Boy Queen

by George Lester

  ‘See you tomorrow.’

  I hang up the phone and keep riding, ignoring the buzzing in my pocket that could be Connor trying to reach me. My heart thrills at the thought.

  I ride the old country lanes into my town, the same route I’ve taken for six years, until I spot our little house on the corner. The unkempt front garden that Mum says she’ll fix every summer is overgrowing on to the path, the ivy-covered fence that runs along the side of the pavement starting to look more like a barrier than a border.

  The house is pitch dark. Mum’s car isn’t parked out the front, so she must be working later than she thought. I ride my bike to the gate and wheel it into the garden, leaning it against the fence before heading in through the back door.

  ‘Mum?’ Nothing comes back, not even an echo. The house isn’t big enough for an echo.

  The light on the answering machine is flashing, so I press the button to listen as I kick off my shoes and rummage through the post on the table. Still nothing.

  ‘ROBIN!’ It’s Natalie’s voice and I look up. Why the hell is she leaving me a message? ‘You might wonder why I’m leaving you a message on a freaking answering machine like it’s the middle ages. Reason one, you actually have one, which makes me question your mum’s usually impeccable taste.’

  Truth be told, Mum bought it as a gag because her mum used to have one and she always liked the idea of people leaving messages. The reality of the situation was that not many people did. Natalie certainly didn’t. Ever.

  ‘Reason two, you never bloody text back. Turn your phone on! I need your notes. P.S.: feel free to ignore this if I actually managed to reach you. No doubt you will have about seven thousand frantic messages from me when you take your phone off I-Have-Dance-Class-So-I’m-Dead-To-The-World mode. SEND ME YOUR DAMN NOTES! See you tomorrow.’

  I love her in all of her weirdness. The machine beeps and moves onto the next message.

  ‘My angel-faced boy.’ Mum’s voice comes through the machine. This can’t be good. ‘It’s eight thirty here and I’m nowhere close to being done. They offered me the overtime and I took it. I could use the extra hours anyway. Don’t wait up. I love you lots. There are leftovers from last night in the fridge. If you’re still up when I get in, I’ll be annoyed. Go to bed. Hope you had a good class. Text me so I know you’ve got home safe. Please. Do it now so you don’t forget. I’ll see you in the morning. Bright and early!’

  I grab my phone and swipe past the slew of notifications, most of which are from Connor, so I can quickly text Mum. This happens a lot. There are days that go by where I just won’t see her because she’s working and I’m at a class and all we’ll have are texts and answering-machine messages. But it’s been like that for so long I don’t know any different.

  I don’t really feel all that hungry, so I skip the leftovers and am about to get ready for bed when I notice the post by the front door. As I pick it up, I see, nestled amongst a stack of leaflets, a giant white envelope.

  Shit.

  It must have come after Mum left for work.

  And it’s the big envelope. Everyone says the big envelope means good news – holy shit, holy absolute shit.

  I take a breath and open the seal, trying not to cause damage, trying not to wreck whatever is inside, and, holding my breath, I pull it out.

  My heart sinks.

  School report.

  Winter term school report.

  ‘Absolutely NOT!’ I say to the dark, putting it back in the envelope and on the dining table.

  I grab a Post-it from the little table where Mum keeps the phone.

  School report is here. I’ll see you in the morning for the debrief. Hope work wasn’t too hellish. Leftovers are still in the fridge. Xx

  I chuck my dance gear in the washing machine then bound upstairs and throw myself on to my bed. I turn on my bedside lamp, the orange glow lighting up my little room and illuminating the clothes strewn over the floor, the papers on my desk, the unopened textbooks and, most importantly, my phone.

  I do my duty as a good friend and send my notes to Natalie, then flick through my apps to read the messages from Connor, the goofiest smile spreading across my face as I scroll. It’s the kind of smile that Natalie teases me about, but she’s happy I’m happy, and there’s something about Connor that makes everything a little bit brighter, like when Dorothy steps into Oz for the first time.

  Are you about tonight? x

  Shit. Forgot you had dancing, never mind.

