‘I wouldn’t wear these with a shirt,’ he mutters reproachfully.
‘What would you wear with a shirt?’
He thinks. ‘I guess I wouldn’t wear a shirt.’
‘Well, you’ll have to one day for work, so get used to it.’
‘Only if I do something like lawyer-ing,’ he says grumpily.
I frown at him, too surprised to tell him off. Max is never moody. ‘OK, well, pick a T-shirt.’
He hesitates and chooses one from the pile of ironing.
‘Hand me what you’re wearing for the wash. I’ll just give these trousers another iron; they’re still a bit creased.’
He looks down.
‘Come on, we haven’t got all day, Max,’ I instruct, stressing. ‘We have to be there by nine.’
Max obediently pulls the flannel shirt over his head, holding his hands over his chest. He pulls the T-shirt on.
‘Come on.’ I hurry him along.
He nods and unbuttons his jeans, still slowly. He takes them off.
‘Which blue jumper was it?’
‘Um . . .’
‘Which one, honey?’ I glance distractedly at the laundry basket.
‘Why are you ironing Max’s trousers and your jeans?’ Daniel asks me.
Max asks me about getting the trousers, but I barely hear him. I’m thinking about not being late, about doing my make-up, about where Steve is, about elongating this precious bit of peace with Daniel.
‘To get the creases out, sweetheart,’ I reply to Daniel, sounding calmer than I feel. ‘Do you want me to do yours?’
‘Mm.’ He thinks, sipping orange juice from a carton. ‘No.’
‘Can I have my—’
‘Which blue jumper, Max?’ I repeat impatiently.
‘Mum, THE blue jumper, my only blue jumper,’ Max snaps. ‘Pass me my trousers!’
Daniel and I turn to stare at him.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ asks Daniel.
‘I just want the trousers,’ Max whines, uncomfortably. He is crossing his arms over his boxers and looking stressed.
‘Sweetie, I’m ironing them,’ I say. ‘Do you want to iron them?’
He shakes his head despondently.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ Max mumbles. ‘Just want my trousers and my jumper.’
‘When did you last wear your jumper?’
‘Urgh!’ He runs his hands through his hair and repositions them over his boxers. ‘OBVIOUSLY I’ve already thought of that. I can’t find it!’
‘Max! Don’t talk to me like that!’ I frown. ‘Sweetie, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Talk like what?’
‘You’re shouting,’ I say soothingly. ‘You never shout.’
‘Daniel shouts all the time and way worse!’
‘Yeah, but you don’t,’ says Daniel.
‘I just want to put my fucking trousers on.’ Max growls so comically that I laugh in spite of myself.
‘I changed your nappies, Max. There’s no need to be bashful! And don’t say the eff word.’
‘Hey, Max,’ says Daniel.
‘What?’
‘You swore at Mum. You’re the bad boy now.’
Max reaches out with one arm and shoves Daniel’s chair. It’s only a slight move of his arm, but the chair leans sideways for a moment, tilting as if it will right itself, then Daniel slips across it, the weight shifts, and it topples to the floor.
‘Ahhh!’ Daniel bursts into a sob. ‘My head!’
‘Max!’ I cry, aghast, running round the table to help Daniel up.
Max’s face creases up and I can’t tell if he’s about to cry or scream. He takes his trousers off the ironing board.
I watch him, incredulous, while I hug Daniel. ‘What’s come over you?’
‘I didn’t mean for the chair to fall over,’ he mutters, pulling the trousers over his socks.
‘You pushed him,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I’m so disappointed in you.’
‘What’s happening?’ says Steve, striding into the kitchen.
‘Max pushed Daniel,’ I hear myself say, uncomprehendingly, as if the laws of gravity have just been suspended.
‘I’m sorry,’ Max mutters, his trousers already on.
‘Why did you do that, Max?’ Steve’s deep voice cuts through Daniel’s crying. Steve picks up Daniel and holds him, big as he is, on his waist. Daniel puts his arms about him.
I turn my attention back to Max. He stares at Steve, attempting to speak, but not knowing what to say. His fingertips touch each other and he picks his nails anxiously.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. Everything about the situation is alien to him, to us. Max toes the line. That’s just who Max is.
