I look down at my purple Converse again. I look at my face sideways in the mirror. In the bathroom light, it’s much darker. It’s much older.
I turn away and choke. I start to cry. I haven’t the whole week. I didn’t even after the operation. I try to wipe it away and be quiet so no one outside will hear and come see what’s wrong. I reach for the hand towels and try to fix my face.
I’m such a fucking idiot. I’m an idiot for thinking it could ever be OK. I’m an idiot for thinking that if I just stayed in fucking bed I could forget it, and everything would go away. I’m a stupid idiot.
Sylvie
It wasn’t my idea to go out tonight, but Dad wants me to get out and meet other people my own age. I think he’s not happy about me having all older boyfriends. He doesn’t know about Max.
‘She should get out and have fun and make friends,’ he said, turning to Mum. ‘Shouldn’t she?’
Mum shrugged. ‘Ah, she’s fine. I like her being a weird loner.’
‘Thanks for the help,’ said Dad.
Still, Carla Hollis had rung the house, asked if I wanted to come to the Town Hall, where everyone in Hemingway hangs out. It’s basically a club. Kind of. There’s a lot of crap metal played there, but some good rock and lighter stuff. It’s not that great, but it’s OK. She was being nice because I’d been upset at school during Games, and she’d heard through Emma (somehow Emma knows everything) that Max and I had broken up.
So I got dressed up kind of Girl With The Dragon Tattoo-y goth.
As I head out, I say bye to Mum and Dad, and Mum says, ‘You look cool’, just as Dad says, ‘You look terrifying.’
Max
Outside the cinema I see Marc and the group of guys.
They call me over and I feel like I’m walking into a different world as I cross the road to be with them. We head for the Town Hall, which is a Friday night club for sixteen- to twenty-one-year-olds, where local bands play. We hang out with the older guys from the cinema, who are complete wankers but think they’re cool. They stink of pot. But then so do I. Everybody gets drunk.
Kerry is there.
She cuddles up to me in the club. She starts kissing my neck. I get drunk. Marc tells me he’s had sex with Olivia. I get more drunk. I can hardly walk. Kerry pulls me outside. She pushes me against the wall and kisses me. I kiss her back. She puts my hand under her skirt. I touch her.
Then she unzips my jeans and slips her fingers between my fly.
‘I’m on the pill,’ she whispers.
I shake my head. She shrugs and pulls a condom out of the mobile phone pocket of her parka.
‘No.’ I shake my head, pulling away. ‘Sorry.’
I practically run back inside.
As soon as I’m back in the dark hall, I see Hunter by the bar. The light there illuminates his face. He sees me and stares at me. I feel his dark eyes on my neck even when I turn away. I feel him walking up to me.
‘Hey!’ he says, loudly over the music. I face him. ‘My sources tell me you just went outside like five minutes ago with Kerry Duncan. I guess you don’t take that long, hey?’ He laughs.
I shrug, look through him, look around him. There is a group of girls lined up against the wall. They are all looking at him like they fancy him. Some of them are looking at me the same way. Hunter follows my eyes and winks at them. He’s dark and foxy. I’m blond and angelic. One of them giggles and waves at us both. I feel a lump rising in my throat.
Hunter turns back to me, licks his lips, grins darkly.
‘Wonder what they’re imagining,’ he says, leaning in to me, his breath hot on my neck. His lips brush my skin and he pulls back and grins.
‘I had to have an abortion,’ I mumble.
‘What?’ He frowns. I guess he can’t hear me over the music.
‘Hey, Hunter,’ Kelly Morez calls, walking past us.
‘Hi,’ Hunter says dismissively.
I shake my head, turning away.
‘Max!’ he yells, grabbing at my jacket, then at my waist to turn me around. ‘What did you say?’
‘Get away from me,’ I say, feeling my eyes water. ‘I hate you.’
‘What’s wrong?’ he says, holding my coat.
‘Pregnant,’ I drunkenly mutter.
‘Huh?’ He looks at my stomach, then back to my face.
