Boy Queen Page 4

  I switch to autopilot as best I can. I shower, I dress, I take my bag downstairs, all the while my brain playing what happened on the audition day on a giant IMAX screen. I analyse every foot placement, every line, every note, every action that I took. Maybe the song change wasn’t right. Maybe it was a test. I was almost right for a place, but that song just confirmed that I wasn’t.

  ‘Maybe I’m just not good enough,’ I say as I get downstairs.

  Mum looks up from the table. There’s a cup of tea where I usually sit, a couple of biscuits next to it. Biscuits for breakfast – these really are dark times. ‘Robin, it’s a setback—’

  ‘No, come on, Mum, maybe I’m not,’ I say. ‘I might be, like, school good, but not professional good. Maybe I just don’t have it. Not everyone can do it, you know. There are so many people that—’

  ‘Stop it,’ she says, banging a hand on the table. ‘Robin, this is a minor setback. The knockbacks are there to make you stronger. At least give it a chance to settle before jacking it all in to become a hairdresser.’

  ‘What’s wrong with being a hairdresser?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong with being a hairdresser, Robin, but it’s not your dream,’ she says. ‘Don’t let them take that away from you.’

  I take a seat at the table, staring down at the tea, at the biscuits. I just want to crawl into bed and sob this day away. But, given Mum’s little pep talk, which she one hundred per cent prepared, she’s not about to let me do that. Maybe she didn’t think I was getting in either. Have I just been kidding myself this entire time?

  ‘So, it’s not happening,’ she says. ‘But you can try again next year. Keep taking classes. Keep working.’

  I stand up. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about dance classes right now. Just acknowledging the fact that I’m not going to LAPA in September breaks me, the thought that I have to keep working is too much. I want to collapse.

  ‘I should go to school,’ I say, unable to keep the gloom out of my voice. I’ve barely moved an inch before Mum has her arms wrapped round me, squeezing me tight as if she can force all the sads out of me. ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ I take a deep breath, but I can’t stop the tears from coming again.

  ‘Something will come up,’ she says into the top of my head. ‘It will work out.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because I’m your mother.’ She shrugs. ‘I know things.’

  She holds me a little longer. I don’t want her to let go. It feels safe here. Like nothing can hurt. And I know I’m being a baby, but I don’t care because this situation is killing me.

  ‘You’re going to be OK,’ she says. ‘It’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘Then why does it feel like it is?’

  ‘Because you’ve just had all of your hopes and dreams dashed.’ She says it so casually, like I’ve not just had my heart ripped out of my chest.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘But you need to pick yourself up and carry on.’ Mum releases me and puts her hand on my cheek. ‘It just means that when you get there it will taste all the sweeter.’ Her attempts at making me feel better are sort of working. I just wish I had some kind of guarantee that she is right because suddenly everything seems so uncertain. It’s like I was following a map, and now someone has taken this giant eraser and scrubbed out the road.

  ‘You’re determined, you’re focused, you’ll figure something out,’ she says. ‘Say that back to me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘I’m not saying that – I’ll sound like a twat.’

  ‘My love, I’ve seen you playing Danny Zuko,’ she says. ‘And, look, I love Grease as much as the next person but it’s not exactly Shakespeare.’

  ‘Wow, you want me to make positive affirmations, and you’re coming for Grease when I’ve just had all of my hopes and dreams shattered?’ I shake my head. ‘Are you trying to get me to cry harder?’

  ‘Shut up and say it,’ she says.

  I groan and mutter, ‘I’mdeterminedI’mfocusedI’llfiguresomethingout.’

  She smacks me lightly across the side of the head. ‘That was terrible. You’re supposed to be an actor – perform the words.’

  ‘I’ll perform Shakespeare. I will not perform a random affirmation in the middle of our dining room.’

  She tuts. ‘So much for all the world’s a stage.’

  I sigh. ‘I’m determined. I’m focused. I’ll figure something out,’ I say half-heartedly.

