Golden Boy (36 page)

Then there’s the biggest thing: Sylvie. I like her so much it hurts when I think about her finding out. Sylvie, Sylvie, Sylvie. Oh my god, I can just imagine her face, her backing away from me, her looking disgusted, her reaching down and grasping and feeling stuff that’s not supposed to be there. I really, really don’t want to lose her. But it feels inevitable. It is inevitable.
I just want to hold onto her for a little bit longer
, I plead to the universe.
Please, just a little bit longer
.

She won’t even want to kiss me anymore, because she’ll be worried I’ll want it to go further, and if I explain that I don’t want that then she’ll leave me anyway because she’s already had sex and she’ll want it.

Me: ‘Don’t worry, I don’t want to go further than kissing because it’s a mess down there. Also, I’m pregnant.’

Her: ‘Errr . . . I’m not sure I feel like kissing right now, but thank you’, or ‘THAT’S SO FUCKING GROSS GET AWAY FROM ME!’

Oh my
god
, I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about it at all. Breathe. Breathe. Try and ignore that there’s now a slight bulge beneath stomach muscles I used to be proud of. Try not to look at it. Don’t touch it. Try not to think that there is a tiny baby in there. It’s just a problem, and it’ll be gone in a few days. As problems go, this is a fairly simply concluded one.

You’re lucky. It’s easy. You’ll go to sleep, then you’ll wake up and the next day life will be awesome again. Life will be awesome and you can make out with Sylvie without feeling guilty because she’s unaware that she’s making out with something gross (OK, still a he/she but not knocked up and maybe, if I can stomach it, just a he. Kind of.), you can blast through the league and make the top spot with the team, you can finish up your GCSEs and have an awesome summer, then start on your A Levels. Maybe they will find a way to get you laid, sew up the hole, put fake balls in (something inside me shudders every time I think about this. Never having seen bollocks in real life, I think of them as gross. I didn’t look when Hunter had his out, but I felt them slapping me, and it freaked me out. Rank, gross, sick.), and though my dick is fairly small, the doctor once said it’s not far below average. I remember on the way home from that appointment – I was about thirteen – Mum told me in the car that Dad is really well-hung, so this saved me. Again, how sick is my life that people feel the need to tell me these things/show me stuff/compare etc. It’s like, ‘Oh, you have odd genitalia. Clearly I can now talk to you about anything and you won’t think it’s that gross, because being you is an all-out sickfest anyway.’ Or maybe for women it’s also like, ‘Oh, you’re sort of a girl, I can tell you this’. And for the few guys that know it’s like, ‘I can tell you stuff that makes me feel vulnerable because you’re way more of a girl than I will ever be’. Which I guess is technically true.

I can’t believe what Mum said about Dad the other day. I always thought he was uncomfortable with me. We don’t spend a lot of time together. I guess he doesn’t spend a lot of time with Mum or Daniel either. He’s so busy all the time, and he often seems distant. When I ask him his opinion about things, he just asks me how I feel, or what I think. The problem is I don’t know how to feel or what to think about this.

In fact, Dad has never talked to me about being intersex, not even now I’m pregnant, not without Mum there too. I’ve always thought I’m not the boy that he wanted from a firstborn. It’s a bit easier for him because I do like football, girls, etc., but I’ve always thought he seemed like . . . he can’t forget that I’m a bit of both physically. I’ve always had that thought, but I’ve just ignored it.

He gets into our conversations when we’re talking about how fit Jennifer Aniston is and we’re laughing and stuff, and then you’ll just see this thought pass across his irises and a twinge follows in his face and he starts off on ‘but if you like other people, maybe even not women’ – only he doesn’t say that. He never just comes out and says what he’s thinking, so I don’t know what he’s thinking. And I watch him and I think what I’m seeing is his heart breaking because I’m not his little guy. I’ll never be his boy.

Then they’ve got Daniel, and he’s into killing things, which is very boyish, but he also loves teddy bears and finds Dad annoying.