‘I got rid of it.’ I wipe tears from my face with my sleeve and push him off feebly.
Hunter looks confused. ‘You what?’
I shake my head. He tries to grab me again but I push him off, crying. ‘Get away from me.’
I walk out the hall.
‘Wait,’ Hunter calls, grabbing my arm and pulling me around the side of the hall, where Kerry and I were minutes before. ‘What’s wrong? Are you OK?’
‘You don’t care!’ I almost wail. ‘You just took what you wanted!’
‘What the fuck?’ he says. ‘Look, calm down.’ He puts his arms around me and it’s like when we were kids again and he’d hug me if I fell over or lift me up when I was too small to climb onto the climbing frame with him. ‘Calm down,’ he says soothingly.
‘People will see,’ I say, trying to shrug him off. ‘They’ll write about me. Because of Dad.’
‘There’s no one here, Max. Look around,’ he says. He’s right. There’s no one here but us.
I sniff and wipe my face. I’m properly crying, wiping tears away from my cheeks as he stands with his arm around my waist and watches me.
‘What were you saying? In the hall?’ Hunter asks.
I drop my hands to my side and sigh deeply and he uses his thumb to wipe under my eyes. I let him, feeling helpless again, feeling pinned by his authority in our friendship.
‘No!’ I say, thinking about this, batting his hand away. ‘Get off!’
He steps back, holding his hands out and I shrink down to the ground, crouching, my back against the wall. ‘You knocked me up,’ I say, because it’s the least crazy, embarrassing way I can say it. Because it’s the phrase that least makes me want to cry.
‘What?’ Hunter says. ‘How is that possible?’
‘I’m half and half, you dumb shit!’ I say, checking to see no one’s here before I do. ‘What did you think would happen?’
‘Max . . .’ Hunter sinks to the ground, kneeling in the mud and grass. He reaches out and puts his hands on my knees, as if to steady himself. ‘Shit, Max, I’m . . . I’m sorry, OK? Shit. What are you gonna do? Are you gonna have it?’
I shake my head. ‘It’s gone. I . . . They made me get rid of it,’ I mumble.
He looks off to the side. ‘Fuck. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry.’ He puts his arms around me. ‘I just lost control, alright? I didn’t mean . . . I thought that you . . . Max, please don’t hate me, I’m so sorry.’
I’m frozen in a ball. I can feel Hunter’s arms around me, his head leant against mine, but I ignore him, instead thinking about everything I’ve lost over the past few months. I feel his hands running down my back, stroking me. I feel helpless and trapped again. My fault. I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have got drunk.
I will never again be this vulnerable, I promise myself.
‘Max, look at me,’ he commands.
My head rises, despite myself. ‘What?’ I say.
Then, angry at myself again, I push his arms off me and stand up. He stands too and moves closer to me.
‘I really never meant to hurt you,’ Hunter explains. ‘I thought you’d like it and . . . come round to seeing stuff my way. I’ve always . . . you’ve always been . . .’ He searches for the right words. ‘Think of how much fun we’ve had together over the years. Don’t you want that? Don’t you want to be best friends?’ His hand brushes a tear off my cheek. ‘Do you want to always be alone?’
I sniff.
‘Do you want to always be alone?’ Hunter repeats.
His dark eyes are black in the starlight. He moves towards me, his hands icy on my skin. His fingers brush my jaw on either side and I
realise I’m paralysed again, and drunkenly swear and shout at my body inside my head.
‘Look, if you can get over this . . . you don’t have to be alone. We were so good together. I’ve always been in love with you,’ Hunter whispers, his tone firm but almost shy. ‘You don’t want to be lonely, Max. It’s horrible.’
His fingers reach the back of my head and pull me towards him. Our lips meet, and he kisses me softly.
Then I think about being alone and, just for a moment, I kiss him back.
But as we kiss, I also put my hand to his chest. I shove him off me. He falls backwards onto the dirt. I walk towards him and lean over him.
