Boy Queen

by George Lester

  ‘Why are you two waiting for me?’

  Natalie shrugs. ‘We’re not that late.’

  ‘You’re both mad.’ I lock up my bike and look at Greg, who is trying to stop himself from smiling. I practically skip over to him and hug him tightly. ‘Natalie told me you missed me yesterday.’

  ‘She’s lying,’ he says into my shoulder.

  Natalie scoffs. ‘The only lies being told are the lies you tell yourself.’

  ‘Did you literally wait for me for a hug?’ I ask as Greg lets me go. The boy really can hug.

  ‘I won’t be commenting on that,’ Greg says as he turns and starts walking towards school. Natalie links her arm in mine and we follow. ‘When are we talking about your birthday?’ Greg asks. ‘I need to tell Mum my plans so she can get childcare for Archie.’ Archie is Greg’s little brother, literally a miniature version of him and adorable.

  ‘As soon as princess here decides what she wants to do.’ Natalie squeezes my arm. ‘Honestly, honey, blood out of a stone. How hard is it to make a plan?’

  ‘Would you believe me if I said I was looking into places we could go?’

  ‘No,’ they both reply.

  ‘Wow, your faith in me is utterly astounding.’

  ‘That’s not it,’ Nat says. ‘I just know you too damn well.’ We walk through the school and, like any other day, I find myself smiling at people as we pass them. The winter musical wasn’t all that long ago and the cast was chosen from every year at school, so I met a huge range of people. We spent three months rehearsing this show and nothing bonds people together like a shared trauma. Grease, it turns out, can be pretty traumatic.

  ‘Morning, Robin.’ Katy – the Sandy to my Danny – wanders by, the rest of the drama crowd in tow. ‘You hear anything?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I say.

  She shrugs. It’s not just me and Mum who talk in certainties. It’s the drama crowd, it’s Mrs Hepburn, it’s me and Natalie when we’re planning how good things are going to be come September. It makes me nervous. But more than that it makes me excited. It’s Schrödinger’s Drama School Place right now.

  Natalie hits me on the arm.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have goss.’

  ‘Hot goss?’

  ‘Piping, babes,’ she says.

  ‘Honestly, it’s like you’re speaking another language sometimes,’ Greg says.

  ‘New boy at school, Seth Harris, started yesterday, lasted two hours, two, before he walked out.’

  ‘Like, literally lasted one lesson?’ Greg says. ‘Is the school really that bad?’

  ‘No, but apparently he is,’ Natalie says. ‘It’s all Holly and Eric could talk about in law yesterday. He just showed up out of nowhere, nobody has any idea who he is, where he came from, anything.’

  ‘Christ, poor guy,’ Greg says.

  ‘What?’ Natalie snaps.

  ‘What? I feel bad for him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Come on, you said it yourself, everyone is talking about him. He’s just started here and suddenly he’s the centre of attention. No wonder he walked out. I would have. Robin?’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ I say. I know what it’s like to have people talking about you, whispering about you. It sucks.

  ‘Oh my God, I came here to share scalding hot dish, not feel sorry for the new boy,’ Natalie groans. ‘Robin, come on, is it not piping?’

  ‘It is,’ I say. ‘But I’m with Greg – I feel bad for him.’ It’s one thing to be centre of attention onstage, but to have everybody talking about your business? I’d rather not.

  ‘God, it’s like you two morphed into the same person during Greg and Robin’s Summer of Fun.’

  ‘Stop that!’ Greg groans. ‘You were in Grenada for a month – it was hardly fun-free.’

  ‘I was with my family! I missed out on everything!’

  ‘For the last time, you didn’t miss out on anything,’ I say. ‘It was just a lot of us hanging around complaining about how hot it was.’

  ‘And you getting injured in a dance class,’ Natalie says, trying not to laugh. ‘Remind me how you fell into a ballet barre again?’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Attempted triple pirouette, foot went out from under me, bang, smacked my face on it.’

  Natalie cracks up laughing. Greg doesn’t. Greg shakes his head at me because he knows that it couldn’t be further from the truth. But he promised not to tell how I really got hurt. Natalie doesn’t seem to notice.

