Page 14 of A Wistful Symphony

Her hands flick towards me once more, but she gets a hold of them and presses both palms against her chest. Her smile is broad and her eyes glisten. It’s the first time she’s ever heard of me being with someone. “Honey, I’m so glad. Will you two go out again?”

“Don’t know. I hope so.” My shoulders shrink. “Just don’t mention it to his father. I heard he’s not happy about Andrew’s sexuality.”

“Poor kid. That’s so unfortunate.” She purses her lips and shakes her head. “Next time you see each other, invite him over for dinner, okay?”

“Mum!” I blush furiously. “We just kissed at a party. I’m not bringing him to meet my family on the next date.”

“You boys and your endless concern about looking cool.” She rolls her eyes with mirth. “I do want to know him properly if you guys get serious, though.”

“Right. Noted. May I go now? This conversation is already way too awkward.”

“Yes, you may.” She giggles. “Just do me a favour and look a little upset when you go downstairs. I promised your aunt I would ground you.”

“I’ll do my best.” We both muffle a laugh.

“Love you, honey,” she says as I’m about to leave the room.

“Me too, Mum.”

When I go down to the kitchen, Aunt Petra lectures me about how she’ll never trust me with her daughter again.

Nan Olympia belittles her scorn, saying Aunt Petra shouldn’t be so hard on me, since she did far worse at our age.

Then, Nan narrates her adventures in the 60s when everybody took purple hearts and acid like there was no tomorrow—a story told while holding a glass of cider at eleven in the morning, which is so very typical of her.

Zoe, Delia and I fight hard not to laugh at Aunt Petra’s glower.

The rest of Saturday is filled with arguments between the two of them about how Nan shouldn’t meddle in our education. It’s good not to be the centre of attention, so I hide away and bury myself in practice until the dust settles. By the time Sunday comes, peace reigns at the cottage once again.

Since I don’t take the bus to school, I need to wake up an hour earlier than the girls, if I mean to arrive on time.

The upside is a quiet house for me to do my morning rituals.

No one banging on the door to rush my multi-stepped thirty-seven-degree bath, no one craving bites of the French toast and scrambled eggs Mum makes to my exact requirements, and no one chatting at annoying levels as I sip my 200ml of filter coffee. The silence is priceless.

Mum wishes me a good day before I bike down the country road with the sun on my back.

It rained the night before and the pungent scent of wet grass impregnates the entire path.

Debussy’s Reverie plays softly on my headphones as I bask in the yellow sea of dew-covered gorse.

I’m not looking forward to school—not after I came out to Benson and his mutts—so I don’t mind taking the scenic route.

The road is soon replaced by the narrow cobblestone streets of the town centre, and on Gardenia Street, Westcott House rises stoic in my line of sight.

I hit the brakes. You won’t be at school, Andrew, that much I know, but I wonder if you’re home.

Zoe’s words come to mind yet again and I consider leaving some kind of message at your door.

The idea sounds like rubbish before I even finish thinking it.

It was just a high night, nothing more. You probably don’t even remember it. Why would you?

Shaking my head, I carry on my way.

I cross the ornamented iron gates fifteen minutes before the first bell.

A swarm of students buzz through the front yard, filling the place with loud and indistinguishable chatter.

My head is down as I grab the strap of my cross-body satchel, trying to get to the classroom without touching anybody.

No sign of Benson and the other two. The first three periods go by as a blur, and before I know it, it’s lunch break.

“Hey, Eric from the music department. Had a good weekend?” Ollie nudges me with his shoulder on our way to the canteen.

Oleg Ivanovich Kasiev is the one person I can call a friend.

He’s half-Russian and grew up in Saint Petersburg until the age of eleven, when his father transferred to an electric company near his mum’s hometown.

It kind of sucked for Ollie, because his dream to be a professional ballet dancer would work better if he’d stayed in Russia.

Here he’s often bullied for his thick accent or his “less-than-manly” career aspirations.

Perhaps that’s what brought us together.

Outcasts flocking, or something of the sort.

Except Ollie never minds what people say about him.

He’s still unapologetically himself. I wish I was more like him.

“Hey, Ollie from the dance department,” I reply with a grin. “I’m guessing from your tone you already know the answer.”

“Oh yes, my friend, news travels fast.” He muffles a chuckle behind his wide smile. “I’m kind of bummed you didn’t call me to this party.”

