s like you wished youhaddone it,’ I tell him. ‘You didn’t have a lot of sympathy for him.’
‘Oh, sorry, I forgot you’re not always playing cool-footy-boy Zeke,’ Charlie sneers. ‘Sometimes you’re still weak-arse nerd Zeke, too scared to stand up to your bully. You’ll worship a closet case if he lets you suck his dick, right?’
‘You hypocrite,’ I say back.
‘Hey, you can call me a lot of things,’ Charlie says, ‘but not a hypocrite.’
‘You’re the biggest hypocrite,’ I counter. ‘You mock me for worshipping Hammer when you still think the sun shines out of Matt’s arse.’
A heavy silence falls between us. Our neighbour slides her patio door shut, either as a sign of respect for our privacy or out of fear our fight will spill into her yard.
‘Don’t you dare,’ Charlie says. ‘You never knew Matt like I did.’
‘Well, you never knew Hammer like I did,’ I attack. ‘Newsflash: Matt wasn’t that different from Hammer. Matt wasn’t a bully, sure, but he was a masculine guy, deathly afraid to come out, just like Hammer. He didn’t fit in, just like Hammer. You can forgive Matt for being imperfect, but not Hammer? Hypocrite.’
‘BECAUSE I LOVED HIM!’ Charlie screeches. Tears are running down his face and he’s still holding his Vegemite toast.He looks like a crying toddler nobody has ever comforted. ‘AND HE LOVED ME! Fuck you, making fun of that. I liked you better when you were a mouse, Zeke. Playing pretend jock boy has made you as much of an arsehole as Hammer.’
‘IT’S NOT PRETEND!’
Now I’m the one shouting, fists clenched.
‘Oh, did I hit a nerve?’ Charlie smirks. ‘Good. I hope ithurts. That’s all you are. A big phony. No matter how much you play footy with the big boys, you’re still just a soft little loser. Everyone can see right through you. You’re a joke.’
The confidence footy has given me leaches out of my lungs like carbon dioxide. My fists unclench pathetically.
‘Yeah, like I said: a fake tough guy,’ Charlie says. ‘I’m going for a walk. Maybe you should find somewhere else to live, ay? Ungrateful prick.’
He frisbees his toast into our neighbour’s rose garden, plugs his earbuds in, and walks down the street away from me.
I get in my car and start driving with no destination in mind.
Perth has been a mistake. Adulthood has been a mistake. Befriending Charlie Roth was a mistake.
Both times.
I end up getting to Perth Steam Works as it opens. I pay twenty-five bucks, get my towel and locker key from Muscle Boy Johnny, and within ten minutes, I’m on my back on a black vinyl mat in a room made of mirrors. A forty-year-old bloke with a tattooed neck comes in and rails me. When he asks me if he can hit me, I say yes, the harder the better.
He backhands me in the face repeatedly.
I love being punished.
It’s night-time when I get home.
