‘Yeah, but not quite as little and not quite as scared.’
‘Obviously. To reveal your birth gender in front of so many people … well, that took guts.’
I folded my legs beneath me and hugged a cushion to my chest.
‘I’d thought about it really carefully,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how many kids at Milltown knew I’m trans – they all know now, of course – but some obviously did. Anyway, I thought that if I was going to do it, then it was important to also stress my identity. This is where I came from, but this is who I am now.’
Mum took a sip of her wine. ‘Your birth name, followed by “But we know him as Rob”. You wrote that for them?’
‘Exactly. I was taking no chances with my identity.’
Mum took another sip of wine and then burst out laughing. Unfortunately, this propelled a stream of wine from her nose and I had to rush over with yet more kitchen towel. Even when she’d regained control, tears of laughter still ran down her cheeks. Or it might have been wine.
‘That is so gross,’ I said. ‘I thought Trixie was gross, but you’ve outdone her.’
‘Sorry,’ said Mum. She blew her nose long and hard. ‘I just had the worst thought.’
I waved an encouraging hand.
‘Your grandfather loved to interfere and you’d think that death might have slowed him down. But no. That silly old bastard is still interfering from beyond the grave.’
I smiled. It was true.
And it was also true that he would’ve loved to hear Mum say that.
I got the text in bed at 10.30.
Uve got the drama stuff sorted rob give u that
I hadn’t been able to sleep anyway, so I turned on my bedside lamp and thought about my reply.
I aim to please Andrew. Any clue as to the general reaction from the public?
Wtf plus bit more wtf
You’re a wordsmith.
I no
Have you even heard of punctuation?
Only rumors
Will everyone hate me?
They did b4 so no change how u feeling
Is this you being considerate about my feelings, Andrew?
No will deny it to death just asking
I feel fine. Even if there’s bound to be a few more kids wanting to beat me up.
Good job im ur mate then
Yes, but not just for that reason.
Go away freak
Night night.
Dad came in well after midnight. Judging by the noise he made getting his keys into the lock he’d had a bit too much to drink. When I went to my bedroom window and parted the curtains I was relieved to see he hadn’t driven home.
The one advantage to dropping a bombshell at the end of the school year is that you don’t have to face the consequences until the following year.
I was pleased by that nearly six weeks’ break.
Christmas was fun once I accepted I wasn’t going to find Grandad sitting in front of the television after lunch, snoring and breaking wind. Andrew wasn’t around either because his family goes to Queensland every year to spend time with rellies, but he texted me often, mainly, I suspect, to annoy me with his spelling and punctuation. I have this sneaking feeling that when he texts anyone else, he writes normal stuff. But with me, he’s getting worse. I mean, meri krissmuss? Come on, Andrew. That’s just desperate.
So we stayed at home, though on Boxing Day we drove to the Old Farts’ Palace to take some presents and a huge bowl of trifle that is Mum’s specialty. Agnes gave me a big hug and whispered in my ear: ‘So what do you think, Rob? Who’s going to die next? My money’s on Alf over there.’
I can’t tell you how much I loved that.
Most of the time I took Trixie for long, rambling walks or spent hours in my bedroom, writing. Year Nine was a scary prospect when I thought about it, so I tried not to think about it. The writing helped. So did Trixie.
I’d avoided the park where Destry walked her dog, possibly because I wasn’t sure how she’d react the next time she saw me. But then I remembered Pop’s last challenge. Stop hiding. Be proud of who you are. What was the point of that whole prize-giving stunt if I tried to avoid people?
So I found myself on a bench in the park at about two-thirty on a Monday afternoon. It was a very hot day and the weather had even calmed Trixie down a little; she’d walked at my side like a proper dog rather than something demented or possibly demonic. Then again, there weren’t many people or dogs around, so that helped. In this kind of weather, the temptation was to stay at home or find an ocean to swim in. I would like it placed on record that I did not go to the park at the time when Destry normally walked her hound.
