Only We Know

by Simon Packham

  ‘Haven’t you done enough?’ I say, grabbing my hand back and pushing angrily past her. ‘You’ve made a pretty good job of messing with my head, but you are not going to stop me walking down that runway to my favourite song.’

  ‘You don’t understand, I —’

  But I can’t hear her. The Beatles classic 1969 hit single, ‘Get Back’ is filling the sports hall. And the atmosphere backstage is electric. Excited Year Sevens in their bin-liner and cornflake-packet ensembles high-five me as they run giggling towards their changing area, Miss Hoolyhan mouths a smiley ‘good luck’, and even Katherine looks up from her laptop to offer me an ironic two-fingered peace sign.

  I take my place at the foot of the catwalk alongside a glistening figure in swimming trunks.

  ‘All right, Dizzy?’ says Conor Corcoran. ‘You look a bit—’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I snap. ‘In fact, I couldn’t be better, Conor. But what about you? What have you done to yourself?’

  ‘Well, you’ve got to oil up, haven’t you? Tell you what, babe, maybe later on you could rub it in for me.’

  ‘In your dreams.’

  When the chorus comes in, we start walking.

  And I’m so up for it. At least now Tilda’s told me everything, I know my secret’s still safe. I am not going to let her ruin the whole night for me.

  ‘Conor is wearing black floral swimming shorts with a hidden tie string – let’s hope he doesn’t get sand kicked in his face. And the lovely Lauren is wearing a lace-panel yellow sundress – perfect for those lazy summer days.’

  It feels fantastic, strutting down the runway to my favourite song. The audience seem to be loving it too, screaming their approval and stamping their feet. Even Dad’s smiling. And with Harry at the side of the stage to share the moment with me, it couldn’t be more perfect.

  But when I get to the front and start posing, something strange happens.

  The screaming stops, and then turns to a feverish murmur. A second later the music cuts out. That’s when I see the kids in the third row pointing, and I half wonder if Conor Corcoran is doing something inappropriate behind my back. But as soon as I turn round, it all becomes clear.

  ‘Jesus … no.’

  The whispering stops. An eerie quiet fills the sports hall.

  There on the screen at the back of the catwalk are three life-sized images. The first is a nine-year-old boy in an Arsenal football shirt, the second a screenshot from a YouTube video of an awkward teenager in a flowery blouse with too much make-up and the hint of a moustache, and the third is a sixteen-year-old girl on her first day at St Thomas’s, posing unwillingly for her mum’s iPhone next to a single hand, the rest of whose body has been brutally amputated.

  So far so random.

  Except there’s probably something else I should tell you.

  All three photographs are of me.

  But just in case someone out there doesn’t get it, the caption underneath reads:

  HOW LUKE BECAME LAUREN

  38

  WHO I AM

  I stare into the audience. Every eye in the sports hall stares back at me.

  ‘Well, I don’t know what that’s all about,’ says the flustered compere. ‘We seem to have had a small technical hitch. But if you just —’

  ‘It’s okay, Harry,’ I say, grabbing his microphone. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

  ‘You don’t have to do this you know,’ he whispers, grasping my hand and refusing to let go.

  What choice do I have? If I’m ever going to be the person I want to be, it’s now or never. ‘That’s okay, Harry. I know what I have to do.’

  Word must have filtered through backstage, because by now Magda, Izzy and the rest of the models are lining the catwalk, Katherine and Grunt have deserted their post at the sound desk and Miss Hoolyhan and Mr Catchpole stand grim-faced by the fire exit, like a nearly married couple, upstaged by a last-minute gatecrasher with secrets from their past.

  I scour the audience for a friendly face. She really is the most incredible woman, because instead of tears or hysteria, she smiles encouragingly, like the parent of that innkeeper who forgot his lines in the Nativity play. And, like twelve Christmases ago, if I focus on Mum I might just be able to get through it.

  ‘Have you ever seen one of those movies where someone wakes up in the wrong body? Well, it happened to me for real.’

  How can silence get even quieter? But somehow it does.

  ‘I always knew I was a girl, even when I was little. It wasn’t exactly rocket science. My favourite game was dressing up in my sister’s Snow White outfit and playing princesses. But there was one big problem. I was born a boy and my parents called me Luke.’

  There’s a nervous giggle from the front row. It’s the boy who claims to read fiction for pleasure.

  ‘That’s me in my Arsenal kit. Dad thought I was going to be the next Thierry Henry. Sorry, Dad.’

