The Making of Us

by Debbie McGowan

  Distant giggling alerted me to Leigh’s imminent return. Not wishing to look like I’d been standing around waiting for them—which I hadn’t—I pulled my stuff from my bag, shoved the pile of books so that they scattered across the table, opened the closest one to a random page and quickly sat down. I heard Leigh call to someone inside—Matty, at a guess, “All right, I’ll be up in five minutes,” followed by the song they’d been singing in the henhouse.

  I’d never noticed them singing before. I wasn’t musical myself, but I could tell if someone was singing in tune. Leigh’s voice was incredible. In tune, yes, but there was something more, like they were channelling the oppressive warmth of the evening and transforming it into this husky, rich melody. It was so beautiful, I didn’t realise I’d stopped breathing until Leigh was standing next to me, holding out a can of Coke.

  “You all right, Jesse?”

  “Um, yeah.” I nodded vigorously enough to rattle my brain, if that were possible. “What was that song?”

  “Song? Oh! It’s called ‘All The Same To Me’. I’ve been listening to it all day, and it’s stuck in my head. D’you like it?”

  “Yeah, I really do. You have a really good voice.” Really, really… Urgh. Come on, Jess, get it together.

  “Thanks. My friend wrote it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I think you’d like her other stuff.” Seeing as I still hadn’t taken my drink, Leigh put both cans down and hopped up onto the table, sitting with legs crossed, the toes of one socked foot wiggling mere inches from my hand. The motion was hypnotising.

  You know what I would’ve loved? For us to have been at that point where I’d just reach over and massage Leigh’s foot while they talked. Which would mean first asking Leigh out on a date, and Leigh accepting. Then we’d have to establish some kind of relationship. How long would it take before we were comfortable enough with each other—

  “Those boots gave me blisters,” Leigh said.

  “Did they?” I was pretty sure they’d said something else before that, but wiggling toes, daydreams—I was starting to understand how Noah almost failed first year. This was crazy.

  I got the feeling Leigh was aware of my sporadic loss of concentration, but they continued anyway. “They’ll be fine once I’ve worn them a few times. Same with my last pair. So you’re not interested, then?”

  “In?”

  “I mean, it’s OK. I’m going anyway. I guess I could ask Matty.”

  Right, so this was the bit I’d missed.

  “I’ll leave you to it.” Leigh jumped down to the ground again, picked up their unopened drink and walked back to the house, passing Noah on the way. He nodded an acknowledgement and finally made it to the patio, dumped his laptop and books on the table and shuffled the chair around so he was sitting opposite me. Only then did he look my way. “What?” he asked.

  “What?” I asked back.

  “Is something wrong?”

  I realised I was frowning at him. “No, mate. I was wondering what took you so long, that’s all.”

  “I didn’t want to get in the way.”

  “Of?”

  “Well, you were chatting, weren’t you? And standing pretty close together…”

  “Earlier? I was helping Leigh count their piercings.”

  Noah chuckled. “That’s a new one.”

  I sighed. “It’s the truth, unfortunately. I don’t know what’s up with me, man. When Leigh talks to me, I can’t think of anything to say. Worse, I think I just missed an invitation to go to a gig or something.” At Noah’s shrug, I explained, “I zoned out. One minute they were talking about their mate who writes songs, the next? I dunno.”

  “You weren’t like this in the summer.”

  “Tell me about it. I mean, what’s changed? Nothing.”

  “Uni stress?”

  “Maybe, but I’m not feeling it. Our first essay’s not due until the end of next week, and we already did the reading for that.” I picked up the can of Diet Coke, opened it, and bent the ring pull backwards and forwards repeatedly until it snapped. I dropped it into the can and sighed again.

  “One of these days, you’re gonna choke yourself.”

  I huffed. Noah said that every time I did it, as did my mum and anyone else who was around.

  “Don’t sweat it, Jess. You’ll have plenty of time when we’re in Cornwall. Only another four weeks, eh? Can’t come soon enough.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, but my belly was cramping, and I was starting to see the pattern. It wasn’t Leigh striking me dumb; it was the combination of Leigh and Cornwall. Specifically, the lack of privacy with the four of us bunking down in Matty’s grandparents’ camper van.

