Tim Te Maro and the Subterranean Heartsick Blues

by H. S. Valley

  Elliott smirks but doesn’t argue, just slings his arm around the back of my chair and leans over to peer into his backpack and pat his egg-daughter on the head. ‘Don’t you listen to the nasty man, Meggan, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’

  And I realise he’s right. For the first time in my life, Elliott Parker knows more about what’s going on with me than Sam does. And it doesn’t feel very good.

  CHAPTER 13

  CAN’T GET ENOUGH

  Later that night, as we’re tucking Meggan in and Elliott is singing her some ridiculously dorky-sounding lullaby, I decide to bring it up again – the fact that we haven’t told our friends. Or, at least, that I haven’t told Sam and Silvia, and I usually would’ve. I don’t tell Elliott I’m still undecided on whether I want them to know. He counters with a declaration that maybe Sam wouldn’t want to know what we’re getting up to. He goes on about all the many reasons this might be better kept a secret: our exes, our illicit sleeping arrangements, the threat of expulsion, the proximity of my mother. Neither me nor him being properly out yet, the fact that it’s not anyone’s business – certainly not yet. The freedom from expectations, from societal opinions, the thrill found in the secretive nature of the relationship … and that word, relationship. Is that what this is? Are we in a relationship? Is that how he sees it? The word falls so easily out of his mouth that I start to wonder if he cares about the list of reasons he made before he said it.

  Then he tugs at the hem of my shirt and I remember what he does care about.

  ‘Is this the signal, then?’ I ask, and lift up my arms so he can pull the shirt off over my head. I mean it to sound humorous, but he just looks at me like I’m a bit strange.

  ‘Signal?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I feel a blush coming as I lower my arms. ‘You know. Whether we’re gonna … I dunno.’

  ‘Do you want there to be a signal?’ He frowns. ‘I figured we’d just … go with it.’

  ‘OK. I just –’ I have the words in my head, but my mouth refuses to say them, like some sort of latent self-preservation instinct. Maybe, historically, humans really could die of embarrassment and this is my body trying to save itself from certain death. I take a breath and fall back on something I know is true. ‘I don’t know what your boundaries are. It’s making me nervous.’

  ‘Well, what’re yours?’ he asks, like it’s a trick question. ‘You brought it up. You talk.’ He reaches for the waistband of my jeans and holds onto it, not moving, eyebrow arched. ‘Is this OK?’ There’s a smile at the corner of his mouth and I’m pretty sure he’s making fun of me, but maybe that’s the best way to have this conversation – by pretending it’s not nearly as important as it is.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Kinda expected more from an expert like you, though. Did Blake like it like this?’

  Elliott’s expression puckers and his eyes narrow, and he slips his fingers a little deeper and yanks me closer. ‘I thought we agreed to be nice to each other?’

  ‘And I want to know how nice we’re planning on being.’ It’s still a bit baffling that he wants to do any of this with me at all, but I guess without Blake, and if he doesn’t like girls, his options are limited. Except I don’t actually know whether he likes girls. I never asked him, and now doesn’t seem like the time.

  ‘How nice would you like to be?’ He cocks his head to the side. ‘You’re the novice. It should be up to you.’

  ‘Fine.’ I reach out and undo the button on his trousers. He doesn’t flinch, so I double down and do the zipper too. The sound of it sliding open sets something off in my gut and I can’t tell if it’s fear or excitement or both, since I’ve just undone a boy’s trousers for the first time.

  ‘That was helpful, I suppose,’ he says, and he glances towards the bed before looking pointedly down at my hand. ‘I don’t know if I’d call it nice.’

  He’s egging me on again, and I wish I wasn’t falling for it, but I probably need something to make me brave right now. Besides, this is the point of the whole thing. To experiment; to explore who I am and what I like. And if he gets something out of that too, then fine. He probably deserves it. I don’t know if I’ll be any good at doing it this way round, but it can’t be harder than girl parts, can it?

  That said, I don’t know if I can touch him while he’s watching me.

