Hideous Beauty
Page 1
HOW WELL DO YOU REALLY KNOW THE PEOPLE YOU LOVE?
Dylan falls for Ellis the moment he meets him – he’s funny and fearless and makes living in a small town like Ferrivale more bearable. Dylan is head over heels in love, although deep down he sometimes wonders if Ellis is keeping secrets from him. When a tragic accident rips them apart, Dylan begins to discover just how little he knows about the boy he loves, and that Ellis isn’t the only person in Ferrivale who’s been keeping secrets…
Powerful, page-turning and perfect for fans of Adam Silvera and Karen McManus
“Stunning…a gorgeous, twisty gem of a book.” Simon James Green
“The UK finally has an answer to Adam Silvera.” @elfcouncillor
“A touching tale of LGBTQ+ identity with an intense, emotional mystery…poignant and powerful.” @bradleybirkholz
“Beautifully written and unpredictable.” @faridahlikestea
“Had me completely hooked in a way that only the likes of Adam Silvera and Karen McManus have managed.” @LoofyJ
“I love love love this book. Buy it, read it, support it. Brilliant, realistic characters; excellent queer representation; thrilling mystery; important themes; beautiful writing. Essential reading.” @nocaptainreuben
“A mystery with same sex kissing. Lots of kissing. Heartbreakingly good.” @PewterWolf
“A thriller like nothing I have ever read before… A beautiful, horrific, funny, sad, hilarious and tragic story. I implore everyone to read it.” @dantheman1504
“A brilliant reminder that regardless of our orientation, our race, our gender, our upbringing…we are all dealing with things, and we all need to be there for each other.” @GKSihat
“I couldn’t put it down, I cried, my heart swelled with love and joy, and I cried some more!” @Angstygeek
“Captures the utter absorption of young love: the feeling of discovering something brand new, and feeling like you’re in your own world…so authentic.” @MrsMoEnglish1
“A mysterious gut-wrenching love story. Pure mastery.” @SleepyJoe7
“An absolute stunner of a book. Superb writing, realistic characters, hard-hitting but relevant themes and brilliant queer rep. YA needs more books like this.” @Dreamer_2311
‘“A heartwarming exploration of love. A treatise on consent, representation and surface level acceptance. A soul crushing look at grief with a layered central mystery.” @JamesCross1
“It’s gay and beautiful.” @traceydrewbooks
“Just finished Hideous Beauty and I loved it. But that last chapter has broken me.” @babypumpkincake
“Finished Hideous Beauty. Dude. I’m in awe.” @empireofbooks
Contents
About this book
Dedication
Trigger Warning
NOW: Thursday 2nd April
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
THEN: Tuesday 5th November The Bonfire
NOW: Monday 27th April
8
9
10
THEN: Saturday 23rd November The Bookshop
NOW: Tuesday 28th April
11
THEN: Saturday 23rd November The Library
NOW: Tuesday 28th April
12
13
THEN: Sunday 8th December The Flat
NOW: Wednesday 29th April
14
THEN: Sunday 8th December The Bedroom
NOW: Wednesday 29th April
15
NOW: Thursday 30th April
16
THEN: Thursday 2nd January The Church
NOW: Thursday 30th April
17
18
THEN: Saturday 14th March The Barbecue
NOW: Thursday 30th April
19
20
21
22
23
NOW: Wednesday 15th July
24
THEN: Wednesday 1st April The Picnic
Help Organisations
Letter from Katherine Cox
A letter from the author
Acknowledgements
In memory of Marilyn Hussey.
I think you’d have really liked this one, Mum x
TRIGGER WARNING
Hideous Beauty is a work of fiction but it deals with many real issues including grief, trauma, drug use, cancer, physical and sexual abuse.
Links to advice and support can be found at the back of the book.
El makes the suggestion and I bury my face in my hands.