  “Can’t wait to get in that ocean,” Noah said, opening his laptop, ready to start work. “I haven’t been surfing since I was about…thirteen?”

  “Are you any good?”

  “I’m shit, mate. My centre of gravity’s way off. I’d say it’s my height, but my dad’s an amazing surfer, or he was.”

  “Your dad surfs?” I tried to picture Noah’s dad on a surfboard. He was a big guy—a good three inches on me in all directions. I had to wonder how he stayed afloat, which was a hideous thing to think. I was quite appalled at myself, but that was the other part of going to Cornwall I was dreading. It was the first time Noah had mentioned it, but Matty and Leigh had been watching surfing videos ever since Adam suggested the holiday. If there was a way I could’ve got out of going without letting them down, I would’ve done so.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Four

  Of course, there was no way I would’ve let them down, and I did eventually get to sleep, once the storm had blown itself out and the temperature dropped to something more seasonal. And I’d successfully purchased two pairs of board shorts, two pairs of Converse, four XXXXL t-shirts plus two vests of the same size. I’d pack my jeans and a couple of shirts, in case we went out anywhere in the evenings, but I was as good to go as I was getting.

  Two days later, when my delivery arrived, I took the bag through to my room, a bubble of anxiety bobbing in my throat. If these didn’t fit, I had time to send them back and get the next size up, but I really hoped it wouldn’t come to that. I tore the plastic bags open and unfolded every item, laying them one on top of the other on my bed, and stripped off my shirt.

  “Want a cup of tea, love?” my mum called.

  “Please.” I folded my arms over my chest, waiting for her to knock and come in, but she walked away again. Exhaling in relief, I picked up the top item on my pile: a mid-blue t-shirt, with an abstract square print of flowers on the front. Good sturdy feel to it, too. This was the moment of truth. Opening the bottom, I fed my arms up into the sleeves, lifted it over my head, and…it slid right down, no trouble at all.

  “It’s a whopper,” I said, chancing a glance at my reflection in my TV screen. That was as close as I got to a mirror, other than to sort out my hair or shave, which was one of the reasons I stayed with stubble, because I could use clippers on it without watching what I was doing, although I thought my face looked OK, on the whole.

  “What did you say, love?” Mum called.

  “Just trying on this stuff. The t-shirts are epic.” I opened my bedroom door and went to show her. She eyed me up and down with a smile.

  “That colour is lovely on you.”

  “Thanks. I really like it. I’ll show you the others.”

  “Ooh, a fashion show.” The kettle switched off, and my mum made the tea.

  I returned to my room to change into one of the other t-shirts and felt myself smiling. The enormous weight hanging over me—my own—suddenly felt so much lighter. Maybe this holiday wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  The next t-shirt was stonewashed red, according to the bag, but I was colour blind, and I couldn’t tell the difference between red and green, or any colours that were made up of red and green. They all looked kind of yellowish brown to me, which was why I usually stuck with blue, black or grey
clothes, but I thought I’d mix it up for once.

  “What d’you reckon?” I asked my mum, who was still in the kitchen, going through her post. Judging by her frown, it was all bills, but the frown was gone when she looked up at me.

  “Oh, now that really suits you.” She circled her finger to get me to give her a twirl. “Very nice. I like seeing you in different colours.”

  “Is it red?”

  “Mmm…more or less. It’s what I’d call a dark rose.”

  “Pink, you mean?”

  “Pinkish red.”

  “OK.” I picked up my tea and sipped carefully so it didn’t drip down my front.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Nope. I just wanted to know.” All I knew about the colour pink was what I’d been told. Strawberry milkshake and ice cream, sometimes the sky, the Pink Panther—obviously—‘pink for girls, blue for boys’. Well, if that one had made any sense before, the idea of different colours for different genders had been completely shot out of the water when Leigh came into my life.

