Golden Boy: A Novel

by Abigail Tarttelin

  Sylvie

  ‘Hey, Max!’

  He keeps walking. It’s the end of school on Thursday. I’m following him through crowds of people waiting for the buses.

  ‘Hey! Hey, Walker!’

  A bunch of boys near him laugh at me.

  Max turns around and flips them off.

  ‘Hey, were you ignoring me?’ I ask.

  ‘No, sorry,’ he says. ‘I was just thinking. I didn’t hear you.’

  One of the boys says something and they laugh again. He looks over at them and I shrug.

  ‘Do you think I care what you think?’ I yell to them.

  Everyone has been talking about who Max has knocked up, why, how. Half of them think it’s me. They keep coming up to me and slyly asking me things.

  Max grins at my angry face as I too flip off the boys.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘Nothing,’ he says softly. ‘Kook.’

  I study him for a second. ‘Hey, green eyes. Something’s wrong.’ He opens his mouth to protest, but I shake my head. ‘No, no, no. No lies. Come home with Sylvie. You don’t have to talk. We can just cuddle and such things.’

  Max looks around kind of blankly, then hangs his head like he’s tired, and nods, looking lost. Then I notice something on his cheek and I make him tilt his head up. His eyes are full of tears.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbles. ‘I really like you.’

  I let go of his head. ‘What do you mean you’re sorry?’

  ‘I just . . .’ he wipes his face subtly and whispers: ‘I don’t think you should be going out with me. You’re so awesome and . . .’ He trails off and shrugs.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’m just . . .’ He mumbles something.

  ‘Huh? You’re scaring me, Max. What is it?’

  ‘I’m going through some stuff.’

  I wrinkle up my nose and stare at him. He looks really upset. I’m worried he’s about to say something horrible, something that will mean we can’t be together.

  ‘Aren’t we all?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No, like, really.’

  I look around, thinking. ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘This is not how it goes.’

  ‘I . . .’ He looks confused.

  ‘Have you knocked someone else up?’

  ‘No! I swear.’

  ‘Have you done anything wrong?’

  He opens and closes his mouth, then shakes his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  I breathe out, unaware I’d been holding my breath, and say, panicked, ‘OK, so, why are you trying to make me unlove you? Because I’m telling you now, Max, I can’t do that.’

  He blinks.

  ‘Let me tell you something about me. Are you listening?’

  Max nods.

  I try to hold it together and not cry until I’ve finished talking. ‘I’m not gonna make you stay with me if you don’t love me. I get that sometimes people fall out of love and I don’t want to be with you if you don’t love me the right way because someday, someone will. D’you get me?’

  He nods sincerely.

  ‘Secondly, I only go out with people if I think it’s going somewhere. Hence, if I have hung out with someone, say six times, or maybe for a couple of months, and I don’t think they are super wicked, then I break up with them. And I think that’s fair, because it doesn’t waste someone’s time, right?’

  ‘Right,’ he murmurs.

  ‘But if I’m with someone, and I’m asking if we should end it, this is how I do it. I say to myself, “Sylvie, are we (you and I) done?” and sometimes it’s obvious that we are done, and sometimes we are not done, and if I still love someone, if I am not done, then I will hold on to that dying flame until it’s all burnt out and it’s taken me with it. I’m a week older than you, Max, so listen to a sage survivor of several long- and short-term relationships and learn.’

  He’s watching my mouth and eyes.

  ‘Do you understand me, Max?’

  He nods slowly. ‘Yeah. I mean, I think I do. I’ve never really been out with anyone seriously.’

  ‘Of course you have,’ I say, trying to joke. ‘You’ve been out with everyone!’

  He laughs, but blushes. ‘No, I really . . .’ He looks around at the people passing us and lowers his voice. ‘I’ve just kissed people.’

  I wait and watch him for a moment. He looks nervous and tired, but he keeps looking at me as if he can’t stop. He stares at my lips and bites his own, then looks down at my hands.

  ‘So Max?’

  ‘Yeah?’ he murmurs, looking up with his eyes, his head still hanging low.

  I gulp down nervousness, aware my chest is heaving up and down as I try to control my breathing. ‘Are we done?’