It didn’t matter, because I’d only sat there for ten minutes when she turned a corner, attached to something that could have doubled for Rudolph in an emergency, if you were prepared to overlook the absence of a red nose. And antlers. One minute later, Destry was sitting at my side, the dog perched next to her like a muscly mountain. Trixie tried a steely gaze, a small yelp, and then thought better of it and fell asleep.
‘Merry Christmas, Rob,’ said Destry.
‘You too,’ I replied. ‘What did the big fat guy in red bring you?’
Quite a bit, it turned out. We exchanged tales of Christmas gifts, dinners and embarrassing family encounters. For all that, I couldn’t help but think we were avoiding the one subject on our minds. Or at least the one subject on my mind.
‘I’m so sorry about your grandfather,’ she said. Had I really not spoken to her since Pop’s death? Apparently not. ‘He seemed like a real … character.’
‘Character is one way of putting it,’ I said. ‘Some people would’ve put it another way.’
‘Was it right what he said?’
‘About what?’
‘That you were in love with me?’
Ah. Good old Grandad. Little more than a bag of ashes but still capable of embarrassing me. I thought. A good number of possible replies ran through my head.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘And do you still love me?’
This was trickier. I’m thirteen years old and this is the first time I’ve been in love, I thought. I’ve got nothing else to compare it to. Maybe it feels like love but it’s actually a rare form of indigestion. Anyway, my feelings have changed. Or have they? Is it simply that so many things have happened that I can’t maintain that level of intensity towards her? Hell. I had no idea.
‘Maybe,’ I said.
We sat in silence for a minute or two.
‘Loved the prize-giving ceremony,’ she said finally. ‘You stole the show.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. There was another pause. ‘Did you know I was trans before that?’ I added. I had to ask, even though I had no idea if the answer was going to be of the slightest importance.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t a closely guarded secret, you know. In any school, if one kid knows, everyone knows. That’s just the way it is.’
I nodded. I should have thought about that, because it’s so obviously true. Gossip makes the school world go around. I lifted up my head to say just this but the words never arrived.
Destry stopped them. By kissing me.
It was a long kiss, my first one. And sweet.
When she was done (I didn’t take much of an active role in the process, other than shutting my eyes and keeping my mouth open and my brain from over-heating), Destry took my hand in hers, though I noticed she avoided eye contact. I kept quiet because I had no idea what to say.
‘I don’t want you to get the wrong impression, Rob,’ she said finally.
My brain wasn’t at its finest, it has to be said, but I had some difficulty processing this. She’d just kissed me. How could any impression I got be wrong?
‘I have a boyfriend,’ she continued, ‘and I’m happy with him.’ It occurred to me that if she was that happy she wouldn’t be kissing someone else, but who am I to make judgements about romance? I’m no expert, that’s for sure. So
I kept silent.
‘But I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.’
‘Okay,’ I said. What else could I say?
She got to her feet and her dog lumbered to his. I stood as well. Call me old-fashioned. Trixie snored.
‘Hey,’ she said, as if an amusing thought had just struck her. ‘If I had been your girlfriend, would that have made you gay?’
It had taken me virtually no time to fall in love with Destry Camberwick. I remembered her entrance into my classroom vividly. The world had stopped turning on its axis and her beauty had been a punch in the gut. It wasn’t a rare form of indigestion. It had been love, or at least a variation of it. What I hadn’t realised was how it was possible to fall instantly out of love. I did now. That kiss had been sweet and unexpected and wonderful. Now it felt … tainted.
‘We kissed,’ I said. ‘That makes me straight. What do you think it makes you, Destry?’
There was hurt in her eyes and I knew we’d almost certainly never speak again. As I watched her leave the park I couldn’t find it in myself to care.
I went home and told Mum I was going to Brisbane next July with the state under-sixteen soccer team.
‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘But what about panic attacks, public toilets and problems around dressing rooms?’
