Alex as Well (10 page)

AT HOME I lie on the couch and watch TV.

This afternoon doesn’t matter, does it? As long as I catch my normal train, I may never see Trevor ever again. Everybody at my old school will now think that I’m a faggot, but they already did, so what’s the diff? Right? So why does it make me feel like shit? Why does it make me feel so jittery? Why do I feel like hunkering down?

My mother comes and sits at the end. She lifts up my legs and puts them on her lap. She rubs the bottom of my feet.

‘Someone called Crockett rang for you today,’ she tells me.

I don’t want her to touch me. She has creepy fingers. They trace over my skin like spiders. I resist the urge to shake her off. She’s so needy. She’s like a dog that wants to be patted all the time. I draw my knees up to my chin. She rests her hand on my calf.

Get off! Get off! Get off!

‘What’s up?’

‘I’m just tired.’

‘Anything I can do?’

Ask her, Alex urges. Ask her now.

‘About Crockett,’ I begin. ‘He’s a solicitor. I went to see him because…’

She freezes. She’s stopped breathing.

‘I need a birth certificate,’ I say.

Her mouth draws back from her teeth as if she’s tasting something bad.

‘That says I am a girl,’ I finish.

Her hands curl into fists. ‘You’re just not going to let it go, are you?’

I put my arms around my knees and stare at the television. You know what she could do at a time like this? Take a deep breath. Chill out.

‘No, Mum, I’m not going to let it go. This is who I am. Why are you so fixed on me being something else?’

‘And you’ve always felt this way?’ she asks me. The tears are welling up in her eyes. Her hand shakes slightly in front of her mouth. A tremor. It’s weird, as though she’s stifling a yawn. But maybe she is really asking me to tell her how I am feeling. Maybe just for a moment it could not be about her.

I cover my face with my hands. ‘Sometimes I don’t know what I am. But what I would like to be on the outside—what I want other people to see—is a girl. I’d
rather be a strong-looking girl than a, kind of, girlielooking boy.’

Now she’s crying. ‘Do they pick on you? For being smaller? Or more feminine? Is that why you left your old school?’

I sit up. ‘Of course they did! I’m a freak, Mum.’

‘Don’t you dare say that! Miss Sunshine,’ she hisses.

That’s new, Alex notes.

‘You’re not a freak. You’re different. Special.’

Alex pulls a face. ‘Schpeshaw.’

She lurches forward. ‘Don’t you dare!’ I think for a moment she’s going to hit me, but she doesn’t. A tear spills down her cheek.

‘We should have just asked you. We should have waited and asked you.’ She shakes her head. ‘It seems so simple now. I am a bad mother. I am a terrible mother. Why didn’t we just ASK you?’ Her voice is getting higher and screechier. She wipes her face with her sleeve. ‘Why didn’t anyone tell us this would happen? Nobody told us. No one said this was an option. We spent all this time trying to guess.’

What the hell is she talking about? Alex asks.

I don’t even know. I get off the couch and head up the stairs.

‘Why do you
always
walk away from me? It’s torture!’ she wails. ‘Alex? We’re talking about something here. Alex! It
hurts
me!’

I turn around and march back down the stairs. I grab
my mother’s hand and I lead her into the little nook where her computer is. I find the page I am looking for on YouTube and I click play. Then I go back up the stairs, because I don’t want to watch it again. Two seconds later I can hear her screaming and crying. She sounds like she’s having an asthma attack.

She runs up the stairs and she hammers on my door so hard it makes the books rattle right off the shelf.

You know the dying of embarrassment thing, which happened at my old school, that I was talking about before? Well, I totally understand why people take huge drugs. Like heroin, or cocaine. I can understand why you would want to be literally out of your own head, because being inside your own head is unbearable. In fact, the reason I haven’t taken drugs like that is because I know that it would be so good to be out of my head that I wouldn’t be able to stop.

Besides, I don’t know where you go to buy them.

I put my headphones on and practise my very fast clapping. I’m totally in the zone.

I TURN UP at Crockett’s at nine. He is burrowed so deep into his paperwork that I wonder if he slept in it.

‘Hey, Alex. Nice to see you,’ he says, emerging from over the top. ‘Just, um, help yourself.’ He waves his pen towards some drop sheets in the corner. Then he frowns and looks at his paperwork again.

There are a few paint cans, a roller and a brush in a tray. A ladder leans against the wall. I start by moving piles of things into the middle of the room, and then I put the sheets over the top.

I have pulled my hair up into a ponytail. The extensions are so heavy, they’ve given me a massive headache. I had no idea being a girl would be painful.

