by Naomi Kramer
“Mum said she'd have a talk with her, try to calm her down a bit,” I say, and throw an arm around his shoulders, “buck up, OK? It'll be alright.”
He sighs.
“I don't want to go back to Sydney, Mais...”
“Then toughen up, k? You can do this! And hey, why don't we meet up at lunchtime? I'd only go to the library otherwise.”
“You are such a geek.”
“Oh, fine, go play with all your other friends then, huh?”
He laughs and gives me a quick hug.
“Better go, my keeper might be after me by now!”
He runs in the opposite direction to the crowd eating morning tea, and after a second of confusion I get what he's doing - appearing from a different spot so it doesn't look as though we snuck off together. Not bad... almost like he has experience in sneaking around.
“What is it with you two?”
I jump.
“God, Georgie, you scared the crap out of me!”
She raises an eyebrow, and I know it's at the terrible use of the word 'crap'. Because good girls don't swear, even a little bit. Ever.
“You're sneaking around with him again?” she asks, “Mais, do you have a crush on him or something?”
Huh?
I shake my head.
“No, we're just friends!” I say, kinda lamely, because I realise halfway through saying it that she and I are supposed to be friends, too. Except I get along a lot better with Mark.
“But you hardly know him!” she says, frowning, “and besides, Mum says -”
God help me, I can't cope with more of her mother's opinions.
“GEORGIE! We're just friends, ok? We clicked. We're similar personalities. That's all. Now will you stop imagining me having sex out back after church, already? Geez!”
She sniffs, obviously offended, and stalks off. Fine, whatever. She's a prize pain in the arse when she gets judgmental. She'll probably turn out just like her mother. And with that thought, I'm wondering for the fiftieth time why she and I are friends in the first place. We spend most of our time disliking each other lately.
****
The next weekend, I wake up to a gorgeous Saturday morning. The sun's shining, there's about three clouds in the sky, and the predicted high is 25 degrees. This is a perfect day to ditch homework and chores, and head for the beach. I grab a couple of Mum's muffins from the kitchen, write her a note to tell her where I've gone, and skip out before she wakes up. Next stop, Mark's place.
Since Mrs Catrick's still on an 'anti-Satan' crusade, I find myself resorting to the cliché, a handful of gravel thrown at Mark's window. A few seconds later, a bed-headed Mark looks out the window at me, laughing. And a few minutes later, he's running out of the house and grabbing me for a quick hug before we run down the street together.
Later, we lie on the grass by the water, side by side.
“You know,” he says, looking at the clouds, “sometimes I wish I'd been born a chick?”
I raise myself on an elbow and look at him.
“Really??” I ask, feeling skeptical, “I've never heard a guy say that before!”
He snorts. “It's not like I want a sex change - I just... wish I had the freedom that girls do.”
“You feeling OK, bud? Freedom? Ever heard of pregnancy? Periods? Churches telling us to wear long skirts and obey our husbands even if they beat us?”
Mark laughs and finally looks at me. “Yeah, point, Dexter,” he says, “but seriously - if you walk out of the house wearing men's clothes, what will people say?”
I shrug, although I'm starting to see where this is going.
“Nothing?”
“'Xactly. But Mrs Catrick sees me wearing makeup and freaks big time, yeah?”
“Uh huh.”
“Now, if I walk out of the house wearing a pink shirt and express an interest in fashion - what do people say?”
“'Are you sure you're not gay?'”
“Uh huh - if I'm not a blokey bloke, then I'm secretly not a bloke at all.”
I frown.
“Yeah, OK, point taken I think - you're saying girls can act blokey and no one really cares, but if a guy acts like a chick, he's gay, let's keep him away from the kids?”
He sighs.
“Yup - it's kinda depressing. Especially because I'm a minister's kid, and minister's kids aren't allowed to make people wonder about stuff like that, they have to conform to the world without - umm - conforming!”
“Sounds confusing.”
“Tell me about it!”
