Golden Boy (37 page)

‘Scout’s honour.’

‘OK, so . . .’ He nibbles his lip. ‘I love you.’

I smile. ‘Wow! I really want to say something in reply!’

‘You can’t,’ he says sweetly. ‘You promised.’ He leans forward and kisses me gently.

Suddenly Max smiles, really big. ‘There have been times in my life when I thought I would never, ever get to say that.’

It dawns on me. ‘Oh my god, you have child cancer.’

‘Er, no.’

‘Are you dying?’ I panic. He thought he would die before he loved someone! Oh my god! I put my hands to my face, unable to stop tears from escaping. Lovely Max dying. This is the stuff my fears are made of and they
can’t
come true, they just can’t. He can’t die! I choke up and grab his sleeve. ‘Have you always known?’

‘No! I’m not dying, I’m not dying!’

‘Oh my god,’ I say, halfway to hyperventilating. ‘Shit, you
scared
me!’ I hit his arm hard, then hug him. ‘Don’t fucking
do
that, OK?’

‘OK, I’m sorry,’ he says, a little taken aback.

I sit up, getting myself calm again. ‘OK, hit me. What is it?’

He hesitates. ‘I’m not sure if I should tell you now.’

‘No, tell me,’ I assure him, kissing his lips. I just want to know now, whatever he is holding in. I want it over with. ‘It’s OK.’

He presses his lips to mine and we kiss for a bit. Then he moves in further and we’re hugging, his face in my shoulder/neck region.

His voice breaks and he mumbles quickly, ‘I can’t talk to anyone about it. I want to, like, discuss it with someone but . . . I just wish I could talk to a friend about it, but I can’t tell anyone.’

‘Wait, Max, slow down, slow down.’ I pull his head back gently. Tears are streaming down his cheeks. Max . . . he just isn’t the kind of person you expect to see crying. He’s not a self-pitying person, and you can tell that from knowing him only for a little while. He’s one of those try-hard, brave-faced, stoic people that you sort of have to love because they’re so sweet. So I know that crying means something super bad. I put my other arm around him and hug him. Our foreheads press together, and he looks up at me and I look into his lovely emerald eyes, and I kiss him.

‘Oh god,’ he murmurs. He pulls away. ‘Shit, Sylvie. You don’t want to do that.’

‘Shh,’ I soothe. I kiss his cheeks, kiss all the tears off his face. He hugs me tighter and breathes in, with his face tucked into the curls on my shoulder.

‘Max,’ I say. I take a deep breath and gather all my strength, like I’m turning into the rock Max can count on. If he needs someone to talk to, I won’t let him down. ‘Look at me. I cross my heart and hope to die, anything you tell me will never leave this room, and I promise that I will still like you and I will still want to be your girlfriend. If you want me to be.’

‘Well,’ he sits up, wiping away tears and trying to calm down. He smiles. ‘Sorry for crying.’ He holds my hands and strokes them. ‘I really do it’s just . . . just only promise to be my friend, OK? Just in case you don’t . . . want to be my girlfriend. And it’s OK if you don’t. I understand. So . . . just promise to be my friend.’

‘I can promise to be your girlfriend,’ I offer.

‘I don’t want you to. It’ll just make it awkward.’

‘OK.’ I nod solemnly. Inside I’m flipping out. What the fuck is he going to tell me? He killed someone? He’s a whore on the weekends? He does heroin? He has AIDS? Shit . . . I bet that’s it. He has AIDS. His parents are these crazy do-gooders and they took him to Africa when he was a baby and he has AIDS. Outside I stay calm. ‘I swear I will be your friend.’

There’s a long pause, and he bites his lip.

‘No one knows.’

I nod again.

He mumbles something that I don’t hear.

‘Huh?’ I say.

‘I’m, like, both,’ he mutters quietly.

There’s another silence. He swallows, looking into my eyes like he’s guilty of a massive crime, looking ashamed. He tries to mouth something.