  ‘This summer will be better,’ I say. ‘Summer of Fun, the sequel, featuring Natalie.’

  ‘Honey, I’m not a feature – I’m a headline act!’

  As we walk out into the courtyard, I see Connor and I can’t keep the smile off my face.

  It’s like my body is tuned to whatever frequency his is giving off, even if it is a little bit awkward between us at school. I could be lost in a crowd and, somehow, I would find him.

  He’s with his friends, a cloud of smoke practically obscuring them as they pass round a joint. I’ve had enough homophobic bullshit in my time here to know I shouldn’t stare for too long, but I want Connor to see me.

  Good morning, friend.

  He clocks me. And his eyes smile for the briefest moment before they resolutely ask me to stay away. I smile at him and keep walking. I’m not saying it’s perfect. I’m just saying it’s the way it is. I know he cares about me. He just can’t say it too loudly.

  ‘Ooh, should I leave you two alone?’ Natalie whispers next to me.

  ‘Bite me,’ I say with a laugh.

  ‘What?’ Greg says. ‘What have I missed?’

  ‘SB,’ Natalie replies without missing a beat.

  ‘Still lost.’

  ‘Shocking!’ Natalie says. ‘Secret Boyfriend.’

  ‘Right,’ Greg says, and that’s the end of Greg’s contribution to that particular conversation. Greg doesn’t like Connor. I mean, really doesn’t. He has his reasons.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket.

  You free after school?

  ‘What?’ Natalie says. ‘What is it?’

  I show her and she practically screams when she sees it’s Connor. Greg . . . not so much.

  Yeah. Free house too.

  ☺See you there. x

  I find myself praying for the end of the day. I practically race home so I have a chance to shower and change before Connor arrives. It’s also an opportunity to double-check that Mum isn’t in. There’s an alternate universe where Connor isn’t hiding in the closet and he can just come back to my house whenever because he and my mum are pals. It’s probably an easier universe to live in.

  It’s not my place to decide when somebody wants to come out. Would it be easier for me if he was out? Yes. Would it be easier for him? Given what’s happened in the past, I’d say not so much.

  Nearly there. Free house?

  Free house.

  I head downstairs and open the door. Connor is swiftly walking up the path, hood up, checking over his shoulder every now and again before he gets inside. I’ve barely closed the door before the hood is down and he is kissing me. I’m caught a little off guard.

  ‘Wow, someone’s eager,’ I say.

  He shrugs. ‘Just checking now—’

  ‘No, she’s not here,’ I say. ‘Do you really think I’d let you make out with me in the hallway if she was?’

  He shrugs again before kissing me hard on the mouth. It’s a pretty good answer, to be fair.

  I take his hand and we stumble up the stairs, the two of us giddy, giggling. This is the good part. When we’re together, alone, it’s like the secretive bit doesn’t even matter. It’s fun, it’s exciting, it’s the two of us just enjoying ourselves.

  We tumble into my room and on to the bed. He kisses me again. I reciprocate, our tongues dancing across each other, his fingers tracing a path across my stomach and round to my back, pressing our bodies close together. At this point, clothes just seem to be totally in the way.

  We stop for
a minute to take a breath.

  He chuckles, looking down at me with those dark eyes. At school, he hangs out with a dickhead crowd, truly, but when he’s with me he’s like a totally different guy. I don’t think there’s a single person in that group that knows him like I do. They don’t know that he cried when we went to see Waitress. They don’t know that he’s a damn good cuddler, and I mean damn good.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’ he growls.

  ‘Just you,’ I say.

  He leans down again and I breathe him in. I could just do this forever, but the way his hands are all over me I know he’s hoping for something more today. And I’d be lying if I wasn’t thinking the same.

  The door opens and closes downstairs. Connor stops kissing me immediately and lifts himself up. I’m suddenly very aware that we are in a rather incriminating position.

  ‘Robin?’ Mum calls.