  Dad half smiles, half tries to disappear.

  ‘I didn’t tell anyone because … well, because I thought it might go away. It didn’t, of course. I couldn’t play princesses any more, but when everyone was out, I used to put on Mum’s clothes and experiment with her make-up. And by the age of twelve I was so angry about having to keep it a secret that I ended up in the psych ward. That’s where I first told someone.’ I turn to Harry. He squeezes my hand and nods. ‘And once I’d told him, I felt much better.’

  Right now, I’m not sure how I feel. At least no one’s walked out yet.

  ‘But that was just the beginning. Telling my family was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And they were amazing – especially Mum. She even gave up work so she could drive me to London for my appointments. I still feel bad about it. Because it takes forever, convincing the “experts” about something you’ve known all your life. So I was nearly fifteen by the time I got my diagnosis.’

  Tilda’s standing by the wall bars still crying. Half of me can hardly bear to look at her; the other half wants to give her a big hug.

  ‘Then last summer, I got the go ahead to start transitioning, to start my life as a woman, to begin becoming Lauren. That holiday was probably the happiest six weeks of my life. At last I could be the person I wanted to be, the person I always knew I was.

  ‘But I made the mistake of thinking that everyone else would be happy for me too. When I went back to my old school as Lauren, they just couldn’t cope. That was probably the worst time of my life. And if Mum and Dad hadn’t been so brilliant, I think I would have …’

  I take a deep breath. I am not going to cry. I am not bloody going to cry.

  ‘In the end, Mum took me to a gender therapist in the States who started me on hormone blockers and oestrogen. And after a while, I felt more confident about “passing”.

  ‘That’s how I ended up here at St Thomas’s. It was the new start I’d always dreamed of; where I could just be Lauren for a change and no one knew about my past.’

  I glance back at my nine-year-old self. ‘But I guess the little slide show has blown it. So there’s one more thing I want to say to you.’

  A bead of sweat sets off from my armpit. If this backfires on me, it’s game over.

  ‘I can’t live a lie any more. But I’ve put my family through enough already. So if anyone’s got a problem with me, all you have to do is say something now and I’ll never come back.’

  Silence.

  Harry leans across and kisses me on the cheek.

  More silence.

  And then the sound of footsteps as Katherine jumps onto the catwalk and wraps her arms round me in a most un-Katherine like way. ‘I take back what I said about you,’ she whispers. ‘You’re incredible. And I’m sorry about the photos. Someone must have messed about with them. I should have checked.’

  Next to step forward is the oiled-up swimmer – which is probably the last thing I need. Because if anyone’s going to mess this up for me it’s Conor Corcoran.

  ‘So what’s the big deal?’ he says, standing shoul
der to shoulder with me and eyeballing the crowd. ‘We’re all with you, Lauren. This is the twenty-first century, you know.’

  And pretty soon I’m joined onstage by some excited Year Sevens (still keen to high-five me despite the revelations); guys in tuxedos and girls in their prom dresses, pageboys and bridesmaids; Mrs Gough the art teacher who’s been helping backstage; some Year Tens in their winter outfits; the boy who claims to read fiction for pleasure; half the netball team in Lycra; Magda, Izzy and all the dressers and an ‘emotional’ Miss Hoolyhan.

  Only Tilda hangs back, standing alone at the side of the stage, like the last person to be picked for netball. I’m still pretty furious with her, but I really need my sister to be part of this, so I smile and beckon her over.

  Tilda pushes her way through my crowd of supporters, whispering, ‘Sorry, Lauren,’ as we fall into a tearful embrace.

  But it’s only when health and safety becomes an issue that the ageing groom with the droopy moustache steps onto the catwalk and takes charge of the microphone.

  ‘Thank you, Lauren, that was most … interesting,’ says Mr Catchpole, brushing away a blob of moisture that can’t possibly be a tear. ‘Sometimes as a teacher you learn more from your pupils than you ever thought possible. As most of you know, courage and tolerance are two of our school community’s key values. I think we’ve seen excellent examples of both of them tonight.’

  He pulls a crumpled Tesco bag from his morning suit.

  ‘Now before we continue, perhaps this is a good time to draw the raffle. The prizes this evening include two tickets for the Wetlands Centre, a twenty-pound spa voucher and an iPod Shuffle. The PTA has also donated a …’

  39

  EIGHT MONTHS LATER

  It took me a while to forgive Tilda for sabotaging the fashion show. And even longer to come to the conclusion that (screwed up though it was), in a way, she’d actually done me a favour. After all, if it hadn’t been for her, I might never have had the chance to tell everyone the truth about myself.

