Chapter 7 #2
The Dean glances at his lectern. ‘The following graduate was ranked a top one hundred student of the university, and is the recipient of the Dean’s Prize for the highest weighted average mark …’
Oh yeah. I forgot I got that. Nice, I guess.
The Dean peers at my name on his script. ‘Zee-kay Ger-o-ca-lo!’
There is literally no way you could fuck up pronouncing my name more.
To make it worse, there’s no cheering from my parents – just the barest smattering of restrained, tired applause from the audience before a dead hush.
My face burns as my shoes squeak and echo into the cold silence of the Riverside Theatre. I shake hands with the pruney chancellor, who looks mere days from being a corpse, take my certificates, and get the hell off stage.
I want to die.
I reach the edge of the stage and consider leaping off like a lemming into the abyss beneath me. But a staffer steers me to the steps, where I creep gratefully out of sight.
Xia Chen’s name is called, and her family makes a massive, roaring ruckus for her.
She is so loved.
Post-graduation drinks and canapes are served in a swish space beside the theatre called the BelleVue Ballroom. The walls are covered with thick gold-and-cream drapes, the waitstaff wear bow ties, and the food is served from polished silver trays.
I end up standing in the world’s most awkward circle. On my left, Sabrina, and on my right, my parents.
‘And she kept bragging about her daughter being on the Dean’s List, as if it was impossible my son was smart, too,’ my mother says, continuing her rant about the bitch she hated beside her in the theatre.
‘I looked right at her when they announced your award and said, “That’s my son. Top hundred! Ha!”’
I roll a samosa in sweet chilli sauce and wonder if I could choke myself on it.
‘Top hundred of how many, but?’ Dad booms, chewing a mini sausage roll ostentatiously. He doesn’t possess an indoors voice. ‘If there’s only two hundred students, not much to write home about, is it?’
‘There are twenty-thousand students at the university – it’s a huge achievement,’ Sabrina tells them, fixing me with a warm smile and rubbing my shoulder. ‘And the Dean’s Prize goes to the top student in the entire school. I’m sure you’re very proud of Zeke. I know I am.’
My mother peers at Sabrina like she’s an errant crumb on a tablecloth.
‘What do you mean? I’m proud of both my boys.
I just don’t think there’s a place for snobbery.
All these people talking about academia as if they’re better than those of us who only finished high school!
’ She clicks her tongue dismissively. ‘You’ve met Robbie, Sabrina.
He chose a different path, but I’m as proud of him as I am of Zeke.
University isn’t the be all and end all.
Robbie has a stable job, a house, a beautiful wife, Natalie, and a little girl, Bianca. ’
‘We’re very proud of Robbie,’ Dad says staunchly.
It’s as if Sabrina’s comment was a rocket-propelled grenade aimed at my mother’s photo cabinet.
‘Yes, of course,’ Sabrina says, cautiously. My parents usually dote on her – we’re pretty sure they hold out hope for me to get back with her one day – but she knows my mother can be prickly. ‘But today is Zeke’s graduation – you must be proud of him, too?’
‘Oh, Zeke! Zeke’s always been very good with books, very intelligent!’ my mother says, booping me on the nose so nobody except me notices her not answering the question. ‘I read to him when he was a baby. I breastfed him until he was two, which makes a difference to the brain.’
I reach for the samosa tray, but they’re all gone. Dammit. Nothing to choke myself on.
‘Fine to be book-smart, but you need street smarts to get a job,’ Dad says. ‘Found one yet, bud?’
Thankfully, the Dean comes over and interrupts us, shaking my hand and congratulating me on my accolades.
‘Well done, Zee-kay,’ he says. My mother stifles a giggle; Dad doesn’t and literally guffaws. ‘You must be so proud?’ he asks my parents.
‘Top one hundred!’ my mother gushes. ‘Always knew he was special.’
Once the Dean shuffles off, Dad guffaws again. ‘Bloke looks like the Professor of Wanky Dresses at Hogwarts. Gay-arse hat, isn’t it?’
Sabrina bristles like a cold wind just blew through the room. If I could telepathically tell her to shut up, I would, but even as I bulge my eyes warningly at her, she’s in full flight.
‘I’m surprised to hear you say that, given your own son is gay!’ Sabrina says.
My mother flaps her program at Sabrina, her made-up face scandalised. ‘Shush! Keep your voice down!’
‘What? Why?’ Sabrina demands. ‘Zeke is out. It’s no secret.’
‘Zeke doesn’t make it his entire personality,’ my mother says crisply. ‘He’s not one of those annoying ones.’
Sabrina looks at me, incensed. I shrug.
‘And he likes girls too,’ Dad says.