I am suddenly so deflated. I wanted this day to be special for us. Max looks at me, crestfallen, reading my expression.
‘Isn’t it funny when Max is the bad one?’ Daniel comments, sniffing.
Max looks from me to Steve as if he doesn’t know what happens next.
‘Did you push Daniel off his chair?’ Steve asks.
Max doesn’t say anything.
We stand in silence, a family portrait.
Finally I clear my throat. ‘We have to go in ten minutes.’
‘Max hasn’t apologised to Daniel,’ says Steve.
Max looks at Daniel in Steve’s arms. His lips open. Daniel pulls closer to Steve. Max frowns. He doesn’t speak.
‘Max!’ Steve snaps.
Max swallows. He looks at Daniel, but he can’t apologise. We wait. Max looks at me. I switch the iron off.
‘Sorry, Danny,’ Max says softly.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘I found your blue jumper. Let’s go.’
Max
The day of the photographs, the last day in November, was freezing and I felt weird, unwell, unhappy. I got up, walked through to the bathroom to pee, looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and retched. Nothing came up, but I think it was just something about the way my hair and mouth looked. It was . . . I don’t know. Seductive. Kind of innocent. It was too quick between the look and throwing up for conscious thought. I just gave myself a glance then turned to the toilet and my stomach heaved, just once, but I briefly thought about how people who knew about my condition might see me. Hunter’s one of the only ones who does, and he couldn’t stop himself from doing that to me. It’s weird to think of yourself as this seductive thing, with no thought to you, how you are. It’s as if my sexuality doesn’t belong to or have anything to do with me, just Hunter, or the other people who look at me, and how they see me.
I looked so otherworldly for a moment in the mirror. It’s not often that you really look at yourself, is it? It’s not often that you stare in a mirror. In the bathroom this morning I saw an androgynous fullness to my lips, a softness to the long slope of my jaw, this ambiguous eye, full lashes and no make-up, coming out from behind my hair. I don’t look girlish. I do look boyish. But I don’t look like a man. I’m something in-between, and normally I don’t see it. It was just that angle as I turned, as I looked up. It made me flinch. It made me wonder if I was the kind of person who turned perverts on.
It made me wonder, for a brief moment, if that was the only kind of person I could turn on. Then I remembered how Sylvie looks at me sometimes, and I felt OK again. This was after I’d thrown up, after I’d washed my face, while I was sitting on the closed toilet seat, the door locked, picking my nails, wondering. Feeling inadequate, lost and indefinable. There are no real words for me. Intersex means between two real things.
I stood up and turned around to pee. I pulled down my boxers and took my penis out. I’ve never had a real problem with my junk. It’s the only junk I’ve ever had. I don’t know any different. I wonder if it would gross Sylvie out, though.
When I was little, the doctors called me a hermaphrodite. It’s got a lot of stigma, but as a word on its own, I like it better. It’s a thing. It’s not between things. It’s an ancient Greek word. It makes me sound old, like
we were always around. I like that.
After we get the photograph taken –
(‘Amazing, gorgeous, perfect,’ the photographer, a woman, kept saying. Danny and I exchanged nervous looks.
‘Incredible, amazing, perfect.’
I sighed and I saw his little shoulders in front of me lift and drop too. We smiled until our cheeks ached.)
– they drop us both back in school. I could have stayed home but I have Games in the afternoon. Didn’t want to miss football. We’re playing a friendly 5-a-side tourney.
‘Oi, Captain, look out!’
I turn around and catch the ball on the tip of my shoe. I spin it around, and head upfield, dribbling and running with it.
‘Big Tom, take it!’ I kick it over to Tom, who is open on the other side of the field. He takes it out and towards the goal, passes to Tiny Tom, then I’ve run up near the goal on the other side of the field and Tiny Tom passes to me. I shoot, and we score.
‘Nice one Big Tom and Tiny Tom!’ I shout.
‘Thanks, Captain!’
‘Alright, you tosser, I’m gonna get you,’ Marc laughs, running back to mark me.
Marc’s captain of the other team. Me, Carl, Big Tom, Pete and Little Tom are doing well, up two goals to one with twenty minutes to go.
