Golden Boy (38 page)

I look back at him and bite my bottom lip with all my teeth.

‘Ow.’

‘Huh?’

‘Nothing,’ I murmur.

Max blinks at me. There are tears in his eyelashes. He’s so beautiful. He’s still Max. Isn’t he?

There must be other people who are like Max, and for each one of them, a person like me who lies beside them and goes through the thoughts I’m thinking. I bet there have been tons, in the history of the world. Hermaphrodite is a Ancient Greek word, isn’t it? So they had to have been around then. I bet tons of people go through this and come out the other side. Tons and tons. Or maybe just the one ton.

‘Is it pretty common?’ I ask Max.

He falters. ‘Um, I have no idea.’

‘You wanna Google it?’ I say. ‘We could find out.’

‘I have done. It’s, like . . .’ He sighs, looking really tired and like he kind of wants to leave. ‘It’s confusing. Some of the stuff about intersex conditions on the internet is just . . . totally wrong.’

‘Is that what it’s called? “Intersex”?’

‘Yeah. People used to say “hermaphrodite”.’ He mumbles the last word as if he doesn’t want me to hear and be weirded out.

‘Why don’t we Google “intersex” and “how common”?’ I suggest. We are both kind of silent, just lying there, waiting, I guess, for me to come to a judgement. It feels like something to do, to move on in my head beyond shock. To make Max feel like I’m still here with him, trying to understand.

He looks at me unhappily and plays with my hair. His eyes linger on mine, then trail down to my lips. ‘OK,’ he says softly.

I search around on the floor next to my bed and find my laptop. It’s a white MacBook, covered in stickers. I sit up on the bed and Max leans up on his elbow, flicking his hair out of his eyes, hugged by my left arm. I type into the search box on the safari browser and click on the first link that comes up.

‘ “To answer this question in an uncontroversial way”,’ I read, ‘ “you would first have to get everyone to agree on what counts as intersex – and also to agree on what should count as strictly male or strictly female. That’s hard to do. How small does a penis have to be before it counts as intersex?” ’

‘Not that small,’ interjects Max. I look down and he’s grinning shyly, not looking at me, so I nudge him playfully, tenderly, and read on.

‘ “Do you count sex chromosome anomalies as intersex if there’s no apparent external sexual ambiguity? (Alice Dreger explores this question in greater depth in her book,
Hermaphrodites and the Medical Invention of Sex
).” I bet that would be an interesting book to read. I mean, why do we have two sexes if we aren’t actually all part of the two sexes?’

Max leans back on the bed, as if he doesn’t want to listen, or like he’s tired of hearing about this. ‘Right,’ he says.

‘Wait, here are some statistics.’

He sits up and we stare at the screen together.

‘Whoa, there are a lot of complicated words here,’ I mutter. ‘Which ones do you have?’

‘Hang on,’ he says, reading, frowning at the screen.

‘I guess you’d maybe be under this category?’ I say, pointing to ‘Not XX and not XY’.

‘I guess so. Wow. One in one thousand, six hundred and sixty-six births. That’s a lot.’

‘Yeah, it is,’ I murmur. ‘So, if the population of Britain is . . .’ I Google it. ‘About sixty-two million, that, divided by one thousand, six hundred and sixty-six is . . . Wow. Thirty-seven thousand, two hundred and fifteen. That’s loads!’

‘Yeah. Though, I had an ovotestis when I was born, and it says here that’s one in eighty-three thousand.’

‘That’s still, like, seven hundred and fifty people in the UK who have it. That must be loads in the world.’ I say. ‘Wait, what’s “ovotestis”?’

‘Um . . . where you have tissue of both an ovary and a testes in the same gonad. But they take one out in an operation,’ he says quickly. ‘So now I just have one ovary.’

‘Oh. Wow.’

‘Check this out, though.’ He reads, ‘ “One in one hundred people differ from standard male and female.” ’ He thinks about this and looks pleased. ‘That’s so many.’

‘You didn’t know any of this?’

‘I had no idea.’

‘How do you not know?’

‘My parents never told me much. We don’t talk about it.’

I nod. ‘Oh my gosh. One in a thousand people – not intersex people, just regular people – have surgery to correct stuff. Did you have surgery? I mean, besides removing the ovotestis?’

‘Er, no.’ Max gulps. ‘This is insane. I can’t believe there are so many intersex people. I thought no one was.’