  I missed you. The weekend was fun, we should do that again. I’ll find out when my parents are next away, and you can come over.

  If you want to.

  I mean, of course I want to. If he asked me to come over now, I’d be there like a shot. Christ, he has such a hold on me.

  I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.

  The next thing I see is a picture of him with his shirt off in front of the mirror in his bedroom. The lighting is great, his body is perfection, from his broad shoulders to his big chest that is so damn good for cuddling – I honestly can’t cope with it. He’s pouting a little, midway through running a hand across his dark, close-cropped hair. Stupidly handsome boy.

  Are you still up?

  I wait a few seconds for those magical three dots that make my heart skip in my chest, but they don’t come. So I start to scroll back, through weeks upon weeks of messages, from one-word answers that were enough to give me heart palpitations to paragraphs that I could probably quote word for word at this point.

  It’s not lost on me how sad it is to do this. But I spend so much time struggling to believe that it’s real that if I didn’t have these I’d swear I was imagining the whole thing. But I’m not. It’s real and I can see it because it’s right here in my hands.

  I know he deletes the messages afterwards. He’s protecting himself in a way that I don’t really have to. Natalie and Greg know all about it. Mum doesn’t know I have a boyfriend, if I can even call it that, but I don’t think she’d mind all that much. I told her three years ago that I like boys and it might be nice to get specific. But if Mum knows she’ll want to meet him and . . . she can’t meet him.

  I try not to overthink it. No matter how much I care about Connor and no matter how much he cares about me (or seems to, I mean, I have the receipts), September is going to change everything. And it’s exciting and new, but we’ve not even talked about what will happen next. I’m just trying to enjoy the moments we have, because each one is a little touch of sparkle in my life.

  By the time I’ve scrolled to the top of our message chain, the first ‘Hey’ that I can hear in his gruff voice, it’s way past midnight and my body is crying out for me to lie down and let the world slip away.

  So I do.

  TWO

  ‘Robin, if you don’t come down here in ten minutes, I’ll start reading it without you!’

  I practically jump awake. My phone is clutched to my chest where I must have fallen asleep holding it. Gross.

  ‘I don’t hear movement!’ Mum calls.

  ‘That’s because I’ve not moved.’

  ‘Sweetie, I love you, but I’m not above dragging you out of bed.’

  I quickly shower, ignoring the aches that seem to accompany my every movement.

  ‘Five minutes!’ Mum screams as I turn off the shower. She shouldn’t even be awake. I didn’t hear her come in last night, so she must be shattered.

  When I reach the kitchen, she’s already at the table, the big white envelope in her hand, a selection of cereal and two bowls before her.

  I have no idea where my mum gets her energy from, but even after a late-night shift she looks wide awake, her dark brown hair a little pouffey around her head, her blouse semi-ironed, a smile on her face, her hazel eyes somehow sparkling. She looks like she’s had a full night’s sleep. I look like I’ve been hit by a truck.

  I check the time on my phone and grimace. ‘Why did you let me sleep so long?’

  She shrugs. ‘You didn’t even touch t
he leftovers of my world-famous lasagna!’

  It’s not world-famous, it’s not even street famous.

  ‘I assumed you could do with the extra time in bed. If anyone at school asks, I’ll write you a note.’

  ‘I don’t know if they’d take it.’

  ‘You need to stop talking – you’re seriously cutting into my mocking time.’ She flicks her hair out of her face. ‘You know how much I love my mocking time.’

  ‘I don’t think there is a man, woman or child alive that could stop you,’ I reply, kissing her on the cheek. ‘Good morning, Mum.’

  ‘Good morning, Robin.’

  I take my seat at the table and pour myself some off-brand Cheerios, bracing myself for the onslaught. I’m definitely going to be late; I might as well lean into it. ‘OK, let me have it. How bad is it?’

  ‘I’ve not looked yet.’

  ‘You’ve not looked yet?!’