  I’m not saying it’s been easy – the sister thing, I mean; we’ve both had to work hard at rebuilding our relationship. But at least we never stopped talking about it, and these days I honestly reckon we’re closer than ever.

  ‘Come on, Lauren,’ she says, pointing her iPad at me. ‘Grandma wants to see your prom dress.’

  We bought her a laptop for her eighty-fifth birthday, and amazingly, she can’t get enough of it.

  ‘Hi, Grandma,’ I say, waving at the twinkly-eyed octogenarian on the screen. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘You look lovely, Lauren,’ she says, distorting a little as she peers into her webcam. ‘Make sure you put some photos on Facebook.’

  ‘Yeah, will do.’

  ‘So where’s your friend then?’ says Grandma. ‘Come on, Katherine, give us a twirl.’

  Katherine’s gone to a lot of trouble for someone who’s only going to the prom ‘ironically’. All right, maybe she is dressed as a character from Scooby-Doo, but it took me two hours to straighten her hair and I’m quite sure the girl with glasses didn’t wear make-up.

  ‘Very nice dear,’ says Grandma diplomatically. ‘I’ll Skype you tomorrow, Lauren, for all the gossip.’

  ‘The car’s arrived,’ calls Dad. ‘Come on, girls, you don’t want to be late for the ball.’

  But before we go I should probably tell you what happened after the fashion show. It wasn’t quite the Hollywood ending I was hoping for. Miss Hoolyhan wouldn’t say anything, but I know for a fact that a few worried parents phoned in the next morning about the changing arrangements for PE. Then there were the kids who took ridiculous amounts of pleasure from calling me ‘the gender bender’, a Facebook page that soon got taken down, and the girl with the purity ring who was keen to promote her dad’s message that ‘God doesn’t make mistakes’.

  But gradually, school got better. And after a while, I actually started to look forward to it. Mr Catchpole even asked Harry and me to talk to his PSHE groups about teenage mental health issues and how I’d coped with my transition.

  We had some pretty interesting discussions. Although when it came to the Q & A sessions, two questions seemed to crop up with monotonous regularity.

  And just for the record here are the answers:

  1. Yes, I’ve still got one.

  2. I don’t know yet.

  But I do know how lucky I am. What are a few nasty comments when you’ve got good friends? It’s a small price to pay for truly being yourself. Because there are some places where being yourself comes with a prison sentence – or worse.

  ‘Hurry up, Lauren,’ calls Mum. ‘George is here.’

  Grunt is standing in the hallway with a bouquet of mixed vegetables, which he presents to Katherine.

  ‘They’re lovely,’ she says, kissing him on the cheek and giving him a Scooby Snack.

  Those two were made for each other.

  ‘Okay, ladies,’ says Grunt. ‘Your carriage awaits.’

  Mum, Dad and Tilda follow us out to the road to wave goodbye.

  Now that’s what I call a cool car: a classic VW Camper, with blue petals for hub caps and The Mystery Machine in big orange letters on the side. Velma and Shaggy take the front seat, and Grunt’s dad, who’s dressed as a chauffeur, slides open the back door so I can climb in next to my prom date.

  There’s one more thing I should probably tell you. I’m not seeing Harry any more. We’re still close, and we hang out together all the time, but we both agreed that with our shared history we were probably better off as ‘just friends’.

  So anyway, you’d better meet my prom date. We’ve been going out for nearly six weeks now, and I have to say, things are looking good.

  ‘Wow,’ says Conor, handing me a single white rose. ‘You look beautiful, babe.’

  I was surprised too, but he kind of grew on me. He’s funny and loyal and actually a really nice person once you get to know him. After all, I should know better than anyone that first appearances can sometimes be deceptive.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Simon Packham was a stand-up comedian and then an actor for twenty years before becoming a writer. He has published four previous books, including Silenced, which was shortlisted for several awards including the Leeds Book Award. Follow him at www.simonpackham.com or on Twitter: @baldambitions

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  Copyright

  First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Piccadilly Press

  Northburgh House, 10 Northburgh Street, London EC1V 0AT

  Copyright © Simon Packham 2015

  The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted, in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978–1–84812–427–1

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  Printed and bound by Clays Ltd, St Ives Plc

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