Years ago, I softened the blow to my parents by saying I was bi. They’ve latched onto it as proof I’ll eventually revert to normal.
‘You do?’ Sabrina says, blinking.
Years ago, I softened the blow to her by saying I wasn’t bi, so she shouldn’t feel offended I wasn’t into her.
Uh oh.
‘I mean, dunno, bicurious or whatever …’ I mutter, eyes on my samosa-less plate.
Sabrina’s gold bangle clinks against the side of a champagne glass she immediately plucks from a nearby waiter’s tray and raises to her lips, eyes away from me, cheeks pink.
‘Now, darling, I don’t want to talk about this here!’ my mother trills, as if a ballroom isn’t the gayest place on earth. ‘Your father and I want to take you out for dessert. We should get a move on.’
I’m happy to bring things to a close. Having Sabrina and my parents in the same space is my two worlds colliding, and a massive miscalculation on my part.
‘Okay, let’s head out, then,’ I agree. I can’t bring myself to look Sabrina in the eye, so I politely address her gold bangle. ‘See you at home, yeah?’
My parents take me for a swish dessert up at C Restaurant, the high-class revolving restaurant at the top of a skyscraper on St Georges Terrace.
I have a poached pear with hazelnut cream and a pistachio-flavoured molecular gastronomic foam.
My mother has coffee spiked with Baileys.
Dad takes an espresso. We came here for the view of the twinkling orange-and-pearl phosphorescence of Perth, stretching from the Swan River to the Darling Ranges.
I spend most of the time wondering how much force I’d need to run at the glass windows with to smash through them, and how long the fall would take.
My parents give me my graduation gifts. From Robbie and Natalie, I get a one-litre bottle of Absolut Vodka and a box of Lindt chocolates.
We might not be super close, but at least they know what I like.
My parents gift me a crisp grey business shirt from Tarocash (for job interviews), a set of cufflinks (ditto) and the reliable old Archie comic.
‘I like Sabrina, but she can be very forthright, can’t she?’ my mother prods, sipping her Baileys froth.
‘She means well,’ I say meekly. ‘She just has some strong opinions, I guess.’
‘I don’t like that overbearing tone of hers,’ my mother tsks. ‘It’s not attractive in a woman, is it, Sam?’ she adds, without a single trace of irony.
Dad dutifully shakes his head, also sans self-awareness.
‘If she could tone it down, she’d be so good for you,’ my mother adds.
I drop my spoon before I’ve even touched my dessert. ‘Mum, you know I’m …’
I never say the word with my parents, but the ellipsis is always understood.
‘Don’t be silly, Zeke!’ my mother goes on, rapidly stirring her Baileys coffee and licking the spoon. ‘You used to date her. She’s clearly still fond of you. She has a good job, comes from a good family. You already live together, for goodness’ sake. How much of a change would it really be?’
‘I saw you kiss her in the rear-view mirror when I drove you to the ball,’ Dad says. He splays his hands. ‘What’s so bad about being with a woman?’
‘Sam!’ Mum hisses, scandalised. She glances over her shoulder and shoots a nonchalant smile at the ma?tre d’.
‘Don’t say things like that in public.’ She fixes her ice-cold stare on me.
‘Now, love, about a job,’ she goes on, in classic Anna Calogero steamroller mode.
‘I know you keep saying you won’t move home, but what if there was a job there for you?
Your father could use some help with the office admin.
I can’t help as much as I used to now I’m doing insurance with Elders again. ’
I freeze. ‘You want me to be a desk jockey for the family business?’
‘It would mean so much to have both of you boys back home,’ my mother says, slapping the top of my hand a tad too hard. ‘We don’t get to see enough of you anymore.’
For which I am eternally grateful. I swear, if I hadn’t moved to the city to get away from them, I would’ve lost it by now.
‘I don’t think I’ll ever move back to Gero,’ I say, using a dessert spoon to saw through my poached pear the way I imagine a surgeon would saw through a human femur. ‘I’ll find a job down here in Perth.’
My mother glances sideways at my father and her lips curve into the smile I only ever see when she successfully springs a trap for a nemesis.
‘Well, staying in the city doesn’t mean you can avoid us forever,’ she says in a sing-song voice that, in a horror movie, would make her a villain. ‘The Seftons aren’t the only ones who can afford an investment property. We’re looking for a place in Perth.’
I drop my dessert spoon; pistachio foam flicks across the tablecloth like a grass stain on footy shorts. ‘Wait, what?’ My throat is seizing up. ‘You’re moving here? To the city?’
My heart is racing. I’m in fight-or-flight mode.
‘We’re looking at a two-by-one in Dianella,’ Dad says. ‘Close to lots of the famiglia. There’s a home open in a couple of weeks.’