  ‘Of course not, Robin – it’s tradition! And you said debrief – I can’t pre-brief before the debrief, then I would be briefed, and that would be wrong!’ I’ve fully lost track of what she’s saying as she sighs, smoothing out her blouse and mentally preparing herself for the moment. I’m supposed to be the actor in the family yet here she is with a ritual for opening my school report. She’s ridiculous and I love her.

  ‘I thought it was going to be an acceptance letter,’ I grumble.

  ‘Oh dear, did you collapse ont o your bed like a dramatic heroine?’

  ‘Mum—’

  ‘Did you wail to the sky, “When, oh, when will my acceptance letter arrive?”’ She throws the report to her forehead, and I try not to laugh when the corner of it jabs her in the cheek. ‘Ow.’

  ‘Karma’s a bitch.’

  ‘And so are you,’ she says with a wink. ‘Sweetie, it’s coming, you know it’s coming. You slayed that audition—’

  ‘Don’t say slayed.’

  ‘You left them jaw-on-the-floor speechless,’ she barrels on, beaming. ‘You’ve got this. I know you’ve got this. Half the street knows you’ve got this.’

  ‘Half the street?’

  ‘You think I’m going to miss an opportunity to tell them how my son is going to be a star?’ she says.

  We’ve been talking in certainties since I got back from the audition and Mum’s confidence in me is infectious. As much as Natalie would like to fight her for the spot of biggest fan, she doesn’t have a patch on Mum. Mum’s never missed a show. She’s worked her fingers to the bone so I can do this. And now we’re just waiting for the pay-off.

  ‘If the letter comes, you have to call me,’ I say. ‘You can’t not call me.’

  ‘Same to you.’

  ‘Deal.’

  She holds out her little finger. I grip it with my own. Pinky swear.

  ‘Now, back to the mockery?’ She takes her glasses from the kitchen table and places them on the end of her nose as if she’s about to read me to filth. The library has apparently opened early this morning.

  Slowly, she opens the envelope. She doesn’t turn the first page, holding it close to her chest and eyeing me carefully instead. ‘Here I have in my hands, the penultimate report.’

  ‘Mum—’

  ‘Robin Cooper’s winter-term school report.’ She wipes an imaginary tear from her eye. ‘I’m so proud of my boy.’

  I scoff. ‘Wait until you read it.’

  She opens the report and begins her performance.

  ‘English,’ she announces, like she’s just taken the stage at the Globe. ‘“While Robin shows a great understanding for the subject, and an apparent interest, he could stand to be a little less distracted in class.”’ She looks up. ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Thanks a lot, Mr Goldberg. That’s the last time I flirt with you at parents’ evening.’

  I choke on my Cheerios. ‘Mum!’

  ‘I’m just doing what I can to get you a good mark.’

  ‘He doesn’t decide the final mark, just predictions. I have to do a written exam in a couple of months – you know that,’ I say.

  ‘Well, who’s the examiner? I’ll flirt with them.’

  ‘Or I could work harder.’

  ‘But where’s the fun in that?’

  ‘You’re terrible.’

  ‘It’s like you want me to stay single forever.’ She sighs dramatically and flips over the page. ‘Same from psychology. I wonder if they write their reports together so they give similar feedback. What do you think?’

  ‘I think I probably stare out the window and daydream a little too much,’ I say.

  ‘Aha!’ she exclaims. ‘They’ve got in your head, see? Sick little game players, every last one of them.’

  I can’t help but laugh. Mum is always like this. She knows I work hard when I’m not off dancing, but she also knows that, at the end of all this, English and psychology don’t matter all that much to me. Not really.

  ‘Read drama next,’ I say, walking over to the sink with my empty bowl. I need to wrap this up if I’m going to make first period. I don’t want to rush her, but once she gets going she could go on for days.

  ‘No way,’ she says. ‘That’s far too easy and your head still looks a little big after the winter musical.’ She follows me over to the sink, putting her hands around my head. ‘Look, I can barely fit my hands around . . . oh no.’

  Panic. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s . . . it’s getting bigger!’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘It’s swelling, it’s growing, it’s taking over the whole kitchen!’

  ‘You’re impossible.’