The regional coach, Matt Baxter, is on the sidelines, with our school coach, Mr Harvey.
My chest is aching and I think back, but can’t remember getting hit by the ball. I look down my top to see if I’m bruised, but I can’t see anything.
‘Max, stop staring at your tits and chase down that ball!’ yells Mr Harvey.
Matt says nothing, squatting at the sideline. I look over at Matt and make a face when Mr Harvey isn’t looking. Matt nods.
Marc has the kick and taps the ball back to Jim, his best defender, who boots it up to Gary, who has raced ahead and is near the goal. Luckily, Carl is too and sends it back up our way.
I get it, pass it to Big Tom, who passes it straight back to me as Marc tears up to him. I pass back to Pete, who pops it up to Little Tom, who runs with it. Then Jim is all over him and the ball shoots back to Marc. I turn and run after him, then get in front and tackle him. The ball slips back to me, Marc tackles it out from under my feet, then turns, and tries to boot it down to their goal end. I dive in front of it and it hits me right in my chest.
‘OW!’
It rebounds and I see Marc’s feet whip away as I grab myself and bend over.
‘Get it together, Walker!’ Mr Harvey yells.
I try to stand up but my chest is sore. It feels bruised. I look over my shoulder. Marc pops the ball in the goal. We’re drawing.
I stand still, trying to catch my breath.
Matt jogs up. ‘You alright, Captain?’
I nod.
‘What was up with your chest before?’
‘Thought it was bruised,’ I gasp. ‘It wasn’t.’
Matt gestures with his fingers and I let him look down my top.
‘Has he hurt his tits?’ says Mr Harvey, appearing from behind Matt.
‘I’m fine,’ I murmur.
Matt presses on my chest.
‘Ow! Shit!’
‘You’re not fine,’ says Matt. ‘Substitute!’ he calls.
Mr Harvey grumbles and rolls his eyes and I look up at them both.
‘I’m fine, really.’
The school coach shakes his head. ‘It’s your bloody build, Max. I told you, you should bulk up or you won’t survive the try-outs for the under-eighteen squad,’ he says, trying to infuriate me. He turns and walks towards the sideline, getting ready to blow the whistle as Mike Dante comes on as my substitute. Mr Harvey calls to me over his shoulder, ‘Man up, Max.’
I scowl at him.
‘Don’t listen, just come off the pitch,’ murmurs Matt. ‘You don’t want to break your ribs just before Christmas.’
‘He’s a tosser.’
‘Yeah, well, he doesn’t decide who’s on the team or what happens in the game, mate. You do.’
‘Urgh,’ I groan, sitting down on the grass next to Matt as everyone else starts to play. ‘I can’t wait to be out of this school.’
‘How much longer have you got until study leave?’
‘Six months.’
‘Exciting,’ says Matt. ‘You going to St Catherine’s?’
‘Hopefully,’ I say, kind of glumly. I think about the day of the exam, Hunter’s hand touching my shoulder, like it’s his to touch.
Marc kicks the ball wide and I follow it with my head as it flies off the pitch. Across the field I see Sylvie standing over by the fence of the netball courts, apart from the other girls.
I would go over, but I have to watch the match. It’s not polite to walk away from it, especially with Matt here. But I lift my hand, and I wave at her.
Sylvie
‘Hi, Sylvie!’
Max Walker seems to come out of nowhere as I’m walking out the school gates. It’s Friday, and school has just ended. He waved to me this afternoon, again, like a little kid. He seems in a better mood today. I wave back, smiling.
‘Hi Max, how are you?’ I say casually.
‘Ooo,’ Emma calls out as she walks past. ‘Max Walker rejected but tries it on again with Sylvie Clark! Way to go, Maxwell!’
I turn to Max and roll my eyes. ‘She’s an idiot,’ I murmur.
He grins. ‘My name’s not Maxwell, by the way.’
‘I didn’t think so.’
‘So . . .’ He shrugs, as if building up to something big.
‘Are you going to ask me to hang out again?’
He lets out a breath and looks off into the distance, smiling. ‘Oh my god, how did you know? Am I that transparent?’