  ‘I’m being nicer than you’ve been so far,’ I say. And when he looks up, all indignant, I lean in and kiss him, and it’s significantly less scary than it was yesterday. At least in comparison to what I’m about to do.

  On Monday Elliott and I have four classes together in a row, and there are still vivid images of our weekend together dancing around in my head. Worse, he spends our entire Maths lesson nibbling on the end of his pen with his knee against my thigh and his free hand intermittently reaching towards my lap to pat Meggan on the head. It’s nice she’s there for multiple reasons, but mostly to hide my interest in having him reaching for anything of mine again.

  In our Magical History and International Relations class it’s his turn to have her and it’s not really any better. His long fingers absentmindedly stroke her dome as we listen to the teacher summarise about four weeks’ worth of ‘How Magical Culture Impacts Interpersonal Relations’, and all I can think about is our own interpersonal relations and whether there’s a spell to determine if someone is ultimately bad for your mental wellbeing in the long term, even if you find them attractive. Just like Taylor Swift, I knew he was trouble when he walked in, and yet here we are. As least she’s profiting from her debatable choices. I don’t think my future regrets will be worth anything at all.

  Lunch is a welcome respite from having to sit touching him, except that instead, I have to sit opposite and watch him assemble a hot dog. By hand.

  ‘Can you make me one too?’ I ask, since it’s my turn with Meggan and it might justify the fact I’m staring.

  ‘Take this one,’ he sighs, and goes to hand me his.

  I hesitate before reminding him I like tomato sauce, and admitting I’m not that fond of mustard.

  ‘You’re not fussy at all, are you?’ He gives me a look before picking up a fresh bun and sliding a hot dog into it. ‘How many millilitres of tomato sauce would you like?’

  I want to laugh but I’m hungry and flustered, and it comes out like a grim chuckle. ‘You’re not being very selfaware right now.’

  He scowls at me as he squirts sauce on my hot dog, then asks how many sprinkles of grated cheese I want before deciding for me. He hands it over.

  ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ I say.

  ‘It was pretty hard, actually,’ he says, and smirks the very tiniest amount, so no-one else notices. ‘I got sauce on me.’ He holds my eye and licks a drop of tomato sauce off his thumb, far slower than is strictly necessary.

  I make it through Food Tech by force of will alone, but at least I can see him starting to suffer as well. He’s flushed the whole time I’m washing our carrots and courgettes. He cringes a bit when I start grating them. The tall pepper grinder seems to push him over the edge when it comes time to serve up, and he sits with his stool so close we’re touching from shoulder to ankle.

  We don’t make it back to our room after class. I pull him in the opposite direction once no-one is looking and drag him into a maintenance cupboard. I place Meggan gently in an empty mop bucket. He doesn’t bother asking what I’m doing, just locks the door behind us, rests his lit quartz on top of a giant pack of toilet paper and waits for me to shove him up against the door and kiss him.

  It takes the edge off. We make it through ’til bedtime without acting weird in front of our friends, at least. And Meggan is happy. Happier than Ana and Matt’s egg is. They decided to shut it alone in Matt’s single room where it can’t bother anyone and leave it there, damning themselves academically if there’s any sort of parental proximity sensor.

  Elliott and I make sure to act as platonic as possible – sniping at each other every so often, sitting at opposite en
ds of the couch. At ten o’clock we brush our teeth at a perfectly normal speed, and don’t walk to our room too quickly. Or hand in hand. Or even together. I go first with the baby, and he wanders off to hang out with Manaia for a bit before our dorm supervisor, Lorraine, drops in for her curfew check and packs everyone off towards their gender-appropriate corridors (still not knowing, hopefully, that some of us will be redistributing ourselves once she’s gone). I consider starting by myself after twenty minutes, but Elliott shows up not long after, looking harassed, and pounces on me immediately.

  My previous nervousness is nowhere to be found. The dam’s been broken, hesitation banished, and Elliott’s shameless enthusiasm has me flying off the edge of reason, eyes closed and arms outstretched like I might actually grow wings. There’s a lot to be said, it turns out, for hooking up with someone who has the same parts as you. It’s a thousand per cent more exciting because it’s another person, but you already have a comfortable understanding of how things work, what’s good, and at what point you should probably stop before it gets messy. Or not.