‘Both what?’

He’s still quiet.

‘Bisexual?’ I whisper.

He shakes his head. ‘No. I’m . . . I was born . . . I’m not a boy or a girl. I’m in-between.’

‘
A
re you serious?’

She lets go of my hands and I literally feel my heart breaking.

‘So, you . . .’ She shakes her head and looks briefly, for a millisecond, at my crotch. ‘What do you have?’

I can feel my cheeks turn red. ‘Um . . .’

‘Never mind,’ Sylvie says, holding her hands up like she doesn’t want to know. ‘Forget I asked. That was . . . stupid.’

I open my mouth but there’s nothing I can say. She’s backing away on the bed, minutely, trying to find the words to tell me to go, and I realise what I’ve done. I’ve told her. She knows. There is a leak in the seal of my secret. Sylvie knows and she’s backing away, standing up, struggling to say anything at all and she’s going to talk to people. She’s going to talk to people at school about me and everyone will know. Everyone will know. Every day I’m there, everyone will know and look at me differently and talk about me.

Sylvie gets off the bed and wanders away a little in the room, her neck bowed, thinking earnestly.

‘Wait, listen.’ I stand up too, and come towards her. ‘Please,’ I plead with her. ‘No one knows apart from my family and my doctors. Even my brother doesn’t know, so . . . please don’t tell anyone.’

Her eyes search the floor, then look up to me.

‘Sylvie, please, I’m begging you.’
I am horrified
, I think.
I am an idiot
. ‘It was such a stupid idea to say anything. I’m sorry. I’ll go.’

‘No, it’s . . .’ She falters, looking like she’s having trouble speaking between breaths.

‘It’s OK, I understand,’ I say, picking up my bag.

‘Max,’ she says, and catches my arm. ‘No, just . . . wait a minute.’

So I do. I stand there, one hand on my bag, watching her face as she stands on the spot and just breathes in and out, concentrating.

After what seems like forever, she turns and looks me in the eye. ‘This is huge, OK? I can’t just . . .’

Thoughts wander across her face. I try to put myself in her shoes and guess what she is thinking.
Does this make me a lesbian? What’s in Max’s pants? How can I get him out my house?

At this point I just want to be rejected, as fast as possible.
Cut me off, Sylvie, do it, because I can’t stand it
. Even standing here, trying to say something, looking me up and down, making me feel queasy, she is stunningly beautiful. Her eyes are so intense and so thoughtful. Full of thoughts about me.

‘Please don’t tell anyone,’ I murmur.

She looks at me like I’m insane. ‘I’m not going to.’

‘Thanks,’ I whisper.

‘So . . . um . . . how?’

‘Normal people have XY or XX chromosomes. I have XX and XY.’

‘Yeah but, like . . .’ She trails off again. I can’t tell if she looks grossed out or just incredibly confused. ‘How does that happen?’

‘Um . . . I don’t know. Nobody knows.’

‘Do you have, like, a . . .’ She pauses. ‘Penis?’ She puts a hand to her mouth to cover a grin. ‘Sorry. I can’t say “penis” without wanting to laugh.’

‘Oh my god . . .’ I exclaim, wondering what she’s thinking, if we’re now in friend-zone, making jokes about penises, or whether . . . she still likes me. ‘You’re so inappropriate,’ I say.

‘I know,’ she agrees. ‘Penis.’ She laughs a bit too hysterically.

‘You think it’s . . . funny?’ I say, feeling my throat tighten with nervousness.
Please please please
, I beg the universe, not knowing quite what I’m asking for.
Please please please
.

Sylvie shrugs. I don’t know what that means.

I shrug back and look down at my feet, still holding my schoolbag.

‘Yeah, I have one.’

I glance quickly at her through my hair. Her reaction is a swallow, followed by a nod. ‘Okaaay,’ she says. ‘Do you have, like, other stuff?’ She wrinkles her nose and looks down at her own feet.