‘Well,’ I say, watching Max, open-mouthed, moisture on his lips, staring at the screen. ‘I guess you were wrong.’

He looks at me. Our faces are so close together. He swallows.

‘Why have you never talked about this with anyone?’ I say.

‘Because . . .’ He blinks. ‘It’s gross.’

‘Max, you are not gross.’

‘Well, it’s . . .’ His eyes flit to the screen. ‘Improbable.’

I watch him. Max Walker: golden boy, smart, sexy, funny, sweet, smiley, supportive, cool, popular, kind, fun, great boyfriend, great kisser, secret strange person. An intrinsic weirdo, and you wouldn’t even know it.

‘Max,’ I whisper. He looks at me, once at my lips, then into my eyes. ‘
You
are improbable.’

He smiles warmly, gratefully, relieved. The corner of his mouth rises first, showing a little of his teeth, widening his grin. His eyes are lit up by the low winter sun coming in the window, and I am just, just, just . . . falling.

‘Sylvie,’ he says, ‘you are probably more improbable than I am.’

I lean forward, and he leans forward, and we kiss
extremely
slowly and sexily.

‘You know,’ I whisper, ‘you’re not a freak. And no girl who was really cool would think you were.’

Max looks down and presses his lips together. ‘Um, maybe they would if . . .’

I put my arm around his shoulders and pull his head towards mine and he closes his eyes and stops talking.

He puts his arms around me and we twist so we’re both lying facing each other, propped up on our elbows. He pulls me to him and gives me the kind of amazing, scintillating, ridiculous, insane, wicked, cool, awesome kiss. I roll on top of him and slip my hand between his legs. I can’t help it.

Max’s forehead crinkles, and he reaches for my wrist and holds it. ‘I’m not ready yet.’

‘Max,’ I murmur, and kiss him again. He moans and lets me touch him for a minute. I feel him getting hard beneath his trousers. Then I reach for his belt and undo it. I feel for the waistband of his boxers and I am just hooking my fingers beneath it when he backs away suddenly, grabbing for his belt. He scoots up the bed, away from me.

‘I’m not ready,’ he says quickly.

I think for a few seconds, then nod. ‘I’d like to, though. Not now, but, you know, someday.’

‘Maybe, I guess.’ Max chews his lip. ‘Sylvie . . . can I tell you something else?’

‘Of course,’ I say. I feel calm now. I feel OK.

He buckles his belt.

‘Truthfully, I’ve always been OK about being intersex. I know that’s weird, but that’s just the way . . . I mean . . . Fuck. Look, I never wanted people to know and sometimes I’ve worried I’ll end up alone, but I never felt ashamed about it.’

Max starts to shake and I frown and reach out for him, putting my hand on his knee. His teeth chatter a little and he has this funny reaction that’s making everything shake, like shock after an accident.

‘Until September, because . . .’ His eyes start to fill up with tears and he wipes them away angrily. ‘Fuck. Sorry.’

‘What happened in September?’

‘Someone . . .’ He gathers himself and says quietly, ‘Someone made me have sex with him.’

I am silent. It takes a minute for information like this to go in. You expect people to be joking. Sometimes people are not joking.

‘He was, like . . . bigger than me. I don’t know. He threatened me, kind of. I was in shock. I couldn’t do anything.’

We sit in silence for a minute and I stroke his wrists without thinking about it. This is so surreal. I look up at Max, and he is watching me, clearly worried.

Then I remember what he said about the way his anatomy is.

‘How small are you?’

‘Um,’ he says, and I see this,
What does she mean?
thought flash across his face right before I see the,
Ohhhh, that’s what she means
, right before I see,
How embarrassing
flash up there. ‘I’m pretty small.’ He winces and holds up his little finger. ‘Like, about that wide.’

‘Jesus. So this guy . . . Were you hurt? What happened?’

‘I bled quite a lot. I went to the doctor. She gave me a stitch.’

‘Oh my god!’ I start to cry, watching the tears in the corner of Max’s eyes, my body getting over the initial shock. ‘No! Oh my god! Max!’ He looks so innocent and unassuming, and he shrugs, and the only thing I see is that he’s worried about what I’m thinking, so I throw my arms around him and hug him. ‘I can’t believe someone did that to you! That’s so horrible!’ I cry. ‘You’re such a sweetheart.’

‘Thanks, Sylvie,’ I hear him mumble into my shoulder. ‘I didn’t know if I was overreacting.’