  He thinks.

  ‘Are you and I done?’

  Suddenly I get a lump in my throat and I realise I really, really, really care about this guy, about Max.

  Please, please don’t say yes, I think.

  Max Walker looks at me, squinting in the low sun, golden hair lifting in the December breeze, his cheeks pink, and his green eyes bloodshot and dull. He looks at me like he’s desperate, like he wants to kiss me so bad but he’s fighting something. His eyes flick back and forth from the ground to my face.

  ‘Max!’ I say, and he looks into my eyes.

  We hold each other’s gaze. He sighs, as if he has to say this: ‘No. We’re not done.’

  Confused by how fraught he looks, I ask, ‘Are you sure?’

  He nods. ‘I didn’t mean to make you think I was unsure.’

  ‘OK,’ I say nervously.

  And suddenly in a rush, as if he was holding it in and had to burst out and say it, he comes out with, ‘You’re so beautiful, Sylvie.’

  I grin, unable not to, at his pure earnestness. Then I roll my eyes to prevent the tears from coming. ‘OK, then.’

  He giggles.

  ‘Come on, you weirdo,’ I say, shoving him teasingly. I grab him by the hair and push him towards the school gates.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asks.

  ‘Back to mine, of course.’

  He looks at me and smiles gratefully. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

  ‘Stop. It’s OK,’ I say, putting my arm around him. As my own fear subsides, I notice Max looks as shaky as ever. He leans into me. ‘You look so upset,’ I murmur into his ear.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Sylvie. I’ve been having a really, really bad two weeks.’

  ‘It’s OK. But that OK has conditions. Like, it’s OK to try to dump me, but only if someone’s died.’

  He puts his hand up to his face and makes a choking sound.

  ‘Shit! I’m so frickin’ stupid!’ I hug him again. ‘Come on, let’s get home.’

  Back home, I leave him in my bedroom and I go downstairs to make tea, then come up with a trayful of goodies my mum gave me.

  ‘What’s all this?’ he says, smiling at me like an excited kid. It’s amazing what sugar can do to lighten people’s spirits.

  ‘I raided the treats cupboard. I said you were really upset so Mum said we could have anything. We’ve got muffins and homemade chocolate chip cookies. Go on, have one.’

  He takes it from me. ‘Thanks. I’m starving.’

  ‘So what’s up? Did someone die? I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No. I mean . . . well, no,’ he mumbles incoherently. ‘To be honest, I’ve had a really bad autumn.’ He pauses. He sniffs. ‘I do really like you, Sylvie. I’m sorry I was mean to you. I just thought you’d be better off . . . well, not with me.’

  ‘Why?’

  He puts the cookie down on the bed slowly.

  ‘Um, OK,’ he says. ‘OK.’

  ‘OK, what?’

  ‘I think I’m going to tell you.’

  ‘Alright.’

  ‘I . . . It’s just, um . . . no one knows, so . . .’

  ‘You’re being very quiet.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he whispers. ‘I’ve never talked
about it.’

  I move over to him and kiss his neck. He leans in and kisses my lips once, quickly.

  ‘Sylvie, I want to tell you one thing before I tell you about the thing, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Just, you can’t say it back. You have to promise you won’t, because I don’t want you to regret it.’

  ‘Scout’s honour.’

  ‘OK, so . . .’ He nibbles his lip. ‘I love you.’

  I smile. ‘Wow! I really want to say something in reply!’

  ‘You can’t,’ he says sweetly. ‘You promised.’ He leans forward and kisses me gently.

  Suddenly Max smiles, really big. ‘There have been times in my life when I thought I would never, ever get to say that.’

  It dawns on me. ‘Oh my god, you have child cancer.’

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘Are you dying?’ I panic. He thought he would die before he loved someone! Oh my god! I put my hands to my face, unable to stop tears from escaping. Lovely Max dying. This is the stuff my fears are made of and they can’t come true, they just can’t. He can’t die! I choke up and grab his sleeve. ‘Have you always known?’

  ‘No! I’m not dying, I’m not dying!’

  ‘Oh my god,’ I say, halfway to hyperventilating. ‘Shit, you scared me!’ I hit his arm hard, then hug him. ‘Don’t fucking do that, OK?’