We don’t say anything at all. Every now and then I can hear him scratching away with his pen on a piece of paper—the flourish of his signature. Sometimes he taps on his computer keyboard. Or he grunts, but I don’t
think he’s aware of it.

Once the sheets are spread, I open up the can of paint. It’s orange. Not a Moroccan burnt ochre, but bright orange, like a traffic cone.

I look up. Crockett stares back at me, munching on the end of his pen.

‘You said it had to be brighter,’ he notes.

‘I did not! I only said it had to be different.’

‘That’s not different?’ he asks.

‘Yeah, I guess,’ I say.

‘So? Pull your finger out.’

I look back down at the paint. The man has zero taste. ‘It will dry darker, you know.’

‘Darker schmarker,’ he says, diving into the next manila folder.

I pick up the paint tin and the brush and start cutting in the corners. It’s soothing, the thud, thud sound the bristles make against the plasterboard. I like the syrupy weight of the paint on the brush. I’m really careful along the cornice. Taking my time. Doing a good job.

Crockett turns on the radio.

(It ain’t about the money, money, money.)

Crockett shows me how to wrap up the paintbrush in a plastic bag so it doesn’t dry out, and then I start with the roller. After three walls it’s making my arms sore, but I push through it.

At lunchtime Crockett goes out to get us Subway. He doesn’t turn the computer off, or lock anything up.
He grabs money out of his wallet and walks out.

I look out the door and see him scooting up the street with his hands in his trouser pockets.

I take the opportunity to do the section behind his chair while he’s not there, then I go for a stickybeak.

Down the hall there is another office. The sign on the door says
Carsell.
It’s locked. At the end of the hall there is a door that goes to a tiny concrete courtyard at the back of the building. There is a parking space and a wonky metal gate that opens onto a laneway.

There is a bathroom, with a toilet and washbasin, and to the side of that, there’s a narrow stairway heading to the apartment above the office. My feet clang as I jump up the metal stairs. At the top I peek through the window, but I can’t see much. I make a circle in the grime with my sleeve. There are some archive boxes stacked on a grey office desk, and an armchair with a broken back. There’s another ladder leaning against the wall. It doesn’t look as though anyone lives there.

When Crockett comes back we sit in the armchairs in reception to eat, to avoid the paint fumes.

‘Tell me about your daughter,’ I ask him between mouthfuls.

‘Grown up now. Natalie. She’s overseas. She works for a tour company, as a guide. She’s coming home soon, she says. That’s why I had to fix the blinds.’ He points at the ceiling.

‘So you just live with your wife then?’

‘Mm,’ he replies.

We eat in silence for a while.

After a long pause Crockett says, ‘My wife had cancer.’

‘Oh shit, I’m sorry.’

‘She got better,’ he adds, quickly. ‘But she…Sally, her name is, decided she wanted to live with someone who was home a bit more, so she moved in with her sister up the coast.’

I take a slurp of my soft drink.

‘That was four years ago. We still get together at Christmas time. All of us. The kids come back. I have a son too. He’s married now. But…’ Crockett wipes the crumbs from his face with the back of his hand. He looks hunted.

‘But what?’

‘Oh,’ he laughs. ‘It’s been made very clear to me that I’m the bastard.’

‘Are you?’

‘A bastard?’ He rolls his sandwich paper up. ‘Maybe.’ He rubs his eye sockets with the heels of his hands. ‘Maybe I am.’

I want to ask him why he thinks he might be a bastard. I want to know what led up to that, but I don’t want to pry. Mind you, he’s seen a drawing of my noodle, if we’re talking about being intimate.

‘Carsell doesn’t work weekends?’ I ask.

Crockett uses his straw to stab at the ice in his cup. ‘Carsell is Sally’s name. I haven’t changed the business
name because it would mean reregistering, and changing the signage, and getting Sally to sign papers that she doesn’t want to sign.’

He scratches his head and sighs.

It’s a bit awkward. I try to think of something to talk about that’s a little less personal.

‘Who lives upstairs?’ I ask.

‘Nobody at the moment. It’s empty most of the time, until Natalie comes home. I have been meaning to clean it out and offer it for rent. It seems a waste. It’s quite big, really. Three bedrooms. She doesn’t need all that space. She could always stay with me when she comes back. But I’ve been putting it off, because I know I’ll end up with ratbags up there.’

‘You could rent it to me,’ I say, grinning.

‘How would you pay for it?’ He asks, frowning.

I shrug. ‘I can do modelling work. That pays really well. Natalie could still stay. We could be roomies.’

I’m just shooting the breeze with Crockett, but I can also imagine it, you know. Natalie could be really fun. When she goes back overseas, Alex and I would be on our own most of the time, but Crockett would be here during the day and on weekends—a kind of uncle looking out for us.