I stay silent, staring at the sky, trying to imagine what it would be like to be so constrained by expectations. No one's ever really told me I had to fit a mold to be acceptable. Well, a couple have, actually, but Mum told them to bugger off. What if it was Mum telling me I couldn't act like me?
Chapter 7: Theology
Mark and I talk about a lot of things. Life, death, heaven, hell, God... stuff I've never really talked about with anyone before. Some of it I've touched on with Mum, but she's kinda simple in her beliefs about a lot of this stuff. You live 'til you die, then you go to heaven or hell, depending on whether you've accepted Jesus into your heart. Uh huh, sure, but details? Nah, Mum's never been interested in the details.
“You know one of the shittiest things about churches?” Mark asks me one day.
“Sermons are too long?”
He chuckles, then mock-frowns at me.
“No, smart-arse! Seriously...”
I nod, to let him know I'm prepared to go into serious mode.
“Gay people. Nobody wants them - not really.”
“You think?”
“Yup, happens all the time - someone comes out as gay, and their church tells them to get the hell out.”
“Isn't that if they're sinning, though?”
“Like what? Dating people of the same sex? Oooh, horrible!”
I frown. I don't get it. It almost sounds like he's saying that someone who's gay and dating isn't doing a single thing wrong.
“But - it's a sin, right? The bible says men shouldn't have sex with other men, so...”
“So it's OK to kick someone out?”
“Well...”
“Or just have everyone in the church start avoiding them like the plague because they came out?”
OK, that doesn't sound like it'd be a right thing to do. But...
“Well, church people get funny around sin, right?”
He just grunts.
“You seem pretty mad about this?”
Mark shrugs and sits up. He grabs a blade of grass and plays with it like it's the most intriguing thing since the Rubik's cube.
“I think I might be gay, Mais... I just... I don't know, right? And say I am, and I come out - my family disowns me, Aunt Rosie goes even more ballistic and chucks me out, no-one in this church takes me in cos I might corrupt the whole house...”
He trails off and bites his lip.
Farrrrk.
I'm frozen, I don't know what the hell to do. Do I tell him it'd be OK, people would stand by him? Or is that encouraging sin or something? I feel like a piece of elastic pulled between God and Mark, and I'm about to break. Selfish, huh?
I look up at Mark, and he's watching me, looking sad. He's seen everything I've just thought on my face, and he looks like I've failed a test. Suddenly I'm just feeling like crap. I don't know what to say, I can't make anything better for him, I don't even know what to think.
****
Bet you think I'm horrible, huh? But let me point out that I'm gonna love him no matter what. I haven't known Mark for long, but we clicked the instant we met. I'm closer to him than anyone I've known for years. But you've got to understand what's at stake here. Society doesn't care if you're gay or not, or at least it pretends not to. The church, on the other hand, says that it does, and that God does, and if you're gay and you seek out a same-sex relationship, you're going to hell. The Old Testament says God hates homosexuality. The New Testament says homo
sexuality is bad.
That means that if my best friend is gay, he might just go to hell.
I don't want him to go to hell.
****
“Do you think God hates gays?” I ask as Mark and I sit at my and mum's kitchen table, trying to study and failing miserably.
Mark frowns.
“Do you think God hates injustice?”
It's my turn to frown. I don't get the connection, but I guess I might as well play along.
“Huh - that's in the bible somewhere, yeah?”
Mark nods.
“I'm a minister's kid. I know that thing back to front. Injustice, hatred... those things are all through the bible,” he says, looking up at me. “Gay sex? Hardly at all. Hear any ministers in the news speaking out for social justice?”
“Ummm... once? Something about supporting welfare reforms?”
He nods. Huh. I think I see where he's going with this. It's like, God's continually talking about caring about people, looking after others, and the church just keeps rabbiting on about evil gay guys and everyone having far too much sex. But - I don't think he's right. Or is he?
“So... you think God cares more about the other stuff than who I'm having sex with? Or not?”
He shrugs.