  ‘OK, I’m sorry,’ he says, a little taken aback.

  I sit up, getting myself calm again. ‘OK, hit me. What is it?’

  He hesitates. ‘I’m not sure if I should tell you now.’

  ‘No, tell me,’ I assure him, kissing his lips. I just want to know now, whatever he is holding in. I want it over with. ‘It’s OK.’

  He presses his lips to mine and we kiss for a bit. Then he moves in further and we’re hugging, his face in my shoulder/neck region.

  His voice breaks and he mumbles quickly, ‘I can’t talk to anyone about it. I want to, like, discuss it with someone but . . . I just wish I could talk to a friend about it, but I can’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Wait, Max, slow down, slow down.’ I pull his head back gently. Tears are streaming down his cheeks. Max . . . he just isn’t the kind of person you expect to see crying. He’s not a self-pitying person, and you can tell that from knowing him only for a little while. He’s one of those try-hard, brave-faced, stoic people that you sort of have to love because they’re so sweet. So I know that crying means something super bad. I put my other arm around him and hug him. Our foreheads press together, and he looks up at me and I look into his lovely emerald eyes, and I kiss him.

  ‘Oh god,’ he murmurs. He pulls away. ‘Shit, Sylvie. You don’t want to do that.’

  ‘Shh,’ I soothe. I kiss his cheeks, kiss all the tears off his face. He hugs me tighter and breathes in, with his face tucked into the curls on my shoulder.

  ‘Max,’ I say. I take a deep breath and gather all my strength, like I’m turning into the rock Max can count on. If he needs someone to talk to, I won’t let him down. ‘Look at me. I cross my heart and hope to die, anything you tell me will never leave this room, and I promise that I will still like you and I will still want to be your girlfriend. If you want me to be.’

  ‘Well,’ he sits up, wiping away tears and trying to calm down. He smiles. ‘Sorry for crying.’ He holds my hands and strokes them. ‘I really do it’s just . . . just only promise to be my friend, OK? Just in case you don’t . . . want to be my girlfriend. And it’s OK if you don’t. I understand. So . . . just promise to be my friend.’

  ‘I can promise to be your girlfriend,’ I offer.

  ‘I don’t want you to. It’ll just make it awkward.’

  ‘OK.’ I nod solemnly. Inside I’m flipping out. What the fuck is he going to tell me? He killed someone? He’s a whore on the weekends? He does heroin? He has AIDS? Shit . . . I bet that’s it. He has AIDS. His parents are these crazy do-gooders and they took him to Africa when he was a baby and he has AIDS. Outside I stay calm. ‘I swear I will be your friend.’

  There’s a long pause, and he bites his lip.

  ‘No one knows.’

  I nod again.

  He mumbles something that I don’t hear.

  ‘Huh?’ I say.

  ‘I’m, like, both,’ he mutters quietly.

  There’s another silence. He swallows, looking into my eyes like he’s guilty of a massive crime, looking ashamed. He tries to mouth something.

  ‘Both what?’

  He’s still quiet.

  ‘Bisexual?’ I whisper.

  He shakes his head. ‘No. I’m . . . I was born . . . I’m not a boy or a girl. I’m in-between.’

  Max

  ‘Are you serious?’

  She lets go of my hands and I literally feel my heart breaking.

  ‘So, you . . .’ She shakes her head and looks briefly, for a millisecond, at my crotch. ‘What do you have?’

  I can feel my cheeks turn red. ‘Um . . .’

  ‘Never mind,’ Sylvie says, holding her hands up like she doesn’t want to know. ‘Forget I asked. That was . . . stupid.’

  I open my mouth but there’s nothing I can say. She’s backing away on the bed, minutely, trying to find the words to tell me to go, and I realise what I’ve done. I’ve told her. She knows. There is a leak in the seal of my secret. Sylvie knows and she’s backing away, standing up, struggling to say anything at all and she’s going to talk to people. She’s going to talk to people at school about me and everyone will know. Everyone will know. Every day I’m there, everyone will know and look at me differently and talk about me.

  Sylvie gets off the bed and wanders away a little in the room, her neck bowed, thinking earnestly.