  Came into my life. Leigh wasn’t in my life, not really, but I desperately wanted them to be. Leigh was open about their gender and sexuality. They had to be to some extent, because of their medical condition. Leigh had CAH—congenital adrenal hyperplasia—and, like with Ryan, who had a severe allergy to latex, we needed to be aware of the signs of a potential medical emergency. For Leigh, it was in situations where any of us would be under physical stress—even something like a common cold—because Leigh’s body produced androgens instead of adrenaline, and it could go into something called an adrenal crisis.

  The rest of Leigh’s CAH was a bit more complicated to explain. Some of it I knew, like that the doctors referred to Leigh as ‘intersex’ due to the effect of the CAH on their body. Leigh’s birth certificate stated they were a boy, but they had XX chromosomes. Did they look like a girl? Maybe. Likewise, sometimes they looked like a boy, but what did that actually mean? It was nothing more than a sophisticated form of the ‘pink for girls, blue for boys’ game that involved make-up or certain ways of dressing.

  When I thought back to the first time I saw Leigh and felt the tug of attraction—OK, full-on crush—and Matty told me Leigh wasn’t a girl, I’d had to consider what that meant, but not because I’d thought Leigh was a girl. All I knew then was what I knew now; I was head over heels, and Leigh being queer—the word they said fitted them best—was irrelevant to that feeling, other than pushing me to reconsider who I was myself.

  Well, I was the same Jesse Thomas I’d always been. I was male. I’d never doubted it, and my gender had never been called to question the way it was for Leigh, and sometimes for Matty, who wore make-up, had longish hair and moved very gracefully. He was feminine—or femme, he said—but he was definitely male, and if anyone told him he looked ‘so gay’, Noah stepped in and said, ‘Do I look gay, too?’

  Stereotypes, man. But at times, I was as bad as the next person, I’d admit that. Like my assumption that Noah’s dad wouldn’t be any good at surfing, just because he was a big guy, when I knew firsthand the cruelty of those judgements. I didn’t choose to be this way.

  I don’t know; maybe it was like being gay or queer, because nothing I did made any difference in the long term. Maybe dieting was conversion therapy for fatties and we needed to take a stand. Like Noah’s dad. He didn’t care what other people thought. He didn’t hide his love of food and beer. He didn’t feel guilty, and he stood up to anyone who dared to judge him. Fat pride, that’s what he had. If only I could’ve been more like him, except he was hard as nails and enjoyed a good brawl. I just wanted a quiet life and to be able to surf, sing at karaoke, see Pink in concert, ask Leigh out on a date…but how?

  That was not a path I wanted my thoughts to take right now, when I was feeling unusually good about myself. “You want to see my other t-shirts, Mum?”

  “Only if you want to show me.”

  “OK.” I put my tea down and went back to my room, switching the pinkish t-shirt for the other ambiguously coloured one—green marl, anyone?—swapped my sweatpants for a pair of boardies and padded back to the kitchen in my socks.

  “Oh, Jesse!” My mum dramatically clasped her hand to her chest.

  “Do you need your inhaler?”

  She laughed. “No, silly. That colour is perfect on you.”

  “God, Mum!” She wasn’t the only one playing up the drama. “Talk about give me a fright! It’s just a t-shirt.” I picked up my cup and peered into it, mumbling even though I was delighted by her reaction. OK, so mums are biased, but mine was honest enough to tell me if I’d made a mistake.

  “When did your legs get so hairy?”

  “I dunno.” I kept them covered, so she hadn’t seen them in a while, but I hadn’t realised it had been that long.

  “Well, anyway, you look wonderful, love.” She came over to me, and we hugged.

  “Thanks, Mum. I can’t be bothered to try on the other stuff, but the shorts and t-shirt are like these but blue.” I’d got a pair of denim-blue Converse, too, and a black pair. At least I didn’t need to try those on to know they’d fit.

  “Now, do you need anything else? Toiletries? I doubt you’ll need sun cream.”

  “No, I think I should be all right.” Not that I ever showed much skin, but the bit that did see sunlight didn’t burn, and I envisaged Cornwall in October wouldn’t be that sunny.

  “Make a list of anything you need and I’ll pick it up when I go shopping, OK?”

  “OK. Thank you.”

  My mum was the serious best.