‘Like glass.’ I give him a playful push and he gasps. ‘Shit, did I hurt you?’
‘No, sorry. Football injury.’
‘You hurt your tits?’
‘They like to play dirty.’
‘I’ll bet.’ I shoot back a grin and we are caught for a moment in a bubble that is completely unfamiliar to me. So this is it, I think. The golden boy bubble. We smile at each other like we know what’s going to happen.
Shit. Shit.
I watch his lips. His pretty hair flutters in the wind in front of one green eye.
Shit.
I like Max Walker.
Before I know it’s coming out of my mouth, I say, ‘We could go back to mine.’
Max hesitates, his eyes glancing to the side for a moment, and I guess I must look offended, because he seems to panic, smiles and then says, ‘Um, OK.’
‘Yeah?’ I ask, unsure of what I want, of what I expect to happen, a bit worried about him looking panicked.
‘Yeah, sounds good!’ says Max. He beams at me kind of blankly and heads off in front of me down the path to town.
‘You know where I live?’ I ask, confused.
‘Yeah, you told me.’
‘When?’
‘Like three years ago in swimming class.’
‘What the eff, how do you remember this stuff?’ I say incredulously, and Max giggles at me, and takes the lead, and I follow him, like a freaking lamb to the slaughter, like a horny teenage boy after any breathing girl, like a giggling Emma or Laura or Maria after a golden boy.
Shit.
Max
Sylvie’s house is a beautiful semi-detached Victorian house that I know my dad would love. Like our house, they have a front door they don’t really use, with a pretty grand stone surround. Around the back of the house, a door opens into the kitchen, again like ours. When we walk in, instead of kicking her boots off like we do the moment we step in the house, she heads through the kitchen, past a massive range cooker and a huge, bare oak dining table, and through to a small set of stairs that serve the back of the house. I later discover a much larger staircase in the front hall, and understand we are walking up what would have been the servants’ stairs in Victorian times.
‘Are your parents home?’ I ask.
‘Nah,’ she says. ‘But in case they come in, his name is David and her name is Bennu. They’ll probably both be at the uni until late, though. Dad’s doing a post-grad in Egyptology and Mum’s an Archaeology professor.’
‘Are your family Egyptian?’
‘Um, yeah, my mum’s family. But my dad’s doing this super big research project on Ancient Egypt. He’s obsessed with it.’
‘Cool, what is it about?’
‘The, um, role of Ma’at in Ancient Egypt applied to modern-day philosophy about democratic society.’
‘Wow.’
‘Ma’at is the concept of fate and universal balance. It’s not an actual mat.’
‘OK.’ I grin.
She grins back, then frowns. ‘Well, I think.’
We go into her room and I look around, before remembering not to be nosy. I take off my shoes and coat, then sit on her desk chair.
‘You can sit on the bed,’ she says.
‘Oh, thanks.’
‘You’re just a nice, simple boy, aren’t you, Max?’ Sylvie says, smirking weirdly.
I smile, although I’m not sure what she means. ‘You think I’m simple?’ I say, and laugh.
‘I didn’t mean stupid,’ she replies.
Then her eyes go misty and she leans towards me like she’s about to kiss me and I say, ‘Have you got any alcohol?’
‘Huh?’
‘We could play a game,’ I say, looking around the room for a bottle of something. ‘Like we have to drink every time Meg speaks in Family Guy. Do you have cable?’
‘That could be a long game. I’ve seen you really wasted at parties. Do you drink a lot?
‘Not really. Just I . . . can’t drink much.’ I shrug, grinning. ‘I’m a lightweight.’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘I’m trying to cut back. But I love dark rum. I’ll go get some.’
‘OK,’ I say, in an overly-cheery way, and she says,
‘Wait there,’ and leaves the room.
I put my arms around my knees and sit patiently, obediently on her bed.
It’s a really nice room. The walls are the dark red of a cherry, with wood almost the same colour. It’s not big but it’s not small either – it’s a good size. She has a double bed, which makes me slightly worried, and two windows: one over her desk and one the other side of the bed. That one has a window seat. She’s got loads of poetry books and tons of clothes, all hanging on a rail. A black sphinx sits in the window, watching me.
Golden Boy Page 13