“Are you seriously trying to kill me? Honestly, I’d like to know, just so I can decide who gets my stuff after I’m dead. To you, Ellis Bell, I leave my complete comics collection, plus this sweet middle finger, which I’m flipping you as we speak. I also hereby return all the drawings you’ve ever given me. You’ll find the really filthy one taped under my desk drawer.”
I pull my hands away and give El a sidelong smirk. He smirks back. And I know I’ve already lost the argument, because his smirks are in a different league and complemented by these huge brown eyes that compel you to surrender.
“C’mon.” He rocks my shoulder. “Don’t be a drama queen. It might be fun.”
“Dude, I have had more than enough ‘fun’ for one day.”
And that might be just about the greatest understatement in human history.
El sighs and turns his belching, beat-up old Nissan Micra out of my drive and onto Denvers Row. I watch his long dextrous fingers grip and slide and tube the steering wheel, and my stomach flips. Just a little.
“El,” I say warningly, “this is the way to school.”
“So anyway, I thought your parents took it pretty well,” he says, deflecting like a pro. “Your mum laughed and clapped her hands like you’d just farted pixie dust out of your arse and your dad actually gave you a hug. Sort of. Honestly, was that a hug or was he burping you? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so awkward. Oh, and by the way, I saw that brother of yours checking me out again. I’m not sure what creeps me out more, Chris lusting after me or that immense pube thing your mum keeps on the dining room table.”
“First” – I raise a finger – “that is one of my mum’s decorative sculptures. She made it at her art class last week, and she’s very proud.”
“Hey, I’m not judging. As far as immense pube things go, it’s a keeper.”
“Second,” I say, forcing my lips into a straight line, “Chris is most definitely not into you. You embarrassed him fairly spectacularly at the Berringtons’ barbecue, remember? And he has a girlfriend. Third girlfriend this year, in fact.”
El shrugs and takes another turn towards school. “It’s true,” he says quickly, cutting off my latest protest, “that ‘Chris’ is the least gay name your parents could’ve come up with for their firstborn. But three girlfriends in twelve months? That’s protesting way too much.”
“And your gaydar is never wrong, I suppose?”
“Not where McKees are concerned. By the way, while we’re talking names, with ‘Dylan Lemuel Jasper’ they were just asking for trouble. But I guess they’re so hip and tolerant and everything, they actually wanted their second son to be at least a little flouncy.”
“Flouncy?” I shake my head. “That’s coming from you?”
And just like that the mood changes. It’s the kind of jackknife switch around that might give anyone else whiplash, but after all these months of secret dating, I’m used to El’s rhythms. He loses the adorable grin for a second and one of those strong, gentle hands reaches across the space between us, his fingers interlacing with mine. He draws my palm to his mouth and kisses it. I decide a millisecond beforehand that my stomach will
not flip. Not this time. Not every time. Come on, it’s getting ridiculous.
It flips.
“Dylan, I mean it. Your mum and dad? That was pretty awesome. I don’t think you even realize how awesome. You told your parents who you were and you got to leave the house with all your teeth. It’s one up on my coming-out story, anyway.”
I blink hard and cup the line of Ellis’s jaw. He nestles his face into my palm. El very rarely cries, even when he has every reason.
“You know,” I say, “I’m always here if you—”
“I know. But I’ve told you most of it anyway, and I had the dental work done the same day I moved into this cheesy little town. And, honestly, McKee D, a lot of rancid water has gone under that particular bridge; I don’t really fancy wading back into it again.”
He smiles. A strained grin so big that it reveals his pearly whites all the way to the back molars, like he’s a living advertisement for the Ferrivale dental surgery. His teeth are perfect. Of course they are. He’s Ellis Maximillian Bell. By the way, Maximillian? That’s one of the few things about my boyfriend I haven’t been able to figure out. From what I know of his parents, it seems unlikely they took that much trouble over his middle name. In fact, having to come up with a first name was probably a chore for which they never forgave him. My theory is El took Maximillian for himself, claimed it and owned it, and that it’s as recent as last December, when Mr Morris introduced us to the main characters of the French Revolution and El became fascinated by the rebel leader Maximilien Robespierre. For all of a fortnight. El’s passions are intense but fleeting.
