The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 23

"Wha'? Would ya really?"

"My ma'd crease me if I brought a black lad home."

"Them African fellas are riddled with the AIDs."

"Really?"

"Sure, isn't that why they held that Live Aids concert." I could not believe what I was hearing. What worried me is, statistically, in five years, at least two of those girls would become mothers, perpetuating the cycle of prejudice and ignorance, infecting the minds of the next generation.

"I betcha the pair of 'em are queer for each other."

"That's disgusting."

"I'd love to see two lads getting it on."

"You're vile."

"I heard it's true."

"Don't say that." Louise's voice.

"I'm telling ya. Mandy Freeman was goin' out with that rugby player, remember? He and your fairy boyfriend went to the same school. One day, after practice, a clatter of them walked in. Caught Aaron touching himself, checking out lads showering."

"No way."

"Sounds suspect to me."

"On the bible. Mandy told me."

"Mandy Freeman is talking through her hole."

"Aw Louise, don't be getting all mad 'cause ya fancy a knob-jockey."

I punched the wall with all my force. Left traces of skin clinging to the brick.

I walked away, my head about to pop. Rage coursed through me, my entire body trembling, barely noticing the stinging pain from my raw knuckles.

Lies. Dirty, greasy lies.

Memories of that day haunted me like malevolent spectres for years. I thought I had finally exorcised them from my mind.

The incident occurred during my second year in my previous school. I sat in the shower room, eyes fixed on the floor, preoccupied. French next, right after gym class; And today was the day of our written exam. French was hands down my worst subject. I struggled to scrape a passing grade. Results carried significant weight in my house. Ever since my junior school teachers had talked up my academic potential, my parent's expectations have been sky-high. And I felt an obligation to achieve the anticipated grades. I studied until midnight, hoping what I had crammed in would be fresh in my mind today. I was stressing, searching my brain for the elusive subjunctive endings to prendre, when someone comedian said, "Oi, Col, Murphy's checking you out your arse."

I blinked, vision coming starkly back into focus, only to see some sweaty naked kid eye-balling me menacingly from across the changing room, while the others choked down their laughter.

"What're you staring at, freak?"

"A pasty-faced praying mantis-looking prick." Had I used my wits, this entire noxious episode might have been nipped in the bud instantly. Unfortunately, it only occurred to me when was I replaying the scene in my mind later on. Instead, I panicked, stuttering a protest of innocence. "I, no, I was just thinking—"

"See—he admits he was fantasizing about you, Colin." "Oho, ya better keep your head on a swivel with this one." "Here, Col, shake your bum, and I'll bet he gets a boner." "You got a stiffy, Murphy?" "That's why he always wears that towel—to hide the evidence." I sat dumbly, mouth open, choking on the chains of my inadequacy.

A couple of late-comers wandered in. "What's all the commotion?"

"We caught Murphy fiddling with himself," said a classmate, aiming a discreet wink at his fellow conspirators.

"Scumbag was watching me shower," a furious Colin, who wasn't in on the joke, said.

"You serious?"

"As cancer."

And so it started. The initial story spread like a virus through the school, mutating as it hopped from host to host. Each additional strain, becoming deadlier and more destructive. I wasn't part of any clique—not being from upper-middle-class stock and with an aversion to rugby—that could offer herd immunity to protect me. It didn't take long for the diseased lie to infect my small group of friends, altering their perceptions of me. That the tale, or its subsequent revised retelling, was flagrantly untrue mattered not a jot. It made for fantastic entertainment. Once the summer term had finished, so too, was I.

Those scurrilous rumours stalked me mercilessly around the halls all the following year, the subject of insidious innuendo and a campaign of isolation. My best friend, Andy, was the only person who stood by me. However, his personal sexual preferences had long been the topic of playground speculation. Schoolyards are not fertile ground for measured, nuanced debate. Our persistent companionship did little to help either of our cases. That Halloween—at a party I had not been invited to—Andy nabbed himself a girlfriend. The sister of one of our chief antagonists, which helped Andy gain acceptance into their social circle. Our friendship was reduced to the odd reluctant nod when we passed in the hall.

I never bore Andy any ill will. I blamed the cretins who started the nonsense for giggles. And their acolytes who spread malicious misinformation. I blamed my so-called friends for swallowing the lie whole.

For the longest time, I blamed myself.

As I dodged dog-shit on the pavement, above my head a jumbo jet roared through the blue, leaving a white contrail extending across the entire sky like a vaporous wound.