  ‘Your mum?’ Connor asks from on top of me. The colour has drained from his face and the hope of anything happening between us tonight has vanished. ‘I thought she was—’

  ‘So did I,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t have invited you over if—’

  ‘Shhh!’

  ‘Don’t shhh me!’ I hiss.

  ‘Robin?’

  ‘Upstairs, Mum!’

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Connor hisses.

  ‘I can’t just ignore her.’

  He’s looking around the room like there is an alternative exit that isn’t my bedroom door. I’m scrabbling around trying to think of something to do.

  ‘Closet?’ I offer.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You can hide in the closet.’

  ‘That’s not funny.’

  ‘I’m only half joking!’ I protest. It’s a little bit on the nose, but he could totally fit in there, at least until I found a way to get rid of Mum.

  ‘Window?’ he says hopefully.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can climb out of your window.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true, climb out the window, grab hold of a flying pig and let that take you home.’

  ‘OK, sarcasm isn’t helping – sarcasm is wasting time,’ he says, but even I can see the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. ‘Can I climb out of your window?’ He pauses. ‘Please?’

  And it’s the please that tips me over the edge. He’s scared of people finding out about us and, I mean, I don’t blame him. I can’t make jokes right now; I just need to get him out of that window without him falling to the ground and dying on my doorstep.

  I hear footsteps on the stairs. Ah shit.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, come on,’ I say, hurrying him over to the window ledge and opening it as wide as it will go. He peeks outside. I do the same. The kitchen is right underneath us, jutting out a little way from the house, so it’s not like he’s having to Spider-Man down the entire building. ‘Can you jump that?’

  He shrugs. ‘Probably.’

  ‘You’re giving me probably?’

  He leans forward and kisses me and I’ll take probably if it means I get a kiss. God, I wish he didn’t have to go right now.

  He pulls away and clambers out of the window.

  ‘You might want to do something with your hair before your mum gets up here,’ he says, half in and half out.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘It looks a little . . . I don’t know . . . messy?’

  I check the mirror, and when I turn back he has vanished from my window, already on the roof of the kitchen. I watch him go and try not to look too startled when the door opens behind me.

  ‘Hey,’ Mum says from the doorway. ‘Is everything OK?’ I turn to look at her and her expression twists to one of confusion. ‘What’s going on with your hair?’

  ‘I was . . . taking a nap,’ I say. ‘You coming in woke me up. Didn’t sleep too well last night.’ Come through, improv skills! ‘Sorry.’

  ‘And you’re flushed. Are you OK?’

  ‘It was hot in here,’ I say. Not a lie. But not the truth either. ‘Needed to get some air. What are you doing home? I thought you picked up an extra shift.’

  ‘I was going to, but they double booked,’ she says, irritated enough by her day that her scrutiny of me seems to be over. ‘So we’re having dinner. You’re so lucky!’

  ‘And what world-famous delicacy is it tonight?’

  ‘Tonight,’ she says in an announcer voice, ‘we will be having my world-famous Chinese food from the place down the road that I know you love!’

  I whoop, I cheer, I play my part.

  ‘I’m going to order,’ she says. ‘Hey, we could watch a trashy film while we eat, if you like. You don’t have work to do tonight, do you?’

  ‘Trashy film sounds perfect; I’ll be right down!’

  Mum heads back downstairs and I throw myself on my bed. That couldn’t have been closer.

  My phone buzzes on my bedside table and I practically leap for it.

  Sorry I had to run. This afternoon was fun though.

  Again soon? But without the interruption?

  Name the time and place. ❤

  I delete the heart emoji so I don’t sound too keen and hit send.

  8 a.m. tomorrow? Hampton Road?

  Wait! That wasn’t a suggestion for a place to do THAT.

  I was suggesting walking in together.

  If you want.

  I’ll see you tomorrow morning. ❤

  I send it with the heart emoji. Fuck it. Life’s too short to not send heart emojis to the boys who have your heart. Facts.

  FOUR

  ‘ROBIN! ROBIN! ROBIN!’