  ‘Wait, listen.’ I stand up too, and come towards her. ‘Please,’ I plead with her. ‘No one knows apart from my family and my doctors. Even my brother doesn’t know, so . . . please don’t tell anyone.’

  Her eyes search the floor, then look up to me.

  ‘Sylvie, please, I’m begging you.’ I am horrified, I think. I am an idiot. ‘It was such a stupid idea to say anything. I’m sorry. I’ll go.’

  ‘No, it’s . . .’ She falters, looking like she’s having trouble speaking between breaths.

  ‘It’s OK, I understand,’ I say, picking up my bag.

  ‘Max,’ she says, and catches my arm. ‘No, just . . . wait a minute.’

  So I do. I stand there, one hand on my bag, watching her face as she stands on the spot and just breathes in and out, concentrating.

  After what seems like forever, she turns and looks me in the eye. ‘This is huge, OK? I can’t just . . .’

  Thoughts wander across her face. I try to put myself in her shoes and guess what she is thinking. Does this make me a lesbian? What’s in Max’s pants? How can I get him out my house?

  At this point I just want to be rejected, as fast as possible. Cut me off, Sylvie, do it, because I can’t stand it. Even standing here, trying to say something, looking me up and down, making me feel queasy, she is stunningly beautiful. Her eyes are so intense and so thoughtful. Full of thoughts about me.

  ‘Please don’t tell anyone,’ I murmur.

  She looks at me like I’m insane. ‘I’m not going to.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I whisper.

  ‘So . . . um . . . how?’

  ‘Normal people have XY or XX chromosomes. I have XX and XY.’

  ‘Yeah but, like . . .’ She trails off again. I can’t tell if she looks grossed out or just incredibly confused. ‘How does that happen?’

  ‘Um . . . I don’t know. Nobody knows.’

  ‘Do you have, like, a . . .’ She pauses. ‘Penis?’ She puts a hand to her mouth to cover a grin. ‘Sorry. I can’t say “penis” without wanting to laugh.’

  ‘Oh my god . . .’ I exclaim, wondering what she’s thinking, if we’re now in friend-zone, making jokes about penises, or whether . . . she still likes me. ‘You’re so inappropriate,’ I say.

  ‘I know,’ she agrees. ‘Penis.’ She laug
hs a bit too hysterically.

  ‘You think it’s . . . funny?’ I say, feeling my throat tighten with nervousness. Please please please, I beg the universe, not knowing quite what I’m asking for. Please please please.

  Sylvie shrugs. I don’t know what that means.

  I shrug back and look down at my feet, still holding my schoolbag.

  ‘Yeah, I have one.’

  I glance quickly at her through my hair. Her reaction is a swallow, followed by a nod. ‘Okaaay,’ she says. ‘Do you have, like, other stuff?’ She wrinkles her nose and looks down at her own feet.

  ‘Like what?’ I say, playing dumb.

  ‘Like a . . .’ She makes a ‘V’ sign with her fingers.

  I hesitate. It’s fine to have a penis. But this is kind of the deal breaker. ‘Yeah,’ I murmur softly. ‘But it’s . . . smaller.’

  ‘Oh my god,’ she utters, and sits back down on the bed.

  Neither of us speaks for a while and I slowly sit down on the bed too. She leans into my shoulder and whispers, ‘Max.’

  I turn to look at her, and then, in tentative staccato movements, she puts her arms around me, pulls me to her, then leans back and pulls me further onto the bed, so we’re lying down lengthways, and she’s cuddling my head into her neck.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she whispers.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything,’ I whisper back. We lie there for a while.

  ‘So . . . are you more girl than boy?’

  ‘Um,’ I turn to her and frown. ‘Why are you covering your mouth?’

  ‘Breath.’

  ‘You don’t have bad breath.’

  ‘I might,’ she mumbles from behind her hand. ‘I ate a burger.’

  ‘I’m half and half and you’re worrying about your breath?’ I try to joke.

  She nudges me with her knee and smiles weakly.

  I half-heartedly smile back. ‘I’m pretty much half of each. I can’t . . . have children in the guy way, though. I’m infertile.’

  She thinks. ‘That’s sad.’