Except, I’m happy to say, in my case.
My boyfriend. Weird how new that still sounds. I roll it around in my head for a bit. I like how it rolls, smooth and easy and natural. Okay, so he’s been my boyfriend for quite a while, but as of tonight, it’s official. My brother knows. My parents know. The world, or at least my tiny corner of it in Ferrivale, knows. It’s thanks to some sweaty-palmed pervert at school who caught us unawares with his smartphone, then posted us all over Instagram. Honestly, I guess I should thank our friendly neighbourhood pornographer. His shonky camerawork gave me that final push when nothing else could. I had to bite the bullet and come out to my family.
El never understood what my problem was with telling the folks, and I guess to an outsider – especially one with El’s family history – it must have looked unnecessarily cowardly. But you see, things aren’t always as people make them out to be, and that look my parents exchanged when I told them, the look El didn’t catch?
Well.
“Suh-oooooo,” he prods, “can-we-can-we-can-we-can-we?”
I claw my fingers down my face and moan. If I really put my foot down he’ll turn us around, I know he will, but here’s the thing: scared as I am – freaking petrified as I am – I’m also kind of curious. So I admit defeat and give him the nod.
“Huzzah!” We’ve stopped at a junction and El paddles the steering wheel with his palms. Then, digging into the pocket of his perfectly contoured charity shop jacket, he takes out a lipstick and puckers. “Ellis will go to the ball!”
Less than a minute later we’re screeching into the school car park. El’s almost five months older than me and handles his Nissan with the air of a racing driver. He’s even taken the “Unteachable Twonk” (yours truly) out for a few jittery lessons. In my defence, he’s not exactly the most conscientious teacher. I still have no clue how to parallel park or even change gear smoothly, but he’s done his utmost to pass on the über-important skills of handbrake turns and burning rubber. Among other things. I think back to our first driving lesson in the empty car park of the old MegaDeal supermarket at the edge of town, and a delicious heat prickles my cheeks. I learned a few things that night, none of them in the Highway Code.
El hurtles us through the gate and aces a ninety-degree handbrake turn before parking in front of Miss Harper, Grand High Dementor of the geography department. She gives him the kind of look that could suck the soul from a muggle at fifty paces. Then she sees who it is, and smiles like someone’s just offered her a hamper full of kittens. I’m not sure whether she’d choose to pet them or eat them, but still.
“Looking fox-haaaay, Miss H!” El kind of dances around her as we pass, and she giggles. Actually giggles. Jeeze. “You’ve done something with your hair. Fssssst! Hot as.”
The fevered rat’s nest atop Miss Harper’s head has been a fixture ever since my arrival at Ferrivale High seven years ago. It probably predates even those long-ago days and has its roots way back in the dim and distant mists of her supervillain origin story.
We don’t have tickets but such formalities are for mere mortals. Approaching the doors to the gymnasium, El beams a gigawatt grin that sets Katie Linton, Suzie Ford and the rest of the Easter Dance organizing committee swooning. Even Gemma Argyle gives him an indulgent smile. I roll my eyes as they usher us through. Jesus, are they just not getting the subtle signals El sends out? The ones that murmur, oh so softly, GAAAAAAAAAAYYYYY!
The bass hits us as we push through the swing doors. The usual stale funk of the gym is complemented tonight by some painfully perky pop. Ellis probably knows the name of the band, the members’ ages and star signs, their favourite junk food and any scandalous rumours doing the rounds. I, meanwhile, have the musical tastes of a great-grandfather and anything post-80s Madonna might as well be ancient Sumerian as far as I’m concerned. Despite knowing this, and that I have all the co-ordination of a freshly ejected baby giraffe, El grabs the collar of my black T-shirt – always black, saves the headache of fashion – and drags me through the crowd.
“Ellis, what the hell?” I seethe into the back of his neck.