I don’t think either Mum or Dad would understand why I’d be hesistant about having the abortion, why I feel so torn up about it. They wouldn’t get it. How could they? They could have kids anytime. They never had to worry about finding someone to love them as they were. For them, it was as simple as falling in love and shagging. I don’t like to think about it or verbalise it, but I’m not going to be able to offer that to people, and at some point, after Sylvie has left me, the number of available girls I can hang out with is going to dwindle, as they all fall in love and shag people. Soon they’ll all be taken, partnered up, having babies.

I’m going to be alone, and older, and the choices and options are going to get fewer and fewer. So, I’m lying here, unable to stop the tears from coming, and I’m wondering –
Is this it? Is this my only chance?
And this bit I can’t believe I’m thinking about because I’m sixteen, I was basically forced into it, Hunter would know it was his baby, I would get kicked off the team, no friends, no more girl prospects ever, and fuck, think of the fucking media and Dad . . . but . . . is this my only chance to have a child? Do I care? Because I think I might. I think I might care about that.

‘
H
ey, Max!’

He keeps walking. It’s the end of school on Thursday. I’m following him through crowds of people waiting for the buses.

‘Hey! Hey, Walker!’

A bunch of boys near him laugh at me.

Max turns around and flips them off.

‘Hey, were you ignoring me?’ I ask.

‘No, sorry,’ he says. ‘I was just thinking. I didn’t hear you.’

One of the boys says something and they laugh again. He looks over at them and I shrug.

‘Do you think I care what you think?’ I yell to them.

Everyone has been talking about who Max has knocked up, why, how. Half of them think it’s me. They keep coming up to me and slyly asking me things.

Max grins at my angry face as I too flip off the boys.

‘What?’ I say.

‘Nothing,’ he says softly. ‘Kook.’

I study him for a second. ‘Hey, green eyes. Something’s wrong.’ He opens his mouth to protest, but I shake my head. ‘No, no, no. No lies. Come home with Sylvie. You don’t have to talk. We can just cuddle and such things.’

Max looks around kind of blankly, then hangs his head like he’s tired, and nods, looking lost. Then I notice something on his cheek and I make him tilt his head up. His eyes are full of tears.

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbles. ‘I really like you.’

I let go of his head. ‘What do you mean you’re sorry?’

‘I just . . .’ he wipes his face subtly and whispers: ‘I don’t think you should be going out with me. You’re so awesome and . . .’ He trails off and shrugs.

‘And?’

‘I’m just . . .’ He mumbles something.

‘Huh? You’re scaring me, Max. What is it?’

‘I’m going through some stuff.’

I wrinkle up my nose and stare at him. He looks really upset. I’m worried he’s about to say something horrible, something that will mean we can’t be together.

‘Aren’t we all?’

He shakes his head. ‘No, like, really.’

I look around, thinking. ‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘This is not how it goes.’

‘I . . .’ He looks confused.

‘Have you knocked someone else up?’

‘No! I swear.’

‘Have you done anything wrong?’

He opens and closes his mouth, then shakes his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

I breathe out, unaware I’d been holding my breath, and say, panicked, ‘OK, so, why are you trying to make me unlove you? Because I’m telling you now, Max, I can’t do that.’

He blinks.

‘Let me tell you something about me. Are you listening?’

Max nods.

I try to hold it together and not cry until I’ve finished talking. ‘I’m not gonna make you stay with me if you don’t love me. I get that sometimes people fall out of love and I don’t want to be with you if you don’t love me the right way because someday, someone will. D’you get me?’

He nods sincerely.

‘Secondly, I only go out with people if I think it’s going somewhere. Hence, if I have hung out with someone, say six times, or maybe for a couple of months, and I don’t think they are super wicked, then I break up with them. And I think that’s fair, because it doesn’t waste someone’s time, right?’

‘Right,’ he murmurs.

‘But if I’m with someone, and I’m asking if we should end it, this is how I do it. I say to myself, “Sylvie, are we (you and I) done?” and sometimes it’s obvious that we are done, and sometimes we are not done, and if I still love someone, if I am not done, then I will hold on to that dying flame until it’s all burnt out and it’s taken me with it. I’m a week older than you, Max, so listen to a sage survivor of several long- and short-term relationships and learn.’