  ‘And I’m going to make you say it every day until you believe it.’

  ‘And I’m going to pray that you forget by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘See? You’re already being catty – it’s working!’ She hugs me again. ‘Don’t feel like you need to tell everybody today.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Language.’

  ‘Do I not get a free pass today?’ I reply. ‘I mean, today of all days.’

  ‘What are you freaking out about?’

  ‘I have to tell people,’ I say. And that feeling of embarrassment washes over me again. How many people knew I was auditioning? Natalie, Greg, Priya, Mrs Hepburn, everybody in my drama class, so many teachers, Miss Emily . . . ‘God, I’m going to look like such an idiot.’

  ‘Robin—’

  ‘Sorry, I’ll get over it, I will, just not now,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you later?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘When you’re back from class, we can do something before my shift. Bad TV, bad food, whatever.’

  ‘I don’t even think a trashy film can save me right now, Mum,’ I say. ‘And the last thing I want to do is take a class. I just . . . I don’t know what I want to do.’

  ‘See? Brooding and dramatic, you’re already on the mend.’

  I give her a smile. It takes way more effort than I thought it would.

  ‘Go to your class,’ she says. ‘It might be good for you.’ ‘I’ll . . .

  I’ll see how I feel.’

  She snorts. ‘That’s the spirit.’

  ‘Love you.’

  ‘Love you too, sweetie.’

  FIVE

  Riding my bike to school this morning feels like something of a godsend. I switch myself to autopilot and ride the same old route I’ve ridden for the past six years. Through the nearest town to ours, a rival school, my dance school, up and down hills, and crossing roads I could cross with my eyes closed (but won’t, obviously, because duh), embracing the time with music pounding so hard in my ears I couldn’t possibly think of anything else.

  I’m about to pull out on to the main road when I see a familiar face at the crossing just by Hampton Road. The green man is beeping obnoxiously, urging him to move, but Connor stays put, leaning on the traffic light, his eyes fixed on me. He’s waiting for me, just like he said he would. And I feel like a dick for forgetting. It’s the tiniest bright spot that makes me feel a little less tragic, even just for a second.

  I hop off my bike and push it over to where he is.

  ‘Morning,’ he says.

  ‘Morning,’ I say, fixing the smile back on my face. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

  ‘I was about to say the same thing.’ He grins, his teeth a little crooked, his smile lifting his whole face. He goes from lad to soft boy in a snap. ‘Walk you to school?’

  ‘Well, we’re both heading that way,’ I say. ‘Be weird not to, wouldn’t it?’

  He smiles at this and we start along the high street, my bike between us like a barrier, like a little beacon to show anyone who is watching that we’re not gay, we’re just two guys walking to school together. My heart is pounding so hard I can’t really cope with it.

  I want to tell him. If he was really my boyfriend, I would have texted him straight away. He’d want to know.

  ‘What’s up?’ he says, reaching out a hand and touching my arm. The contact makes me want to cry. God I’m needy. ‘You seem . . .’

&nbs
p; ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know, like you’re not at full wattage,’ he says. ‘You feeling OK?’

  ‘I didn’t get into LAPA,’ I say, trying to keep my voice even. ‘The letter came through this morning.’

  ‘Oh.’ Connor shifts his gaze from me, to our direction of travel, then back to me again. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  I want him to do something. I want him to take my hand and squeeze it and tell me it will be OK. I want him to wrap me up in those big arms of his so that, even for just a second, the world falls away. But he doesn’t because we’re in public, and today I let it affect me a lot more than it usually would.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he asks.

  I take a shaky breath. I feel like I’m made of glass, like I might shatter at any second. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’m still processing it.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry,’ he says again. ‘If there’s anything I can do . . .’ He trails off. There’s plenty he could do right now. All I want is to be close to him, and he must know that. Keeping the secret is just more important to him.