But now he’s looking a bit sour and put upon, and I feel bad because I’ve already asked him to do this legal work for free.

‘I’m joking, but I do want to get out as soon as I can.
My mother is like—’ I shake my head. ‘I hate living there. She’s constantly offended. It’s as if when I speak she is listening out for things to get angry about.’

He nods. ‘Sally was like that. When she got cancer we did the big around-the-world trip to see all the things she wanted to see before she died. We got it cheaper through the company Natalie works for, but still, it was our life’s savings. And then when she got better she wanted to continue living that way, and I said, “But you’re not dying anymore,” and she said that I was being insensitive, because she was still dying, just more slowly. And then she would accuse me of trying to use this business that we grew together to make a honeypot for a new Mrs Crockett. To which I would respond that I didn’t want to work until I was one hundred and seven, and then she would say at least I had the luxury of making long-term plans. Had I forgotten that she had cancer? And so on and so forth. We had that argument once a fortnight for about a year, and then she left.’

‘Is that why you are a bastard?’ I ask.

He picks Subway from his teeth. ‘I guess so.’

We walk back into his office and it looks good. It’s not a colour I would pick, but it works in a strange way. I can’t tell from his expression if he likes it or not.

I don’t know that Crockett does ‘like’ or ‘dislike’— things just are.

It’s getting late now. Almost four. It’s taken me most of the day.

‘You can come back next week and do a second coat if you like,’ he says.

‘I’ll just clean up,’ I say.

As I’m washing out the brushes in the concrete bathroom at the back of the building, I wonder if Crockett would ever consider taking me in as a foster kid. He only needs to house me for a few years. I don’t even need him to do anything. He could just say,
nice to see you
, exactly the way he did this morning—casual, familiar, warm and non-judgmental—and I would be totally happy.

I LEAVE FOR school early. The playground is empty again when I arrive, and it’s all grey. Grey concrete, grey besser blocks, grey sky, except for Sierra sitting on a bench, in her red-and-green tunic, like a Christmas ornament.

She’s reading. She sits up straighter when she sees me.

‘We should stop meeting like this,’ I say, grinning.

‘What do you mean?’ she asks, her face flushing.

‘Nothing.’

‘I love your hair,’ she says. ‘It looks awesome.’

She would totally let us do stuff to her, Alex says.

We don’t want to do stuff to Sierra.

Aren’t you even a little bit curious about what she looks like under that?

No. I’m not at all curious.

Sierra takes a breath and holds it for a moment. She slips the book into her bag. She was going to say something.

‘What?’

‘I forgive you.’ She exhales.

‘You forgive me?’ Alex laughs. ‘Oh good!’

Sierra frowns. ‘I forgive you for what you did the other morning.’

‘What did I do the other morning?’

‘When you licked me.’

‘When I licked you?’

‘Yes.’

We stare at each other. Alex is smiling. He takes a step forward. ‘Would you forgive me if I licked you again?’

Stop it, Alex!

What? Sierra is totally digging it.

There is something wrong with you. You don’t even like her.

Alex takes another step towards her. This is what boys do. We try to get girls to show us their bits.

Yes, but just any girl?

Just any girl. They’re all the same bits, but slightly different. That’s what’s so fascinating. I reckon we could get her to…

Shut up.

Sierra looks out across the playground. ‘My mother says to remind you that you’re still not enrolled properly.’

‘Oh yeah, that’s right.’

‘What school did you go to before?’

I scuff my foot on the concrete. My mind’s a blank. I decide to distract her instead.

‘I’m sorry I licked you, Sierra. It won’t happen again.’

Look at her, she’s disappointed.

‘Unless,’ Alex blurts before I can stop him.

‘Unless what?’ she asks.

‘Do you want me to lick you again?’ I am genuinely interested in where he might be going with this. ‘Because last week I was—what was the word you used? Icky? No, you said I was a bit gross.’

‘You’re not gross,’ she says.

‘Why thank you, that’s really sweet.’

Sierra folds her arms. ‘I don’t like girls.’

‘Good!’ I say.

Then I walk off. I don’t even know where I’m going, but Sierra is watching me. She totally digs us.

Later, in maths, Amina passes me a note from Sierra.

I liked it.

‘What did she like?’ Amina asks.

Sierra puts her index finger to her lips.

‘I licked her,’ Alex confesses, grinning.

‘You what?’ Amina is looking at me with her beautiful brown eyes. She’s looking bored. ‘I don’t understand what that is.’

Sierra giggles into her hand, embarrassed.

Amina shrugs and returns to her algebra.

Sierra raises her eyebrow at me. It’s an in-joke, but it’s with the wrong girl. And it feels yuck. It feels nasty.