  The screaming is accompanied by a hammering on my door that has me so disorientated that I think the house might be burning down. I grab the duvet and wrap it round myself, shuffling to the door, ready to commit matricide if I don’t see flames because, Jesus Christ, my alarm wasn’t going to go off for another blissful thirty minutes.

  My face is fixed in the most murderous stare I can muster as I open the door to Mum, who is grinning. No flames. She’s grinning so broadly it’s like she’s off her absolute face on something.

  ‘What? Ungodly hour, Mum, what’s so important that—’

  ‘Shut up and pay attention to what I am waving in front of your face!’

  I look at her hand and I see it. It’s an envelope, a stamp on the front with the logo of the London Academy of Performing Arts emblazoned across the top of it. It looks opulent. It looks official. For something the size of an A4 sheet of paper, it carries a hell of a lot of weight in it. The weight of my entire future.

  ‘When did it get here?’ I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

  ‘Literally a few minutes ago,’ she says.

  ‘Holy shit.’

  ‘Why are you whispering?’

  ‘I don’t know, reverence.’

  ‘Fuck reverence, you need to open this!’

  ‘Mum, language.’

  ‘OK, weird role reversal, please, just open it before I explode. I can’t take it.’

  I take it from her and feel the weight of it in my hand. It doesn’t feel like there’s a lot in there. I don’t know what I expected. People talk about the ‘big envelope’ like it’s an indication of a ‘yes’ over a ‘no’ and my heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my head, in my fingertips. I am shaking.

  I open it slowly, like I’m trying to preserve it, like it’s going to be an artefact in a museum one day. It’s taking every bit of composure I have to not tear it open and I can feel Mum’s eyes on me, willing me to do just that.

  Dear Mr Cooper,

  Thank you so much for your attendance at the London Academy of Performing Arts auditions on January 14th. The standard was incredibly high this year and, as I’m sure you’re aware, we cannot accept everyone.

  I am very sorry to say we will not be taking your application any further at this stage.

  I do a double take at the page.

  I read it again.

  ‘Come on,’ Mum
says. ‘What does it say?’

  She sounds far away all of a sudden. And I just feel like I’m not really here. This wasn’t the way this was supposed to go. I’ve seen it in my head and in every scenario I’m standing here celebrating with Mum; I’m out buying new dancewear; I’m downloading new sheet music; I’m getting excited about classes, about who I’m going to meet, about how I’m going to fit in, about moving to London and living with Natalie next year. Within the space of a few words, that’s all been taken away.

  ‘Robin?’ Concern is prevalent in Mum’s voice. She knows something is up. There is a part of me that wants to lie because I feel embarrassed. I was so sure.

  ‘I didn’t get in,’ I say flatly. And vocalizing it makes it suddenly real and I start to cry. Not sobbing, not breaking down, just tears rolling down my face that I can’t seem to stop.

  ‘What?’ she says. ‘No, that’s not . . . can I . . . ?’ She takes the letter from my hand and reads it herself; I watch the words hit her too. ‘Oh, Robin—’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say, forcing a smile on to my face. ‘I’ll . . . uh . . . I’ll try again next year.’

  ‘But, Robin—’

  ‘It’s honestly fine,’ I say, even though I’m crying, even though my chest hurts, even though my body aches from the sheer effort of staying upright. I’m still trying to smile, because that’s what I do. ‘This wasn’t my year. Next year will be the one.’

  But I can’t believe that’s it. All the work, all the rehearsal, all the singing lessons, dance classes, monologue tuition, gone. It was my last shot. And I was so sure that it was going to work out. With the other auditions I could pinpoint where I’d gone wrong. I’d not picked up the choreography quickly enough, the song choice wasn’t quite right, I’d been a bit flat at the start of the song, but this . . . As far as I knew, I’d done everything right. After the first round they wanted a different song, so I changed it for the recall. I walked out of that audition happier than I’d walked out of any of the others and it still wasn’t enough.

  ‘I should get ready for school,’ I say, grabbing my towel off the back of the door. I slide past Mum and into the bathroom. I catch sight of myself in the mirror, stare at my red eyes and the tears still running down my face. How could I have been so stupid?