“You need to be in London for your Royal Ballet Associate Programme early on Saturdays.”

“I could’ve worked it out.” He shrugs while filling his tray with the slop passing for mashed potatoes. “You sure it’s alright, though? Everyone knows.”

Ollie never minded my weirdness. When I told him my hygiene peeves were due to OCD, he simply said it made sense, as if I told him my favourite colour was blue.

A few months later, when he asked my opinion of the girls from his ballet class, I built up the courage to tell him I was gay.

He said he suspected it and confessed he was bisexual.

It took me by surprise. I believed Zoe and I were the only queer people in our school.

Meeting another one made me wonder how many of us were still out there, in hiding.

Since then, Ollie has become my confidant, and we guard each other’s secret with care.

We know this isn’t an easy place for folks like us.

“It wasn’t exactly planned, you know.” I rub a cleaning wipe on my bench before we sit at the tables. “Things just … happened.”

“Betrayed by your cock.” He fakes a woeful expression.

“You make it sound exceptionally dirty,” I mumble and take a bite of my homemade sandwich.

“Relax, Eric, it’s alright. We’re young. We get horny and do stupid shit.” His rolled R’s sound quite unconcerned. He downs his drink, and his voice gains a grimmer tone. “Look, I need to give you a heads-up about something.”

“What is it?” My heart races.

Ollie takes out his phone and puts it on the table facing my way. On the cracked low-resolution screen, there’s a picture of you and me making out at the old house. My stomach sinks to the ground.

“Someone sent it on the dance group chat earlier today,” he says. “The girls are chill, but there’s pretty nasty gossip going around about Westcott. You should be ready. Some of it may spill onto you.”

“Yes, I’ve heard it,” I mutter. Recalling your shock when Benson spewed shit at you makes my jaw clench.

I stare at the screen for a while longer, at the frozen image of your hand clawing under my shirt and your lips welded to my neck.

My fingers go unconsciously for the purplish marks you left, carefully hidden under my uniform’s collar, to convince myself it wasn’t a fever dream.

“So you’ve seen the pics we took.” Benson puts one foot on the bench next to me and leans over his knee. The two minions remain behind as he leers at me with the most irritating smirk. “They’ll make a neat slideshow next lunch, huh? What do you say, Lowell?”

I freeze in utter astonishment. The idea of our night being publicly displayed to the whole student body makes me want to throw up.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than to stick your nose in people’s love lives?” Ollie says.

“Fancy that, it’s the Russian doll coming to the rescue. I should’ve picked it up sooner. I mean, you two are always together.” Benson turns to me again. “Is Kasiev your boyfriend? Are you cheating on him with preacher boy or are you three fucking each other’s arses?”

I clasp my trembling hands, not daring to look at his jeering face a few inches from mine.

Just breathe.

Ollie steps in. “If you’re so interested in gay sex, all you have to do is search it on Pornhub.”

“Shut the fuck up, you communist pansy.”

“The Soviet Union ended before you were born, knobhead. Are you flunking history again?”

“What did you just call me?” Benson gets up and glowers.

“Exactly what you heard. Knobhead .” Ollie stands, towering a couple of inches over Benson.

I’m not sure if Ollie is courageous or reckless. He works out enough to handle Benson one on one, but Benson’s loyal mutts are just behind. It wouldn’t be a fair fight. And even if it was, any kind of injury could endanger his forthcoming dance career. I would never forgive myself if that happened.

The entire canteen turns to us, their prying stares burning the back of my head. Whispers turn to a louder buzz, and some idiots bang on the tables, calling for a fight. My shallow breaths hasten, but I somehow manage to reach Ollie’s side and mutter, “Ollie, please, let’s just go.”

His square jaw tightens before letting out a sigh. “Yeah, you’re right. Not worth it.”

We turn around and leave the canteen with Benson muttering every homophobic slur at our backs.

We pass the hall inspector standing, arms crossed, at the entrance, waiting to see how the quarrel would unfold.

That’s school policy. As long as there’s no physical violence, it’s fine.

Apparently, public humiliation is not grave enough for them to interfere.

That’s how it goes for us.

“You sure you’re okay?” Ollie says as we stride through the halls, his thick brows furrowed in concern.

I nod but can’t utter an answer. Damn small town. In London, most people wouldn’t give two shits about us.

Four months. I just need to suck it up for four more months.