‘No idea,’ I said. ‘I guess if they really want me in that squad they’ll have to sort that stuff out for me.’
‘You made me a character in your book,’ said Ms Pritchett. ‘That’s so sweet, Rob.’
My monthly meeting, a twenty-five minute bus ride from our house. Summer’s heat was building and the bus had been stuffy, the passengers quiet and grumpy. I don’t know how I can tell the mood when no one is saying anything, but I knew. I felt a bit grumpy myself. The forecast was for low to mid-forties for the next few days. God help us all. Ms P’s office is a further ten minutes’ walk from the bus terminal, so I was irritable and sweaty when I arrived. Not for the first time I wondered why I bother with this every four weeks, and not for the first time I came up with the answer. There’s something pleasant about routine and there’s also something liberating about talking to someone for an hour, knowing you don’t have to make any pretences because no judgements are being made. Plus, her office has air-conditioning …
It wasn’t like that at the start, of course, (she’d always had air-conditioning, though) but Ms Pritchett had gained my trust over the years and hadn’t let me down. That was why I’d given her that whopping sheaf of papers she called my ‘book’ – I got a little shiver when she said that, I don’t mind admitting – because I knew she’d read it, for one thing, and there’d be nothing in there she didn’t already know quite a bit about.
‘I thought you’d get a kick out of it,’ I replied.
Ms Pritchett picked up that fat pile of paper from her desk and started flicking through it. I looked around the office to see if anything was different – it’s a little game I play – but the same framed certificates were on the walls, the same photograph of her daughter on the desk, positioned at an angle so she could see it and anyone sitting on my side of the desk could as well. I liked that. It made me feel just a tiny bit included in her life while I included her in mine.
‘It’s terrific, you know,’ she said. ‘You should get it published.’
‘Oh, no,’ I said, in a pathetic attempt at modesty. Oh, YES! I screamed inside my head.
‘It’s very imaginative.’
‘English teachers have remarked upon this before,’ I said. ‘Apparently it’s discussed enthusiastically in staffrooms, which only proves they need to get out more …’ I stopped, while my brain delivered the results from its processing of her words. ‘Hang on,’ I continued. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Ms Pritchett put the sheaf back down on the desk. A small puff of dust lingered in a sunbeam from the window behind her, motes dancing. She leaned back in her chair and made her fingers form a steeple.
‘I mean, you’ve taken a couple of … liberties with the truth.’
I pointed at the papers. ‘Ninety-nine per cent of that is pure fact,’ I said. I think there was indignation in my voice. I hope so, because I felt it.
‘I’m not a teacher at your school, Rob.’
I waved a hand. ‘Oh, come on. That character plays only a small part in the story and I just put it in for a bit of fun. Like I said, I thought you’d like to be in it.’
‘I could easily have been. We’ve been meeting for … what, four years now, Rob? Yet there’s not one mention of that in this book.’
‘Our meetings are not very exciting, Ms Pritchett,’ I said. ‘Sorry to break it to you.’ I knew I was being snotty, but she was dissing my writing. Not in an obvious way, I admit, but that’s how I felt.
‘That’s true,’ she said. I was annoyed her tone of voice betrayed no emotional reaction to my comment, especially since that’s what I’d been aiming for. ‘But I think it’s interesting your fictional teacher is the one protecting you from Daniel Smith.’
‘It’s not interesting,’ I said. ‘It’s meant to be funny.’
She ignored me.
‘A teacher with superpowers, always there to protect you.’
I snorted. ‘Come on, Ms P. I mean, jeez. Ever heard of humour? Hello?’
She ignored me again. ‘That would have been useful in the real world, wouldn’t it, Rob? Because, as you’ve told me on many occasions, there was no one to protect you at school, apart from Andrew and he couldn’t be there all the time.’ I tried to interrupt, but she was having none of it. ‘And a good few others who gave you grief at school appear to have disappeared from your narrative. All lumped together in the one character of Daniel Smith.’