  She laughs and sits back down. ‘OK, drama,’ she says, picking up the report again. She opens her mouth to speak but stops herself, just letting a smile spread across her face.

  ‘What? That bad? Or did she talk about when I fell off the car during “Greased Lightnin’”? Not my finest hour and pretty damn rude for her to bring it up again. I mean, the car was slippery – what kind of sadistic stagehand decides to wax a car I have to climb on, I could have—’

  ‘Shut up, Robin,’ she says, looking up at me, her eyes a little misty. ‘It’s glowing.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘God, this woman loves you.’ She shakes her head. ‘If I die, she’d adopt you in a heartbeat!’

  ‘Mum—’

  ‘I’m serious. Don’t even worry about me,’ she says. ‘I’ll ask her on my deathbed, really draw it out and croak to her, Mrs Hepburn, if that is your real name, take care of my son.’ She starts violently coughing, really leaning into the role.

  ‘What did she say?’

  She clears her throat. ‘“No one else in my class shows the aptitude and joy that Robin has. From the start of Year Twelve, I have coached him both in classes and privately. I feel it in my bones that this boy is going to go far.”’

  ‘She really said that?’

  Mum nods. ‘She loves you, kid.’

  Mrs Hepburn, which definitely isn’t her real name – I mean come on – has always been on my side. She was handing me brochures and leaflets for drama college before I’d even thought about it. She’s a melodramatic guardian angel sent down from the gaudiest heaven imaginable, where statement necklaces are uniform and giving prancing little gayboys a safe place to play is your job.

  ‘She’s going to lose her mind when you get in,’ Mum says.

  ‘Don’t—’

  ‘She’s going to cry, she’s going to scream, she’s going to be living off your success for the rest of her life!’

  I hope Mum’s right. She has to be right. She prides herself on being right about everything – why would this be any different?

  ‘OK, subject change, we’ve gotta talk about Friday,’ she says.

  ‘Friday?’

  ‘Robin! You’re turning eighteen – you’re becoming a MAN.’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘You’re just so grown up, that’s all.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘I will not,’ she says. ‘You’r
e my son – it is my god-given right to embarrass you at every opportunity.’ She smiles. ‘So what shall we do for your birthday?’ She strokes her chin. ‘Maybe I should just come out with you and your friends. Wouldn’t that be fun! Where are you going?’

  I shrug. ‘Don’t know yet,’ I say. ‘Natalie will be hounding me about it today because I can’t make decisions. And I’m sorry, but, as much as I am totally loving this, I need to get to school.’

  ‘Cutting my performance short.’ She tuts, shaking her head. ‘After all I’ve done for you. Do I need to tell your birthing story again?’

  ‘I’ve already booked myself a few years on the couch from that one,’ I say, grabbing my bag. ‘You want to carry on your performance later?’

  She walks towards me and puts her hands on my shoulders. ‘That letter is coming,’ she says. ‘It’s in the post as we speak. The world is waiting for you, Robin Cooper. I promise.’

  I can’t keep the smile off my face.

  She kisses me on the forehead. ‘I’ve picked up an extra shift tonight,’ she says. ‘I know we were meant to have dinner, but—’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘I can fix something up myself. I mean, it won’t be world-famous, but . . .’

  ‘Tomorrow, then,’ she says. ‘I’ll keep you something for after dancing.’

  ‘Ooh, I wonder what it will be!’

  She waves a hand dismissively. ‘I don’t know, something world-famous, probably. I’m immensely talented.’

  I roll my eyes and laugh. ‘Bye, Mum.’

  THREE

  I arrive at school, definitely late, definitely out of breath, and definitely surprised to see Natalie and Greg waiting for me at the bike sheds. Their height difference is so stark it’s comical, and while you’d expect Natalie to have this tiny voice to go with her tiny self it’s the exact opposite. You’re more likely to hear her before you see her. Greg has this kind of gentle-giant vibe, softly spoken and sweet as anything while he towers over practically everyone. I mean, I’m six foot and Greg makes me feel small and weedy.