  ‘Sunday?’ he adds.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We can do something on Sunday?’ he says. ‘My parents aren’t home, or we can go somewhere. I’ll do whatever I can to take your mind off it.’

  I smile. It’s something to look forward to, at least.

  ‘You don’t have to—’

  ‘But I want to,’ he says. ‘It will be fun.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  He laughs. ‘A promise.’

  He stops abruptly as we reach the underpass, the bit that takes us into the last stretch up towards school, where there are people who will likely recognize us and wonder why we are walking together in the first place.

  ‘See you later?’ he says.

  I nod. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Message me.’

  He nods, and I climb on my bike and ride away, pulling on to the main road and speeding off towards school, trying to leave my sadness in the dust. I don’t think there’s a bike fast enough.

  Hot, sweaty, trying to catch my breath, I take a hard right so I can pull up outside Natalie’s house, which is pretty much on the way. I hope she hasn’t left yet. Her house is giant in comparison to mine. It’s detached with a big garden, and her bedroom could fit three of mine into it with space left over for a jacuzzi tub. And, in that moment, it seems weird to me that something so huge can happen and the world is just the same. It feels like it should be on fire or something.

  Nat, I’m actually on time today. Have you left yet?

  Ooh, look at her.

  Coming!

  Natalie hurries out the door with a smile on her face, a smile that I return as best I can. She opens her mouth to call to me when the door opens again behind her. Her dad, fully suited and booted, hurries out, dangling a set of keys in his hand. He’s talking to her in French Creole. He does this a lot and she responds in kind, the words tripping off her tongue like she doesn’t even have to think about it. I’m always in awe. I can barely speak one language, let alone two.

  He’s teasing her with the keys, snatches of words that don’t translate drifting through. Durham. Robin. I shouldn’t be listening to this.

  I avert my gaze and turn my music up until Natalie manages to snatch her keys back and heads over to me.

  ‘Good morning,’ she says, her smile perhaps a little less bright than before.

  ‘Hey,’ I reply. ‘You OK? Did something happen?’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Just Dad being Dad,’ she replies. ‘But, in better news, my sister is coming back for a couple of weeks, and she is bringing Liz with her. Oh, I can’t wait!’

  ‘So your parents are meeting Amber’s girlfriend?’

  ‘Finally!’ she says. ‘She’s literally the coolest person I’ve ever met in my life.’

  ‘How do you think they’re going to take it?’

  ‘They’ll be fine. When she came out, they were fine, when I came out, they were fine, even if they thought pansexual had something to do with cookware.’ She shrugs. ‘I can’t see them having a problem. Both of their kids are queer, so they’ve clearly done everything right. Such blessings.’

  ‘Huge blessings,’ I say. Natalie’s presence is calming. Just to be talking about something else, thinking about something else. Maybe I don’t even need to tell her. I could just move to London and find a job. How hard could it be?

  ‘So what’s going on? You’re . . . off.’

  No use delaying the inevitable.

  ‘I didn’t get into LAPA,’ I say.

  She stops walking.

  ‘Come on, Nat, no theatrics, please!’

  She doesn’t say anything, throwing her arms round me and wrapping me up in the tightest hug possible instead. I reach my arms round her and hug her back, letting the tears fall because, well, I don’t have a choice.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Not your fault.’

  ‘Shut up,’ she says into my shoulder. ‘I know it isn’t my fault – I’m just sorry that this hasn’t happened for you.’ She pulls away and looks at me. ‘And you let me go on about my sister coming home?’

  ‘I don’t want sympathy,’ I say. ‘Sympathy makes it worse; I want to be the kind of person that can brush this off and carry on, but . . .’

  ‘It meant a lot to you, Robin. You’re allowed to be sad.’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t do sad,’ I say. ‘I do happy-go-lucky, I do campy – I don’t do sad.’

  ‘You’re allowed to do sad – you’re a person,’ she says. ‘A real human person.’ We start walking again. ‘Are you telling people today?’