‘There weren’t that many others …’
‘Should I review my notes, Rob?’
I said nothing and tried to regulate my breathing. I know what I wanted to say – that not one of those certificates on the wall said qualified psychiatrist. But that wasn’t going to work. Ms Pritchett had stuff she wanted to get off her chest and nothing I could do, short of leaving, would stop it. It’s kinda ironic, I thought. I’m normally the one talking and she’s the one listening. Our roles appeared to have reversed and perhaps that would be … interesting.
‘What else is untrue in my story?’ I asked when I’d calmed down a bit. ‘Come on. You talk and I’ll listen.’
She gave a half-smile at that.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Here’s what I think. I think you have told your story with typical humour and decency, but sacrificed things in order to present an idealised version of your world. You’re right. The Miss Pritchett character is a small example. But what about your grandfather? The way you tell it, he never had any significant problems with you being trans, but that’s not true.’ She got up from her chair and stood at the window, her back to me. It would be nice to say she looked out on a cityscape or a park with joggers, and mums and dads pushing prams. But the only view was of a discoloured brick wall and a potholed section of car park. ‘Of course, the most severe … reworking of reality is with your portrayal of your father. In the narrative he’s always understanding and supportive. True, there were hints right at the end – the section about the school prize-giving is the best example – that he wasn’t comfortable with your gender identity, but generally you give the impression of a harmonious home life filled with unqualified love and support.’
She turned to face me. The beam of sunlight had gone now – I had no idea how it had intruded in the first place given the outlook from the office window. Maybe it had been a reflection from a car windscreen. ‘I’m not being critical, Rob. Honestly, I love your book and you made me cry. But I also have a professional responsibility and I worry you’re trying to create the world you’d like to exist, rather than facing up to the one you’re stuck with. Remember, I’ve accompanied you for at least a part of your journey and I know the massive obstacles you’ve had to overcome. Are still overcoming.’
I sat
in my chair for a long time, saying nothing. It was important to frame my response carefully and rationally, especially since emotions were bubbling up and threatening to overwhelm. Sometimes, these days, just the mention of Grandad’s name can do that. But I was wounded. So I tried to see things from Ms Pritchett’s point of view and that calmed me. I could see why some stuff in my book would worry her. And there was another irony. We had discussed many times how my ability – my determination, Ms P said – to always see the other person’s point of view was a good thing and a bad thing. She hinted that my empathy sometimes made me want to forgive the unforgivable. I thought it made me a nice person.
Ms Pritchett gave me a wad of tissues. I hadn’t even realised I was crying. So I snorted and sniffed and was generally disgusting for a few minutes. But it helped. My voice trembled only slightly when I spoke.
‘Thanks,’ I said. I dropped a large, wet bundle of tissues into the bin and gave one last revolting sniff. ‘I’ll try to explain. First of all, the other kids and Daniel Smith. I told you about threats at school because … well, obviously they hurt. But I also said, many times, that this wasn’t the whole story.’ I brushed a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. ‘Maybe you think Milltown High is full of prejudiced bullies, but it isn’t. It really isn’t. Yeah, some kids gave me grief, as you put it, but most didn’t. They did accept me. They were supportive.’ I pointed at the photograph on the desk. ‘You’ve got a daughter about my age, Ms P. I don’t know if she talks to you much. I can’t imagine you do to her what you do to me.’ She smiled at that, but said nothing. ‘Kids of our age, I think, are tolerant in ways older generations aren’t. Most kids simply don’t care. Provided you don’t hurt anyone, they’re cool with the colour of your skin, your sexuality, your size or the way you dress.’ Ms Pritchett put a finger to her lips as if considering the point, so I carried on. ‘Yeah, some kids care about all those things – the bullies, the nasties, the unpleasant pieces of work. But, trust me, they’re the minority and they’d have a go at anyone they thought was different. Ask your daughter. I think she’d agree.’
A Song Only I Can Hear Page 17
