Summer was coming and Christmas would soon be on them. The sooner that was out of the way, the better. Christmas, that is - Christian liked summer, but he hated Christmas. Of all the times of the year to be alone and friendless, Christmas was the worst.
Every year he got suckered into it. With the huge media onslaught, the endless advertising blitz, the decorated shops and houses, Christmas was impossible to avoid. He knew that he should stay out of it, but he never did. He didn't even have his parents' option of getting drunk and staying that way until it was all over.
He did love the decorations; everything looked so festive and. . .well. . .gay. But there was nothing else about it that he liked. He should've known better by now, but he never did.
Every year he got to hoping, and wishing, that the season of cheer and goodwill to all men might, maybe, even extend to Christian Squires. Sad, lonely and friendless, Christian Squires. But it never did; every year he was disappointed, as always.
He never got any cards. He'd never received a Christmas card in his life. He never got any Valentine's Day cards either, but that's another story. The only presents he received were some thoughtless, last-minute, crap bought by his mother because she thought she had to.
The only Christmas greetings he ever got were from shop assistants and people who were paid to say it. Even they never looked like they meant it. Fuck'em anyway. He hated Christmas.
There was a tradition in Westpoint, every year they had a 'party in the park', in the Square, 8pm until late, on the nearest Saturday to the 10th of December. There was music, live bands and poets. There was plenty of food and drink - some of it for free, and other amusements as well. There was singing and dancing and laughter as the whole town, the whole district, celebrated the coming of Christmas and of Summer and the end of another year.
At 10pm precisely, every year, there was an awesome fireworks and laser-light display and then, after a speech from the Mayor, the winner of the lottery got to throw the switch and turn the lights of Christmas on.
No-one, not even those who decorated their houses, turned any Christmas lights on until the night of the party in the park. It was wicked cool and everyone was there. Everyone, that is, except Christian.
He had no-one to celebrate anything with; he never had. The last time he went to a party in the park he was 9 years old. He used to have some friends back then, not like now.
Saturday evening, the 8th of December, Christian had to get his own dinner. No-one else was eating at home that night. His parents and the kids, even the baby - 3 year old Catherine - were going to the party in the park and they would eat there.
After cleaning up, (one plate, one pot and one glass), he was back in his room reading and listening to music. He could hear the excited chatter, and occasional snarl, all around the house. He turned the page of his magazine and there was a full page, full-colour, advertisement. He didn't even know what it was advertising, but the big headline caught his eye. "Life - Be In It!"
"Yeah, right," he sighed. "What life?"
He dropped the book and looked up at the ceiling with a heartfelt sigh. Was this as good as it was going to get?
There was a rap at the door, and his mother looked in. "Christian? Are you sure that you won't come with us?"
"No. Thanks, Mum. I'm all right here."
"Okay, please yourself. We'll be back later. Don't burn the house down. Goodnight, Christian."
"Yeah. 'Bye Mum. Thanks."
'Wow. What had got into her? You'd almost think that she cared.' Almost.
The door closed behind his family. He heard the car start up and drive away and an overwhelming sadness washed over him. What was he doing here?
He picked up the book and looked at the advert again. "Life - Be In It!"
Well, why not anyway? He was never going to be in it while he was lying here. He'd go to the party in the park. Maybe he had no-one to go with, but he could go and watch anyway - watch other people having fun. The fireworks were supposed to be worth seeing, he never had.
He had a quick shower, dressed in his good clothes and carefully styled his dirty-blond hair. He might be a dork, but he didn't have to look like one.
By the time he'd walked the few short blocks up to the square, he'd, almost, convinced himself that this was a good thing to do. Who knew? Maybe he'd even get to talk to someone there - someone who didn't know who he was. There might be people there from out of town. There could be.
The bright lights were on and the music and dancing had already begun when he arrived there. He stood at the edge of the Square, watching the busy scene, and he'd never felt so all alone in his life.
No-one took any notice of him, of course, and he forced himself to walk into the Square. Like an invisible man, he walked right through the crowd and out the other side. The queues were far too long at the food-stalls, and he wasn't, (very), hungry anyway.
There was an empty bench-seat at the outside of the running track, so he went over and sat down there, looking back and watching the crowd.
A few people walked past his, mostly, empty seat, looked at it and looked at him and kept walking. This was a stupid idea, he shouldn't have come here. What was he thinking? He was even more alone here than when he was at home, alone.
He could cry, but he'd better not. That would be the last straw. Lennie Peterson had killed himself a few months ago. No-one knew why, but, right now, Christian thought that he could understand it. Maybe.
As it got darker he started feeling a bit more comfortable, hiding in the shadows on the edge of the crowd. He'd wait for the fireworks and then he'd go home.
A group of seniors from school - 'jocks' - walked past his seat. His eyes must have lingered too long because they stopped, nudged each other and focused on him.
"What are you looking at, Faggot? What are you doing here anyway? You're not welcome."
He was a faggot now was he? Well, yes he was actually, but he wasn't doing anything. He turned his back on them and looked the other way. That didn't work. Someone hit him and knocked him off his seat. Bastards! He had as much right to be here as anyone.
"Are you deaf as well as dumb? I asked you - what are you looking at, Faggot?"
'Ah, Dammit!' Christian really wished that he was not there. Why hadn't he stayed at home? However, one thing that he was not was a coward. These bastards didn't scare him, and when one of them kicked him, his temper flared.
"Fuck you, Mate!" He rose to his feet and attacked his tormentor.
He could have taken him too, if he was on his own. But he wasn't. In a very short time he was back on the ground, lying curled-up, while the five stood in a circle around him, taking turns to kick him - hard!
"Keep your fucking eyes off my fucking butt, Faggot!" (Punctuated by kicks).
"Hey! What are you doing? Leave the kid alone."
They all, including Christian, looked around at Roman Dallas. He was walking past with his usual entourage of giggling girls and, for some reason, had decided to stop and get involved in the gay-bashing.
"Roman! We're just teaching this dirty little queer to keep his eyes to himself."
"Okay. It looks like you've done that. Now bugger off and leave him alone."
"Going to make us, are you?"
"If I have to, yes."
"Think you could take on all of us, do you?"
"Umm, well, yes." (He probably could too).
The five youths stood looking at him, as if weighing their chances. Christian was forgotten now and he got back on his feet; ready, despite his hurts, to fight again. The bullies backed off when several of Roman's friends came to support him.
('Must be nice to have friends.')
"What's it to you anyway, Dallas? Little faggot's no friend of yours."
"Maybe not, Corbett, but then - neither are you. I just hate bullies, that's all and five onto one is not a fair go."
"Come on, Guys. We don't need this." The five walked away. Roman Dallas could destroy their reputations in more ways than one.
"Wow. Thanks. Thanks, Roman." Christian stuttered.
"Anytime, Kid. You all right?" He smiled back at him but two of the girls grabbed his arms and dragged him away.
"Gee, Roman. You were great - like Superboy or something!"
"Yeah. Superboy lives! Come on and we'll buy you an OJ."
"Yeah, great idea. Don't worry about the gayboy. He's still walking isn't he?"
Roman looked back, grimaced and shrugged his shoulders as he allowed the girls to lead him away.
Christian stood watching them go, as best as he could. He was bleeding from a cut above one eye. That was really great. For a minute there, it was like someone actually gave a shit about him. Damm! He wished he could be like Roman Dallas. Nobody messed with him.
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