‘What?’ I turn to face his neck, pressed against him with my arms still wrapped around him.

‘Only the doctor knows and she didn’t react that much. I didn’t know . . . I mean, I guess she believes me but I wondered if . . . if it happened to a lot of intersex people or something. You know . . . because people are curious.’

‘It’s fucking horrible,’ I say, and I hug him closer. ‘It’s fucking horrible.’ I pull back and look at his face.

‘Sylvie,’ he whispers.

‘What?’

He looks up, opens his mouth, shakes his head and smiles, but he looks really sad. ‘Nothing.’

‘What is it? Tell me.’ I slip my hand around his back and down, so my fingers are touching his bum, and my lips are almost brushing his. My sobs suck in and out a little too quickly, my breath a bit too staccato, but I’m not thinking about me. I’m thinking about Max. He looks at my lips, then up to my eyes, and he’s never looked so sexy and sweet.

But then his lips part, he looks down, he looks up again, and says, ‘Not today. But maybe tomorrow.’

‘No, Max, come on, it’s me!’ I hold his face. ‘Tell me.’

He looks down. He swallows.

‘I bought the pregnancy test for me. The guy . . . he didn’t wear . . .’

‘Oh . . .’ I say. ‘You’re pregnant.’

Max looks up. ‘Thanks for letting me tell you.’

I gasp, finding it hard to breathe. I take in a breath but it’s sharp and short and not enough oxygen. Uh oh. Jesus. Fuck. ‘I can’t . . .’

‘What?’

‘I can’t . . .’

‘Sylvie, are you . . .? Is it OK?’

‘No. I’m sorry, Max.’ I stand up, my hands out in front of me. I turn around and search for the brown paper bag I keep around my dresser. ‘I really can’t . . .’

‘I’m sorry,’ he pleads.

But I shake my head, totally overwhelmed, about to have a serious panic attack.
I want my mum
, I think.
I’m going to cry and not breathe and pass out. I can’t breathe!

The boy I love is a broken idea. This is too much. It’s too much. He touches me. I back away, push him off, panting heavily.

‘I’m sorry,’ he begs me, the light hitting his hair and eyes, lighting him up like a proverbial, sexless angel.

I look at him and have this thought: ‘You’re going to get rid of it, aren’t you? Max?’

His cheeks turn a deep red. ‘Yeah.’

‘Oh thank god,’ I gasp. ‘I just can’t . . .’

I kneel on the floor and he stands over me, not knowing what to do.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks. ‘Sylvie?’

He kneels beside me and puts an arm around my shoulder.

‘Oh Max.’ Quietly, I murmur: ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I get these panic attacks. I get scared I’ll lose things. I’m just glad you’re not . . . that you’re not . . . I just want things back to normal.’ I cough into the paper bag, my heavy breathing slowing ever so slightly.

He stands up.

‘Normal?’ I hear him say.

I look up. To my surprise, he looks furious.

‘If there’s one thing I’ll never be, Sylvie,’ he says darkly. ‘It’s normal.’

‘Wait, Max, I didn’t mean—’ I gasp, breathing into my bag. ‘You have to believe me, I’m OK with the whole intersex thing, it’s just the—’

‘Forget it.’ He cuts me off, almost growling the words. ‘It was stupid of me to think you’d get it.’ He heads for my door, then turns back, seeming panicky, his face red and miserable. ‘I thought you were different.’

‘I am different!’

‘No you’re not, you’re just like everybody else. You think I’m a freak,’ he says, almost cruelly. ‘You think I’m disgusting. Well, I hope you like being alone on your high horse.’

‘Don’t say that to me,’ I gasp angrily. ‘You come in here telling me all this shit, Max, it’s too much! I’m not perfect! I can’t react like a perfect fucking angel to what you’re saying! It’s overwhelming! It’s too much!’

‘You think it’s too much for you? How about
me
? You think I like dealing with this, asking myself these awful fucking questions all the time, having to make choices that
no one
else has to make, having
no one
to talk to? Fuck you!’

‘Stop shouting at me in my room!’ I feel dizzy and sick, like I’m about to pass out. ‘You have to go!’

Max looks like he’s about to cry. ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ he says miserably.

‘You have to go!’ I moan, feeling my chest crushing me. I start bag-breathing again.

Max flies out the door. I hear the sound of his footsteps down the stairs, followed by the slamming of the door.

This is too fucking much for me.