The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 7

Party; a social gathering, especially for pleasure or amusement. That is the dictionary definition. So why the damn anxiety?

Tonight's bash had been playing on my mind for the past agonisingly long five days. Well, that and Monica Tierney. As if my first proper party wasn't stressful enough, fate had tossed in a beautiful girl into the mix, the spark that threatened to set the tinderbox alight.

Would I be expected to kiss her? Of course. We weren't kids. It's what guys and girls did. A time-honoured tradition. A pivotal step to becoming a man. A test of masculinity. Except with most tests, you get the chance to prep. What if I did it wrong? A guy in my old school had bitten his girlfriend's lip on their first smooch. French kissing? I could barely wrap my tongue around, Je m'appelle Aaron, et j'habite à Dublin.

Robbie had told me not to worry. It would come naturally, he said. But there was nothing natural about the sweat seeping from my pores on this cold October evening as I paced my bedroom floor, working myself into a state.

After my father finished getting ready for work, I locked the bathroom door and ran a hot bath. My dad had to do a twelve-hour shift a Saturday night. Now, that was unnatural. But he did so without complaint. That's what real men do. "Man up, Aaron," I repeated to myself whilst lowering myself into the hot, foaming water, bubbles floating like cumulus clouds on the surface.

The place resembled a sauna when I stepped out and towelled myself dry. I wiped the fogged-up mirror with my palm. Admired the slim naked body reflecting at me, fingertip absent-mindedly tracing around a tautening nipple, until I caught myself.

I wrapped the towel around my waist, tight, and raced upstairs to my room.

Stuck on Madonnas Immaculate Collection while I studied the clothes in my wardrobe, waiting for inspiration to take hold.

By the time Borderline had petered out, I had my outfit arranged on the bed and my confidence had spiked.

And then came the indelible classic. As soon as the shuffling, tuneful baseline kicked in, my fear faded fast. I happily shook my hips to the beat and crooned into the mirror, like a liberated soul, arms extended over my head, mimicking the Queen of pops slinky dance moves. At which point, the bedroom door opened.

Keith stood in the doorway, mouth open.

Madonna's vocals filled the room. "Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh..."

"I'm getting changed," I said, trying and failing to keep my voice under control.

"Into what—a belly dancer," Keith said, half-sniggering, backing out onto the landing.

Suddenly I baulked at wearing the salmon pink shirt I had picked out. I sent it back into the wardrobe and threw on a v-neck pullover instead. The only item of black attire I possessed. Black clothing always reminded me of priests, funerals, and terrible '80s metal bands. Admittedly, the sweater went well with my grey suede bomber jacket.

My mum subjected Keith to the kind of grilling a seasoned detective would have been proud of before we escaped out the hall door.

Once we were out of sight of my house, Keith doubled back into a nearby lane and retrieved a green carrier bag from a hedge. Booze. Another time-honoured tradition I had as yet to experience.

My dad warned me alcoholism runs in families. It sounded plausible. I remember being at my Granduncle's wake when I was eight and my father got into this huge argument with my grandfather about his boozing. My dad advised him to pack it in, that he'd had enough. My Grandda told him to mind his own business, although not so politely. I overheard one of the other mourners call my da a dry-shite. An hour later, Granddad fell off his barstool, hit the ground with a loud thud, before climbing back up on his perch and carrying on drinking. Everyone in the pub found it hilarious, except my dad, who stood there mortified. I guess it's funny when it's not your father on the floor.