“I don't know. It just seems weird that he'd tell people so much about love and looking after others, complete strangers even - and then hate people for doing something that does no harm. You know?”
“HIV?”
“Condoms?”
I frown. I've got nothing. I know I believe being gay is bad, but for the life of me I can't think why right now.
****
A knock on my bedroom door.
“Come in!” I yell, putting my bible down.
“Oh, this has to be a setup,” Mum says, laughing at me, “what were you really reading? Kama Sutra? Cosmo? Satanic verses?”
I snort.
“For once,” I say, trying to sound dignified, “I was actually reading this thing!” I frown as I remember why I'm reading it.
“Honey... is there something in particular you're trying to work out?”
I sigh. Well, she always says she's up for any discussion, right? Now's as good a time as any to test the theory.
“Is being gay wrong?”
She sits on the bed and sighs.
“Wow, and I was only going to ask what you want for breakfast! No, being gay's not wrong. Having sex with someone of the same sex is wrong.”
“Why?”
“Because God says so - and because it's dirty, and can cause STDs.”
“But so can hetero sex!”
“Not if you're monogamous.”
“What about if you're gay and monogamous?”
She shakes her head.
“Doesn't happen, love, or at least very rarely - that scene's usually sex sex sex, with anyone anywhere. I should know, I saw a lot in my wild years.”
I frown.
“But if it was?”
“Well, it's still not what God made us for - one partner of the opposite sex, to help us understand the opposite sex and so we can procreate, like he wants.”
“World overpopulation, and God still wants us to procreate?”
She shrugs. “Bringing life into this world is an amazing thing, Maisy honey. It's a chance to change the future long after you're dead.
“But -”
“Honey? I'm sorry. I'm starving. Can we continue this over breakfast, at least?”
****
“Mum?”
“Yeah, honey?”
“Have you actually read what the bible says about being gay?”
She nods, distracted by cooking a pancake.
“Leviticus,” she says eventually.
“Yup! Along with commandments to avoid tattoos and women's jeans and ESPECIALLY -” I pause for dramatic effect, “using two substances to make your clothing. Like linen and wool, or polyester and cotton! Checked your wardrobe recently?”
She looks up at me and smiles ruefully.
“They're old, superseded commands, love,”
“Isn't the commandment against gay sex the same, then?”
“Nope, honey - Paul reiterated that one.”
“But Jesus didn't, did he?”
“We don't have a record of everything Jesus said.”
“But if it wasn't important enough to write down...”
She sighs.
“I don't know, honey. I think you want this to be OK, for whatever reason, that you're willing to question what the church teaches - I think you need to be careful that you're doing this in the right spirit. A rebellious spirit will always find a reason to rebel, you know?”
Well, damned if that doesn't shut me right up.
****
“You know,” I say to Mark a couple days later, “there's one way to find out if you're gay or not.”
He lifts his head and looks at me quizzically.
“We could try having sex... that'd tell you, right? Or tell me, maybe. One of us would be bound to know, wouldn't we? That's how it always seems to work in books and on TV - a guy tries sex with a woman and someone just knows?”
He frowns.
“Ummm... that's a hell of a proposition, Maisy...”
“I know. But not knowing's killing me, so it's gotta be worse for you - am I right? And hey, if you're not gay then worst case scenario, we get married, right? Then all's forgiven?”
“Gawd - talk about trial by fire, girl!”
He sits and thinks for a few minutes.
“No. No bloody way. I'm not going to use you like that, Maisy - you deserve better.”
“But -”
“Shut up. Just -” he shuts his mouth on whatever he was going to say, grabs his bag and strides off, looking majorly pissed.
I just sit there, feeling stupid.
****
Later, I sit at home stirring a hot chocolate, wondering why the hell I opened my mouth.
“Hi, wanna have sex? Don't worry, if people find out I'll marry you!” I mutter sarcastically. He must have thought I was nuts. And stalkery. Is he ever going to want to talk to me, let alone stay friends? I drain the mug, then beat my head gently on the table. My mother, of course, picks this moment to get home.