  ‘I guess I have to,’ I say.

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I sort of do,’ I say. ‘I told everybody about it. My entire drama class knows, Mrs Hepburn, Mrs Finch . . .’ I trail off. Mrs Finch is the one who was on everybody’s case about university applications. She’s going to lose her mind when she finds out I only applied to drama schools. I really thought that LAPA was the one. Now I’m left with nothing. ‘Today’s going to suck.’

  ‘But it will pass,’ Nat says. She takes a breath. ‘Next year’s looking a hell of a lot different now, huh?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘We had plans, Nat,’ I say. ‘And now they’re ruined and it’s all my fault.’

  ‘It’s stuff that’s out of your control,’ Nat says quietly. ‘You can’t blame yourself for that. Promise me you’re not.’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing.’

  She laughs. ‘Gosh, you’re impossible.’

  We join the crowd on the road walking up to school: a sea of people, most of whom look utterly miserable. What a freaking mood.

  ‘Morning, lads.’ A big pair of hands land on my shoulders. They squeeze tight. I turn to see Greg, who has a broad grin on his face.

  ‘You’re almost late,’ Natalie says.

  ‘Archie forgot his lunch, so I had to run back and get it, hence the sweat,’ he says. He looks at Nat and me. ‘Christ, we look glum this morning.’

  ‘Greg, don’t—’ Natalie starts.

  ‘I didn’t get into LAPA.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ Greg says, his face falling. ‘I’m sorry, Robin.’

  Suddenly Greg has wrapped me up in his big arms, holding me close to him, smooshing my face into his chest. There are people around us tutting and complaining about us stopping in the middle of the street, but I’m not sure I care. This is what I wanted from Connor. This is the right reaction. I shake that feeling off.

  ‘I didn’t think,’ he says. ‘I just opened my big mouth and—’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say, smiling. ‘You didn’t know. It’s all right.’

  And we keep walking to school, but there is an awkwardness now that wasn’t there before. No one knows what they can say to make it better. I certainly don’t.

  ‘So what happens now?’ Greg asks. ‘What’s the plan?’

&nb
sp; And for the first time, in as long as I can remember, I have no idea.

  SIX

  After I’ve registered, I head down to my first class, which is drama. The closer I get, the more it feels like a walk of shame.

  I take a few deep breaths as I go, trying to push the sadness out, trying to be the kind of person who can get knocked back and just let it go. I turn on the smile that everyone is expecting.

  ‘Morning, Robin,’ Katy chirps. ‘Any news yet?’

  I keep smiling. Just keep freaking smiling. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It was a no.’ I shrug. ‘But, you know, these things happen. There’s always next year.’

  She looks at Marcus, who looks a little confused. Maybe it’s the disconnect between the news and my attitude.

  ‘You’re OK?’ he asks, running a hand through his hair. ‘Like, seriously?’

  I nod and smile. ‘Yeah,’ I say. I can see people listening in. Lani, DL, other classmates, ears tuned in to hear gossip. Shit. ‘It sucks, of course it does, but the standard was high and they can’t take everybody. That’s what it said in the letter, anyhow.’

  Katy walks over and pats me on the shoulder just as Mrs Hepburn sweeps in. Her hair is golden blonde with black roots, her eye make-up extra as hell for a Wednesday morning at school, and she’s wearing this red, flowy cardigan that trails behind her like a cape. She’s every stereotype of a drama teacher rolled up into one. I wouldn’t be surprised if in a few years’ time we find out that her entire life as a schoolteacher has been a performance art piece. Today I’m grateful for her presence because she sets us off working before I can obsess over my failures any longer.

  ‘Robin Cooper, can you stay behind, please?’ she asks at the end of the class as everyone else is leaving. I wave Katy and Marcus away, turning to her.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  She narrows her eyes at me. ‘There’s a murkiness in your aura.’

  I sigh. ‘I didn’t get in.’