  The next day I manage to concentrate in my morning classes, since Elliott isn’t in them, but Magical History is almost a write-off again before I remember I actually need to know this stuff if I want to do any sort of law enforcement apprenticeship. I ignore Elliott’s glare and stick my headphones on, letting Fat Freddy’s Drop get me in the zone for a rehash of Chapter 7: Intercultural Bonding Practices in the Southern Hemisphere. I read the whole chapter and it’s a bit creepy in parts and dead boring in others, and I learn far too much about the romantic habits of people my nan’s age. Elliott spends a lot of time trying to distract me instead of doing his work, and I wonder what he’s planning to do with his life. Maybe he could be a nanny, or someone who irritates people for a living. Maybe politics would satisfy both.

  There’s a movie night organised for the evening, and Lorraine, along with my mum, are in the senior lounge handing out popcorn and growling at kids who aren’t being quiet. It’s horrifying to be in the same room, on the same couch, as Elliott and his wandering limbs when my mother is there, and he notices I’m tense and milks it for everything it’s worth. Lorraine, of course, is around most nights before curfew, helping with homework and keeping an eye out, and she’s used to Elliott and I being friends now. Mum isn’t. I get a lot of strange looks from her – usually when Elliott is being inappropriately touchy, which is saying a lot since there’s five of us on a four-person couch and it should look perfectly normal for us all to be overlapping somewhat. He makes it look dodgy, though, and I message him from my seat to get his bloody arm off the back of the couch behind me. He sends me an eggplant emoji followed by a lollipop emoji and I die a little. He ruffles my hair and I adjust Meggan’s blanket on my lap and fume in silence.

  He makes it up to me later. He’s better at that than Lizzie was.

  On Thursday night, we beg off early with homework and the hideous port comes out again and Elliott ends up giggly and handsy and we get almost no studying done. I decide not to complain and let him do as he pleases, which ends up pleasing me more than it does him, and he declares that I owe him one. I tell him he’s only getting his precious reciprocity if he can keep his hands to himself in class the next day so I can concentrate. It makes Friday a lot easier academically and a lot scarier emotionally as I realise what I’ve agreed to. I end up sneaking off to the loo and googling some stuff. I’m not sure if it helps, but I’m not risking any ‘instructional videos’ on the school wi-fi.

  We have nachos for dinner that night and I pick at them, eating so little that Ana and Silvia start shooting me worried looks and I have to shovel a bunch in just to avoid questions. It’s not like I could answer them. Certainly not at the dinner table. Or in the crowded lounge after. It’ll be hours until we can go to our room inconspicuously, and for once I don’t mind. This’ll be the first time we end up doing something I’ve never done before, and it feels like a bigger deal than anything else has so far.

  Elliott doesn’t seem remotely worried. ‘What’s up with you?’ he whispers.

  I stare at him. ‘I have something I have to do later.’

  ‘It’s kinda late to be doing anything.’

  I raise an eyebrow. Idiot. ‘Reciprocity?’

  ‘Oh.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘You don’t have to do that.

  Especially not if it’s going to make you all weird and quiet.’ ‘It’s fine, I want to.’

  ‘You really don’t have to, though.’ His brow wrinkles. ‘You get that, right? We came to a pretty clear agreement. Whatever you want.’

  He looks so carefully worried I feel the urge to hide my face in my hands, but I settle for just pushing all the loose hair out of my face. ‘I want to try?’

  ‘Fine.’ He smiles. ‘If you ask nicely, I guess I might let you.’

  ‘Right. I’ll beg for the privilege, shall I?’

  He blushes then, and my heart skitters and I look around. Enough people have gone to bed that we can probably leave without drawing attention. Having Meggan helps – we should probably get her down soon if we want her to have a decent sleep and not give us hell tomorrow. I stand up.