“Honey, everything OK?”
I sigh.
“Just offended my best friend,” I say, and manage a half-smile.
“What happened, Maisy love?”
Oh God. There is no way I could ever explain that conversation to Mum in a way that wouldn't get me grounded until she dies.
I just shake my head, and she comes over to give me a quick hug from behind.
“A good friend will forgive you, honey, no matter what, if you're truly sorry, OK?”
I hope she's right.
Meh. Sitting around feeling sorry for myself really isn't helping things. I get up, grab my bag, and head to Voracious. Voracious is a cafe and new-and-secondhand bookshop on the main drag. I love the cute name and the cheap coffee and the owner who treats me like an adult. None of that “are you sure your mum wants you reading that?” idiocy. Plus, John gives me discounts because I help him shelve new deliveries. And lets me read without demanding I pay up first.
Tonight there are no new deliveries waiting out the back, but there are a shedload of coffee customers at the tables out front. So I head to the back of the shop, to the Sci Fi section and my favourite couch.
“Maisy!” John yells from the front, “Some McCaffreys came in!”
Woohoo! If there's one thing that can make me forget my own crippling stupidity, it's the mistress of sci fi. I head to the correct shelf and start browsing. Two I've read, a new Petaybee novel, and - a Pern book that's far from new, but I haven't read. YES! So I grab the Pern book, curl up on the deserted couch, and leave my crappy life behind for a couple of hours.
****
The morning after, I sit at the kitchen table staring at my cereal and wishing I could start the weekend over agai
n. Maybe I can convince Mum I’m too sick for school?
I’m in the middle of dragging a spoonful into my mouth when I hear a tap on the kitchen window. I look up - it’s Mark, and he’s grinning at me and beckoning me outside.
“A minute!” I mouth at him.
I bolt my brekkie, run to my bedroom, chuck on a clean uniform, and race down the hall and outside.
“Geez, took you long enough!” he says, smiling. “Come on, let’s get walking!”
“Walk all the way?”
He shrugs.
“We’ve got time…”
“Does this mean you forgive me for that crap yesterday?” I ask, tentatively because I don't want to get yelled at, but I’ve gotta know.
He frowns, and my heart sinks. I was meant to pretend it never happened, I guess.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and puts an arm around my shoulders, “it was stupid, I shouldn’t have yelled at you, OK? It’s all so screwy, my head’s messed up, and I yelled at you instead of getting myself sorted. Except…” he frowns and looks down at the footpath, “I don’t know if I’ll ever get this sorted, it’s too big and messy.”
“You’re apologising? I’m confused.” I say, smirking because it looks like we’re cool again. Once the smart-arse comment's out of my mouth, I realise that he was probably trying to talk about this sexuality stuff again - and I'm kinda glad I stuffed it up. I don't know what I can say or do to make this better for him, and it's really frustrating. Lame, right? Some friend I am. But I just can't deal. It's too much.
“Fine. We’re both morons. Happy?” he says and pokes his tongue out at me. Thank God, he's gone with the joking.
“You are such a child.”
“Are not.”
****
Rachel comes up to me after maths and walks beside me to the caf, surprisingly quiet for her. Usually she'd be talking at me from the moment she laid eyes on me. Not that I'm anyone special, she talks at almost anyone. It's like any thought that enters her head has to be shared with the world.
“Hey, are you and Mark together?” she asks, finally.
I laugh. Darn, of all the days to get a question like that.
“Nah, we’re just friends,” I tell her.
“Oh. OK.” she says, and wanders off without bothering to tell me why she’s interested.
Huh. Looks like Mark's got someone interested.
Chapter 8: Sexpert
Friday nights are Youth Group night. I guess the idea is to keep us out of trouble in the crazy drug-fuelled nightlife of Bathurst. Uh huh. Let's not even try analysing that one. Usually, it's kinda fun, if hokey. Like, we'll play silly party games or watch a movie or have a coffee night or something.