Still being 17 and scared

At 17, you’re putting your childhood away into cupboards and boxes, but you haven’t yet been given the keys to the sprawling mansion of adulthood.

You’re in a sort of quantum landscape where you can reach out, but not quite touch the trees; the far-away mountains are getting closer, but they are still behind glass.

Familiar skies shrink, while new ones expand to fill the space.

Strawberry milkshakes are not as sweet as they used to be.

There are days when the laughter feels a bit too loud, and there are nights when the quiet seems endless.

When you’re 17, you live somewhere in that in-between waiting space.

You’re waiting for real love, waiting for approval, waiting for a car, waiting to leave, waiting for a purpose.

When I was 17, my friendship circle consisted of three other boys – Al, Dave and Patrick.

We talked about buying guitars, drinking alcohol and meeting girls.

There was another group of boys who wore sharp suits, drank alcohol, smoked and actually talked to girls.

Sometimes they even kissed them in broad daylight.

They were 17 too, but they acted like they were 25 going on 45.

One day I got off the school bus three stops early to walk Gillian Matthews home and ask her if she wanted to go to the flicks and watch the Poseidon Adventure with me.

She looked at me as if I was five years old and offering her a lick of my icy pole.

She said “no thanks” and carried on walking, staring ahead, her chestnut hair bouncing in the breeze.

So I offered her a Players No 6 from a squashed fag packet pulled from my trouser pocket instead.

She replied by stepping up her pace until I practically had to jog to keep up with her.

When she got to her front door, she rummaged in her school bag for her house key and went inside so quickly she tripped over the doorstep.

I watched from the gate, struck dumb by the swish of chestnut hair as she closed the door without a backwards glance.

I’d worshipped her from a distance for four years, but now my adulation had turned to genuine respect.

She had a house key.

That’s how things are when you’re 17.

Girls are older than boys.

But everyone is desperately unsure, floundering like tethered birds, trying to fly anyway.

All these things are captured in the Australian play Seventeen, about to be performed by a small ensemble of Shepparton Theatre Arts Group actors from next week.

Matthew Whittet’s script is a diamond-sharp glimpse into the lives of six teenagers on the cusp of adulthood who spend a final night together in a park after the last day of school.

We see their guilty secrets, their ugly jokes and their bullying; then at other times they are vulnerable, confused and kind to each other.

The play is funny and sad and beautiful and ugly all at once.

Because I’m a shuffling wanderer with dreams beyond this fading life, I auditioned to become a 17-year-old again.

I was given the part of Ronny – a gentle soul facing a battle for acceptance and love.

I would have liked to be the alpha male with the beautiful girlfriend, but the director saw something else in me.

The flip in the script is the teenagers are played by 50, 60 and 70-somethings.

It has been surprising how well we have fallen into the roles.

To me, this shows that despite sore backs and wobbly knees, there is still a loud and a shy 17-year-old bully and dreamer buried in all of us.

Seventeen opens at STAG’s Black Box Theatre on Friday, November 7, for six performances until Saturday, November 15.

For tickets and more information, go to https://events.humanitix.com/seventeen-stag