“Stop it,” he laughs, swatting my breath away, “tickles.”
“I’ll do more than tickle in a minute!”
He plunges us onto the sparsely populated dance floor, planting his hands on my hips, turning me to face him, drawing me close.
“Promise?”
And screw Ellis freaking Bell and his freaking gorgeous grin.
My stomach flips again.
Okay, Dylan, this is it. No going back. The closet door is firmly barred behind you, chained and bolted. No re-entry, no refunds. It’s gay all the way from here on out. I’m guessing that at least fifty per cent of my classmates have now seen me doing the naked fandango with a guy anyway, so I can’t pretend Catwoman does it for me any more, no matter how much she kicks ass. My heart feels light and fluttery, hardly there at all, but El’s hands are strong and sure on my hips. I don’t look around; I keep my eyes fixed on his.
Deep breath.
Here goes.
It’s time to see what Ferrivale High makes of the new (improved?) Dylan McKee.
“You are, aren’t you?” I whisper into his neck. “You are trying to kill me.”
“Relax,” he whispers back. “And know that, if you try to run, I will trip you.”
The whole thing’s happening so fast that I sort of forget to be petrified. Here we are at school, and I’m out, and El hasn’t given me a moment to be scared. I suddenly realize this has been his plan all along. It’s the last day before the Easter holidays. If he hadn’t insisted on coming to the dance, storming us inside before I could catch my breath, I’d have had the whole break to worry myself stupid. This way, at least we’ll get it over with. And so, yeah, I’ve got to hand it to my boyfriend: he is sort of a genius.
We dance on. Strobe lights from the disco heliograph across El’s trademark pearls, picking them out in greens and blues and yellows. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without them. Those pearls are El’s insistent, glorious flourish; his little wave to the world that says he is who he is, like it or not. They are also freaking cool! I love his pearls. I love his long graceful neck and the dark pixelation of stubble around his jaw and his sharp cheekbones and his sleek black curls and his strong hands in the small of my back and…
Him. I love him.
I love you, Ellis.
I love him so much that my fear vanishes. They know, all of them. Even if they didn’t get to see the video on Instagram before the mods took it down this morning, it will have been downloaded and shared a hundred times by now. When the internet has got hold of your left nipple, a little of your right butt cheek, and your face screwed up in what is either full-on ecstasy or chronic constipation, it will never let you go.
But we dance, and I watch the faces that know go by, and I just don’t care.
“Kill me now,” I say, and don’t mean it at all.
“Why would I kill you?” he murmurs. “I’ve only just found you.”
The rhythm changes, the tempo ramps up, and he pushes us very gently apart. He’s still dancing, but whatever I’ve been doing – it can’t by any definition known to the human race be called “dancing” – stops. I just sort of stand there, swaying.
“What do you mean?” I mouth back. I can hear him perfectly but feel I have to mime because I’m now so lost against the music. “You found me ages ago. Last November. The bonfire. A Diet Pepsi and the school band and Alistair Pardue flat on his arse. Remember?”
“I’ll always remember. But I really found you tonight, Frecks.”
The tempo slows again and he pulls me in, tighter than before. El’s a good head taller than me and I love it, how our bodies just kind of fit together, like they were made that way. And right then I think: Screw every single evil knuckle-scraping bigot who screams “God hates fags!” If there is a God, then he made us to fit, El and me.
His chin grazes softly against my cheek and the crest of freckles that earned me one of my El-brand nicknames. Frecks, the Unteachable Twonk, the Prof, and McKee D – the last because of my notorious (in El’s eyes) love of all junk food.
“I found you tonight when you became you,” he goes on. “When you told them.”
He’s right. I breathe. I am me. Totally me in a way I never thought possible before. And I don’t care any more that I can’t dance and that there are people lounging against the monkey bars whispering behind their hands and laughing at us, and that a single barked “QUEERS!” erupts when the song dies down. In fact the word’s a prompt and I do something I would never have thought possible twenty-four hours ago.