‘Like what?’ I say, playing dumb.

‘Like a . . .’ She makes a ‘V’ sign with her fingers.

I hesitate. It’s fine to have a penis. But this is kind of the deal breaker. ‘Yeah,’ I murmur softly. ‘But it’s . . . smaller.’

‘Oh my god,’ she utters, and sits back down on the bed.

Neither of us speaks for a while and I slowly sit down on the bed too. She leans into my shoulder and whispers, ‘Max.’

I turn to look at her, and then, in tentative staccato movements, she puts her arms around me, pulls me to her, then leans back and pulls me further onto the bed, so we’re lying down lengthways, and she’s cuddling my head into her neck.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ she whispers.

‘You don’t have to say anything,’ I whisper back. We lie there for a while.

‘So . . . are you more girl than boy?’

‘Um,’ I turn to her and frown. ‘Why are you covering your mouth?’

‘Breath.’

‘You don’t have bad breath.’

‘I might,’ she mumbles from behind her hand. ‘I ate a burger.’

‘I’m half and half and you’re worrying about your breath?’ I try to joke.

She nudges me with her knee and smiles weakly.

I half-heartedly smile back. ‘I’m pretty much half of each. I can’t . . . have children in the guy way, though. I’m infertile.’

She thinks. ‘That’s sad.’

‘Yeah.’

Sylvie frowns. ‘Do you have balls?’

‘Ew,’ I whisper, without thinking. ‘Um, I mean, no.’

‘To be honest,’ Sylvie says after a bit, ‘you’re not missing anything. They’re the most ugly part of a guy’s anatomy.’

‘Really?’ I am mildly fascinated. ‘You’ve seen them?’

‘I’ve had lots of sex,’ she whispers. ‘Lots and lots.’

‘Sylvie . . .’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘You’re such a slut.’

She grins a little but doesn’t look at me. Then she asks, ‘Is that why you haven’t done anything with girls? Other than kissing, I mean.’

I look off to the side and open my mouth, but I don’t answer.

‘You know everyone calls you a clit tease.’

I smile, kind of sadly. ‘I’ve heard.’

More silence.

She strokes my hair but she doesn’t press her body to mine like she usually does. I think,
Sylvie will never kiss me again. She will never grab my arse again
, and I study her face and her ringlets and I hold back tears.

I thought I knew you well
Fucking hell

is what I am thinking as I stroke Max’s blondie-bear hair.

My brain is on overdrive, trying to make my face look comforting while having a crazed monologue firing questions off inside my head.

How is this even possible? He always looked totally boyish before, but now I’m looking him over and thinking ‘this is a girl’ and trying it on for size, and I’m noticing, yes, there are some major similarities between being seductive in a pretty-boy way and in a girl way. I knew the guys I had dated before were more . . .
guy
-ish, but I thought that was because they were in uni and older and more mature. Max has no facial hair at all. Didn’t I think that was weird? Why didn’t I? What does this say about me?

Well, I just thought that blond people don’t have much excess hair, and he was younger than all my other boyfriends. I just thought he was sexy, super sexy, and I didn’t stop to think, like I am now, that if you brushed his hair over to one side, and those amazing green eyes with their bambi-long lashes, and those pouty lips, and that big, sweet smile, and the soft, soft skin, and the kind of thin-ish neck, and the not massive chest, and the delicate, long fingers and cute, round arse . . .

‘What are you doing with my hair?’ he asks, kind of defensively.

‘Nothing,’ I say immediately.

I have to acclimatise to this. I feel like I need an hour or two just to walk alone and have my thoughts, but how do I have my little moment of shock without him here, without making him feel like I don’t want him here?

In a way, I feel like I can’t believe it until I’ve seen it. You know what I mean. Because it’s so strange, beyond the sphere of my experience, that in a way I can’t believe anything has changed between Max and me. Has anything really changed? Perhaps it hasn’t.