‘You are a fucking nasty piece of work,’ I hiss, and he looks at me like I’m crazy, then he grins, a grin halfway between malicious and as miserable as I feel, and then he makes a kiss noise at me. I take all the saliva I have worked up from our kiss and I get it in the front of my mouth and I spit at him.
Then something catches my peripheral vision, and I look up, and Sylvie Clark is standing there watching us.
I walk away from Hunter towards her, then I walk past her.
‘Max!’ Sylvie calls after me. ‘Don’t you want to talk?’
I don’t turn around. No, I don’t want to talk, Sylvie. I don’t want another friend. I wanted a girlfriend. I wanted all of you.
I trudge past the houses, then down the country road towards home. It’s freezing and I can’t stop the salt rolling down my cheeks.
When I get home it’s almost midnight. I let myself in with my key and go straight to my bedroom, then stand in the middle of the room, wondering what to do. What’s my next move? Where can I go from here?
I find I can’t cry anymore, so I just hate myself and feel drunk and dizzy and can’t sleep. It’s the night before Christmas Eve.
Daniel
It’s the night before Christmas Eve. My brother came into my room tonight. He came in without me knowing. I was asleep. Then I wake up because there is a noise and when I look up it is Max. My light is on and the TV stack is shaking like he has just bumped into it.
‘Sorry,’ he says in a voice like his mouth is full.
‘You’ve been even more upset lately,’ I tell him.
‘Yeah,’ he says.
‘I wasn’t asking, I was saying,’ I say.
He stands there and sways a bit.
‘Do you want to play Top Trumps Dinosaurs?’
Max frowns and seems dizzy. ‘Not right now.’
‘I mean when I get them for Christmas, silly.’
‘Oh, no.’
‘Why oh no? Don’t you want to play?’
‘No, I mean. I mean, yeah, I’ll play. Sorry Daniel.’
‘OK.’
‘Listen, Daniel,’ Max says, and he comes up close to me and puts his arms around me.
‘You smell funny,’ I say.
‘Listen,’ he says very quietly and hugs me very tightly. ‘I love you and I’m sorry for being a bad brother. I wish you just had a brother. A good brother. A normal brother. I wish it was simple.’
‘Don’t be sad, Max.’
‘I’m really sorry.’
‘I know, Max,’ I say and I look at his face. ‘I think you’re just tired. Why don’t you go to sleep here?’
He hesitates. ‘No. I’ll go in my own bed. I’m cold. I’m probably just tired. You’re right.’
Max
I used to feel like I wanted to be somebody special. Now I just wish I could go back, and aim to be boring, uninteresting, normal.
It takes strength to be proud of yourself and to accept yourself when you know that you have something out of the ordinary about you. I had that strength. I had the solid foundation of a happy home, a good upbringing, a family that loved each other. We knew, collectively, where we were going. We were on the same page about who we were and how we dealt with things.
But we weren’t as strong as we thought. We thought we’d been tested, and we hadn’t.
Now I’m too tired and scared to say anything positive, to be proud of who I am, to be a good big brother to Daniel, to be anything but indifferent. I don’t believe in anything I used to believe in anymore. Growing up, you believe the friends you have are good people, you believe your parents are always right, you believe that when the hard times come, you’ll know what to do, you’ll get through it, you’ll be the hero.
But then the bad things happen and everybody lets everybody else down. And you realise that old friends can be bad people. Your mum and dad can’t fix everything. You’re not the hero you thought you were. It was just that you hadn’t had anything that difficult to deal with yet, so you didn’t know that you were really the coward. That you were really weak. No. I don’t believe in the things I used to believe anymore.
I already have apathy about everything surface-deep, and everything deeper is changing for the worse and it’s my fault: Mum, Dad, Sylvie, Daniel, all of it. I used to think I wasn’t trying at all to be the best brother, the best son, the best footballer, the best friend. Now I realise I was trying really hard. I’m starting to understand that attempting to be perfect has been the goal of my life. Our lives. Attempting to be this fault-free, smiling person in this loving, happy family that fits so perfectly in this pretty, inoffensive little town. What was so bad about that goal, after all? Only that I couldn’t do it. That I let everybody down. I’ve been so down about it, so depressed thinking about all the balls I was trying to juggle that I’ve dropped, and now the cogs are turning towards total apathy about it all, everything, and all I can think is that I am a shell of a human being. I’m a pushover. I’m to blame.
