Heartbreak Boys

top up your punch,” Dylan says.
“Monkeeeeeeey!” Brandon squeals.
“Monkeeeeeey!” Dylan squeals back.
I have no idea what any of this means. It’s some entirely separate language that Dylan must have learned before he came out.
The boys start making monkey noises.
And then what sounds like a parakeet.
And finally an elephant, after which they both collapse into laughter.
Christ, it’s intolerable.
“Good luck with prom king, dude!” Brandon says to Dylan. “May the best bro win!”
And they bump fists.
When Chloe and Brandon have gone to be straight somewhere else, I turn to Dylan. “Such charming people.”
“Yeah,” Dylan says. “Oh. Are you being sarcastic?”
I smile at him winningly. “Sarcastique? Moi? Is it time to dance yet?”
“I need another drink,” he says, finishing the one in his hand.
“Allow me,” I say, giving him a little wink and heading over to the punch table. I get two more cups, and surreptitiously slip the little item I’ve been hiding in my pocket into Dylan’s drink. I’ve seen this in films. It’s going to be so great.
I hand Dylan his cup. “A toast!” I say.
But he’s already downing it. No, no, no, that’s not—
Dylan starts choking. “Agh! Argh!” He’s smacking his chest with his hand. “Argh!”
“Oh no! Oh, lordy!” I squeal. “OK, OK, do you know first aid?”
He makes a frantic pointing gesture to his throat.
OK, no time. How difficult can the Heimlich manoeuvre be anyway? I scurry behind him, place my fist above his navel with my other hand over it, and push inwards and upwards, once, twice—
“GAAAAAAHHH!” Dylan splutters, the object flying out on to the floor. “Christ!” He pushes me off him, where the correct response would be some form of gratitude, but I guess he’s in shock and not thinking straight.
He bends down and picks up the thing he was choking on.
I’ll admit, the moment has somewhat been ruined, but it’s happening now, and this is the sort of hilarious story that will be relayed at a later date, during a wedding breakfast, for example.
“What the hell?” he says, with the ring in his hand. Then he turns to me and sees I’m on one knee. “WHAT THE HELL?”
“Dylan!” I say.
“Oh god, Jack, get up! Christ!”
“No, but Dylan—”
“Everyone’s starting to look, get up, stop being a dick!”
“Dylan Hooper—”
“I’m not marrying you.”
Well, that stings a bit, but I press on. “I’m not asking you to marry me … not yet … but what this ring—”
“Ugh!” Dylan says, glaring at me. Is it me he’s disgusted with? Is it the ring? The ring is sterling silver. Chosen for a lifetime of durability!
“It’s a promise ring!” I tell him.
He stares at me. “What are you promising? To endlessly embarrass me?” He glances around at the small crowd who have gathered around us. “Put the phone away,” he mutters to Zoe Cole, who has clearly decided to film this magical moment for a possible cute viral video on social.
“No,” I stand up. “We are making a promise to each other, about our relationship.”
He nods. “What about it?” He’s not really looking at me, he’s still clocking who’s watching this and checking their reactions.
“It’s a sign of commitment.” I look at him hopefully.
He flicks his eyes back to me and sniffs. “Uh-huh. Very nice. I haven’t got you anything.”
“That’s OK, I … I brought my own.” I take the other ring out of my pocket. “So.”
“Right, so what now?”
“Shall we … put them on each other?” I suggest. “Here, at this most romantic of proms? A moment to remember and treasure? A story to tell the grandkids – how we gave each other promise rings at prom when we were just sixteen!” I mean, as narratives go, it’s a good one, it’s Hollywood in its perfection.
Dylan screws his face up. “Grandkids?” He laughs. “You’re funny.” His eyes dart around the crowd again and he actually nods to a couple of his football mates. “Maybe later, yeah? Let’s just have some fun for now, yeah? It’s prom, chill out! Don’t need to get all lovey-dovey until the slow songs at the end. Yeah?”
“Sure.” Luckily, I’ve had a fair bit of practice at masking how I really feel, so I keep my voice light and my face happy, rather than, you know, crushed, disappointed and embarrassed.
I sigh and glance around the room. Nate Harrison is pacing in the far corner, a manky and wet-looking bit of paper in his hand, gesticulating to himself while he mouths the words to his speech. Cute how it’s so important to him. He’s always gone full out on things: school projects, hobbies, not speaking to me ever again after I came out. I wonder if he’ll get over himself in our final two years of school, or whether we’ll just end up leaving this nowhere town and living our lives without ever saying another word to each other?
“OK. If it’ll make you happy, I’m good to dance.” He sighs and holds out his hand.
I glance back at Nate, wondering if he’s clocked what song is playing – “Embers” by Owl City – but he’s too deep in his rehearsal, I think.
“Actually, maybe later,” I say, flicking my eyes from Nate back to Dylan. “This isn’t our song.”
I’m waiting by the side of the stage with the other prom king and queen nominees. Dylan seems way too obviously drunk for an event which isn’t meant to have any alcohol. I hope there isn’t some clause preventing the prom king from being inebriated, or if there is, I hope Dylan can hold it together long enough for this announcement to be over. His general offish-ness tonight has been totally unnecessary (over a rainbow cape? I mean, c’mon!), but if he screws up the prom, and all the Instagram opportunities it presents, I will never, ever forgive him, or his perfect abs.
I can tell Nate’s unsure about his speech as he delivers it. He keeps saying lines, then glancing at different mates in the audience, looking for affirmation it’s going OK. And, actually, it is going OK. He opened by saying