  ***

  It was Friday evening, the end of the first week of uni for us old hands, second week for the newbies, and we had the Pride Freshers’ social. Pride was what used to be the LGBT+ Society, and it was open to LGBT+ students and their friends. Matty had been a member since we started uni, which was the only reason Noah had joined, and I’d joined with him.

  The same rule applied to the Freshers’ social event: all LGBT+ first years and their friends were welcome.

  “We’ve sold all 120 tickets,” Jazz said. She was the current publicity officer. “First time ever.”

  “Wow!” I was genuinely surprised. “That’s a lot more than our cohort.”

  “Yeah,” Matty agreed as he scooted past with a handful of leaflets for the peer mentoring service. “There were only fifty-odd at our social. About eighty for the year below us, wasn’t it?” He continued on his way, leaving a few leaflets on each of the tables.

  “I think so.” I’d helped out behind the bar last year, and all I knew was I didn’t stop from first to last orders. I was glad I wasn’t doing it again tonight. I was on the door. Security. Sad but true.

  “I wonder how many are allies?” Sarah asked with a pointed look in my direction. She was the current president and made no secret of her opinion that Pride should be for LGBT+ only. Her argument was that it should be an exclusive safe space, because not all students were out, and I agreed with her, on the safe space part, at least. However, it seemed to me that there was also safety in knowing that being caught attending a Pride event didn’t necessarily mean you were LGBT+, therefore you wouldn’t accidentally out yourself.

  I wasn’t going to argue the case with Sarah, though, when as far as she was concerned I had no right to be there, and I certainly wasn’t going to tell her just to steal her thunder, that I’d crossed from ally to LGBT+. She probably wouldn’t believe me anyway.

  What I loved about Pride was, apart from Sarah, everyone was welcoming and friendly. It was only at Pride socials that I didn’t feel self-conscious about my size. True, there were a few of the guys seriously into the body beautiful, who worked out obsessively and strutted and posed, but that was true of the campus as a whole, not just the gay guys.

  Most of the members identified as gay or lesbian; there were a couple of trans students—Jazz being the only one I knew well, because we’d been at Weight Watchers together the previous year. I’d lost six kilos, a
nd I was pretty sure I’d put them all back on again in a matter of weeks. Jazz had lost around twenty kilos and kept the weight off, and she looked amazing. Well, she’d looked amazing before, but now, she was more confident and less self-conscious, and she got to wear clothes that accentuated her curves. Tonight, she was wearing a floor-length dress—red or purple, I thought—with a low back and a fair bit of cleavage on display. With her heels, she wasn’t far off my height.

  “She’s beautiful.” Leigh suddenly appeared at my side.

  “Y-yeah, she is,” I agreed, but now I’d seen Leigh, and oh my god. Oh my god! I’d never seen Leigh in a dress before. I didn’t think they wore dresses. OK, so I was wrong about that.

  It was black and short and sparkly, and the sleeves appeared as if they had slipped down, baring Leigh’s shoulders. No high heels, though. The Doc Martens, with silver laces to match the sparkles in their dress, and as I finally made it back to Leigh’s face, I saw silver eye make-up completed the look.

  I was staring, and almost drooling, and I really needed to tell Leigh how beautiful they were. Like, now, before they walked away thinking I had the hots for Jazz.

  Leigh stepped away from me and put a hand on their hip. “What are you looking at?”

  I swallowed. No spit.

  “Well?”

  “You.” I cleared my throat. “You’re beautiful.”

  For a few seconds, Leigh remained with head tilted and an expression between a sulky scowl and a puzzled frown. But then the scowl disappeared, and in its place was a beaming smile. “Aww, thanks! You like it?” They spun on the spot, the skirt swirling around them in a circle of sparkles that caught in the light. They easily moved as gracefully as Matty, and in big clunky boots as well.

  “I love it,” I confirmed—the outfit, the wearer…

  Leigh stopped spinning and faked a dizzy stagger, coming close enough to grab my arm. My stomach clearly thought we were on a roller coaster, because it did some kind of rush up into my throat, flipped and plummeted with a thadum. Or that was what it felt like.