It’s not Hunter’s fault that I didn’t push him off me, and it’s not Mum’s fault that I didn’t stop the abortion before that last second. I guess I wouldn’t have kept it, but I can’t help thinking that I might have, if things were a little different, because I’ve spent so much time recently thinking about it and feeling sorry for it, and crying over it. Because it wasn’t the poor baby’s fault how it was conceived, no more than it’s my fault that I’m intersex.
But it is my fault, how I’ve reacted to my diagnosis, how I’ve dealt with it. Who I’ve become.
It was my turn to make the hard decisions. I had to count on me and me alone to hold my life and my family together. But I let all the voices get too loud and I didn’t listen to my own voice, that central thing at the heart of me that was beating like a drum, insistent, like falling rain on a window, saying that I should stop, give myself time, that I shouldn’t just do what everyone else said, that I should fight back and be who I am rather than who everybody else wanted me to be. I’m not the hero boyfriend Sylvie deserves. I’m not the hero big brother Daniel needs. I’m not the perfect son my parents wanted. I’m not the champion, or the parent the baby needed.
I’m weak and I’m scared and I’m tired. I’m a coward. I left things unsaid for too long and now it’s too late. I left a huge decision on Mum and then blamed her for it, when it wasn’t her responsibility. I should have said something earlier. I should have done something.
It doesn’t matter if I think like a boy or a girl. It doesn’t matter anymore if I’m either or both or neither. All that shit seems so petty and immaterial now. There’s so little difference between one human being and the next, it’s just hypotheses, human ideas about life and the world and words, that mean nothing; about definitions that mean nothing to the earth, to nature, to the universe. Boys and girls and intersex people and me – we’re just ideas, and when we’re dead, the ideas will go with us. It all means nothing. But I was so self-absorbed with it all, so absorbed with being this object that Hunter made me, this thing, so absorbed with me, me, me, intent on closing my eyes to everything and not thinking for a second, just doing, just getting rid of the problem of me, acting like a victim, playing my role. I got rid of the wrong thing. I got rid of my dignity. I got rid of my autonomy. I deserve to be alone. I deserve for everybody to know what I am. Who I am. It doesn’t matter anymore.
>
Now I can’t stop thinking. I can’t stop thinking that I let everybody down. I let Dad down. I let Mum down. I let Sylvie down. I let Daniel down. I let me down. I let the baby down. And for that I’ll always be alone. I’ll always be ashamed. I’ll always be a coward.
Steve
I’d like to say it’s a sixth sense that makes me knock gently on Max’s door at two in the morning, but it isn’t. I’m not like Karen in that way. I just worry about him all the time now. So I’m still worrying about Max when I knock on his door. I heard him walk up the stairs but he didn’t say hi, so I didn’t bother him. Maybe he didn’t notice me. Debbie and Lawrence have been here for a meeting all evening, but since they left I’ve been in the living room, getting the house ready for Christmas, putting out some of the decorations, finally getting round to putting lights over the bannisters on the stairs. I did everything Karen used to do. The cards on bunting around the room, the evergreen plants on the mantelpiece, the berries everywhere. I wrapped some of the presents and put them under the tree. I’ll put the big ones down there on Christmas morning. I’m terrible at anything to do with a stove, so I tried to buy mince pies off Nancy down the road but she insisted on giving them to me.
Everybody knows Karen is not living with us anymore, of course, even though we tried to keep it a secret. I don’t know how they know. I’ve not told anyone. Since people found out, a number of women have come up to me. I was chopping wood in the front drive yesterday and Emily Forner pulled over to offer her condolences. It’s . . . uncomfortable. They don’t understand that I’m not not taken. I’m in love with Karen. I couldn’t love anyone else. But this isn’t about love. It’s about principles.
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