  ‘Night,’ I say to the rest of the group. They’re sitting on their phones, mostly, though there’s a fairly high-stakes game of Spite and Malice happening on the floor. Manaia looks like she’s winning and Ana looks like she might resort to violence if she does. I turn to Elliott. ‘You want me to take Meggan or are you coming to bed?’

  ‘I can carry her,’ he says, playing along. ‘I’m not incompetent.’

  ‘Whatever.’ I walk out and along the hall, then brush my teeth and try to calm myself down. When I get to my room, Elliott has put Meggan in her cot and changed into his pyjamas.

  ‘My turn,’ he says, and it seems a bit blunt considering he just said I didn’t actually have to, but then he just slips out the door towards the bathroom and I cringe at myself. His turn in the bathroom. My turn to feel like an idiot.

  I get changed and get into bed and put on some music. I turn it off again. I pull my pillow over my head and quietly scream into it. I wait, unable to decide if I’m more scared or more excited. I hear the door squeak, and close, and the lock clicks, and there’s a spark in my belly that gives me the answer.

  CHAPTER 14

  GREEN LIGHT

  He falls asleep before me, hours later, his hand pushed into mine. I find myself watching him, like if I stare long enough he’ll start to make sense. His behaviour is no less confusing after a week of dishevelled clothing and hidden hickeys and finding excuses to be alone together. Since the beginning, he’s been affectionate when it’s just us, and after his fun time teasing me in front of my mother during Tuesday night’s movie, there seems to be no boundaries in public either. I find myself thinking more about that than the physical stuff.

  We’ve chipped away at my curiosity so thoroughly, there’s really only one thing we haven’t even talked about doing – something I’d never expected to try for the first time with a guy I wasn’t even going out with. But each night that we’ve fallen asleep all tangled and soft and he’s murmured goodnight into my hair, I’ve wondered if it matters that we aren’t really going out – that we’re the opposite of committed, or that I’m thinking about using up my last first time on someone who might not really deserve it. Because apart from that, he’s been kind of perfect. Or at least, he’s been very good-looking and very patient. I feel like I’m waiting for something to go wrong, and the fact that it hasn’t yet is making me nervous.

  The next morning is Saturday so we stay in bed, just cuddling, Meggan wedged between us like we’re a family of gay penguins. It’s kind of lovely, but I don’t really enjoy it properly because I don’t know what lovely means. I wonder if my mood of uncertainty is obvious enough that he’s just trying to keep the peace by not trying anything, or if he’s getting sick of me, or if it’s just general sleepiness (or chafing). It feels a bit like a transition into something else, and I wish I kn
ew what, but asking seems like admitting it matters, and that’s not the point of all this.

  I’m conflicted enough that I go to see Mum after a late breakfast, as I do in times of uncertainty, and she comes too close to spotting a telltale mark on my neck and I don’t know what I’ll tell her if she asks about it. That I got back with Liz? That I have a secret lover? That I have a temporary boyfriend? A lab partner for the world’s least school-appropriate human biology experiment? I change the subject to needing socks, and her maternal instincts kick in as she plans a shopping trip. I let her presence soothe me into thinking everything will be OK. I don’t, obviously, ask her about sex, or Elliott, or sex with Elliott, even though it’s on my mind. I don’t know if she’d be quietly condemning or embarrassingly supportive. I don’t even know which of those is worse.

  She offers me a sausage sandwich for morning tea, and I’m in my head the whole time we’re eating, remembering things. I walk with her to lunch and it’s meatloaf loaded with a cheese centre. I get no respite. My brain is in horny, obsessive overdrive, wondering … When? If? Is there a limit to how far this can go? Should I try to satisfy all my curiosities while I can? Should I put a limit on it and save myself for someone who actually wants to go out with me? Will I even like it? Who’d do which thing? Does he want to do it? Can I ask? Then I wonder how Lizzie and I lasted as long as we did when my focus was clearly elsewhere.

  Whatever you want, Elliott said. So on the way back from lunch, I nod towards the corridor that leads to the workshop, and he smirks and pushes me ahead of him, checking no-one’s there to see us slip away.