He’s watching my mouth and eyes.

‘Do you understand me, Max?’

He nods slowly. ‘Yeah. I mean, I think I do. I’ve never really been out with anyone seriously.’

‘Of course you have,’ I say, trying to joke. ‘You’ve been out with everyone!’

He laughs, but blushes. ‘No, I really . . .’ He looks around at the people passing us and lowers his voice. ‘I’ve just kissed people.’

I wait and watch him for a moment. He looks nervous and tired, but he keeps looking at me as if he can’t stop. He stares at my lips and bites his own, then looks down at my hands.

‘So Max?’

‘Yeah?’ he murmurs, looking up with his eyes, his head still hanging low.

I gulp down nervousness, aware my chest is heaving up and down as I try to control my breathing. ‘Are we done?’

He thinks.

‘Are you and I done?’

Suddenly I get a lump in my throat and I realise I really, really, really care about this guy, about Max.

Please, please don’t say yes
, I think.

Max Walker looks at me, squinting in the low sun, golden hair lifting in the December breeze, his cheeks pink, and his green eyes bloodshot and dull. He looks at me like he’s desperate, like he wants to kiss me so bad but he’s fighting something. His eyes flick back and forth from the ground to my face.

‘Max!’ I say, and he looks into my eyes.

We hold each other’s gaze. He sighs, as if he has to say this: ‘No. We’re not done.’

Confused by how fraught he looks, I ask, ‘Are you sure?’

He nods. ‘I didn’t mean to make you think I was unsure.’

‘OK,’ I say nervously.

And suddenly in a rush, as if he was holding it in and had to burst out and say it, he comes out with, ‘You’re so beautiful, Sylvie.’

I grin, unable not to, at his pure earnestness. Then I roll my eyes to prevent the tears from coming. ‘OK, then.’

He giggles.

‘Come on, you weirdo,’ I say, shoving him teasingly. I grab him by the hair and push him towards the school gates.

‘Where are we going?’ he asks.

‘Back to mine, of course.’

He looks at me and smiles gratefully. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

‘Stop. It’s OK,’ I say, putting my arm around him. As my own fear subsides, I notice Max looks as shaky as ever. He leans into me. ‘You look so upset,’ I murmur into his ear.

‘I’m really sorry, Sylvie. I’ve been having a really, really bad two weeks.’

‘It’s OK. But that OK has conditions. Like, it’s OK to try to dump me, but only if someone’s died.’

He puts his hand up to his face and makes a choking sound.

‘Shit! I’m so frickin’ stupid!’ I hug him again. ‘Come on, let’s get home.’

Back home, I leave him in my bedroom and I go downstairs to make tea, then come up with a trayful of goodies my mum gave me.

‘What’s all this?’ he says, smiling at me like an excited kid. It’s amazing what sugar can do to lighten people’s spirits.

‘I raided the treats cupboard. I said you were really upset so Mum said we could have anything. We’ve got muffins and homemade chocolate chip cookies. Go on, have one.’

He takes it from me. ‘Thanks. I’m starving.’

‘So what’s up? Did someone die? I’m so sorry.’

‘No. I mean . . . well, no,’ he mumbles incoherently. ‘To be honest, I’ve had a really bad autumn.’ He pauses. He sniffs. ‘I do really like you, Sylvie. I’m sorry I was mean to you. I just thought you’d be better off . . . well, not with me.’

‘Why?’

He puts the cookie down on the bed slowly.

‘Um, OK,’ he says. ‘OK.’

‘OK, what?’

‘I think I’m going to tell you.’

‘Alright.’

‘I . . . It’s just, um . . . no one knows, so . . .’

‘You’re being very quiet.’

‘Sorry,’ he whispers. ‘I’ve never talked about it.’

I move over to him and kiss his neck. He leans in and kisses my lips once, quickly.

‘Sylvie, I want to tell you one thing before I tell you about
the
thing, OK?’

‘OK.’

‘Just, you can’t say it back. You have to promise you won’t, because I don’t want you to regret it.’