Hideous Beauty

by William Hussey

  I stretch up onto my tiptoes, throw my arms around his neck, and kiss Ellis.

  Right there, in the gym of Ferrivale High, in front of our classmates and teachers, I snog the ever-loving face off my boyfriend. I’m still so new to kissing that I forget to close my eyes for the first few seconds, and I see El’s lips hitch up at the corners. But then he gets lost in it too. He stops smiling and I shut my eyes and he cups the back of my head and I kiss him until my toes hurt. And yeah, I can still hear the giggles, but they’re background music to the background music. They’re tiny. Minuscule. Hate at the atomic level. They don’t matter. And anyway, I also hear a voice call out: “Woooohoooooo! Go for it, McKeeeeee! Kiss that sexy centre-forward!”

  A few whoops and a round of applause greet this encouragement, and then a hand falls on my shoulder.

  “That’ll do, gentlemen.”

  Mr Robarts, head teacher, looking ultra-stern. I blink up at him and he has this crappy I’m certainly not approving of this kind of behaviour face on. It’s crappy because a second later it completely falls away and he hasn’t a hope of suppressing a small smile. He pats us both on the back.

  “Okay, lads, dance away, but try to keep it vaguely PG, will you? I would still like to have my job on Monday morning, and if some of the virgins get jealous, I’ll be getting calls from the parents.”

  “Thanks, sir,” I murmur, and even El knows not to pull me back into a snog when we’ve been treated this fairly. Instead he twirls me on the spot and we settle into some kind of ballroom pose, my head on his chest.

  I still can’t believe this is happening. Just yesterday I’d have thought it impossible. Us out and proud and dancing in front of the whole school. My heart gives this single deep grateful throb. Thank you, mysterious pervy porno poster, you did me a favour after all.

  It suddenly occurs to me that El hasn’t spoken for all of five minutes. This is worrying. It’s like a politician forgetting to lie or Michael Bay making a movie that doesn’t suck balls.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” he grumbles, and flicks his face away from me. “It’s just…”

  “Ellis?”

  “All right.” He looks back and gives this huge theatrical sigh. “I’d just like to know who taught you how to kiss like that.”

  I grin. “You really want to know?”

  “Yes, I want to know.”

  “You might not like it.”

  “I’m man enough to deal.”

  “If you’re absolutely sure…?”

  “Frecks.”

  “Okay.” I let him hang for a moment. “It was your aunt, Julia. We’ve been having this secret affair since the very beginning. The truth is, I’m coming out tonight as a straight guy who’s really into aunts.”

  “The dirty old cow,” he says, deadpan. “I’ll be having words when I get home.”

  He gives me another spin and I take in the gym properly for the first time. And I have to admit, the dance committee girls (who are also the debate team girls, the history club girls, the community outreach girls, the freaking LGBTQ safe-space girls, even though the closest any of them has come to queer is when Katie slipped on a bit of quiche in the lunch hall and her head ended up in Gemma Argyle’s lap) have outdone themselves. The walls are covered with sugary pink banners, while giant papier-mâché Easter eggs dangle from the ceiling like huge piñata turds.

  And then I see their crowning glory and stop dead.

  “Oh fuck, they haven’t,” I murmur.

  “What is it?” El asks.

  And as I stare at the display of unimaginable awfulness on the far side of the room, I feel this hot needle of guilt twist in my gut. Oh sure, it hasn’t been the easiest of days, what with the manic chirruping of my phone at 7 a.m. this morning:

  Dude, have you seen Instagram? Maybe take a look. Nice ass, BTW

  Dylan, my man! Didn’t know you had it in you – but now I see that’s just where you like it!!!

  Dear Dyls, I’m so sorry for what you’re going through. Just know, Gemma and Suze and me don’t care at ALL that you’re gay now xxx

  Etc. etc…

  I almost broke my laptop in the rush to check out what all these well-meaning friends were talking about. I sort of guessed, of course, but even as I clicked the blurry freeze-frame and the video started to play, I was whispering in my head: Please no, please no, please no, please no. And then, as if to mock me, my own voice came through the speakers, tinny and mortifying: “Please, yes. Yes, El, yes!”

  So yeah, it’s been a hideous and then strangely glorious day. It excuses nothing.

  “Mike,” I breathe. “Oh my God, Mike.”

  I pull back from El and weave my way through the spectators who’ve assembled to watch our first public dance. I’m not much good in crowds, but right now it’s easy to ignore the eyes that follow me across the gym. A few of El’s footie mates give me a brotherly pat as I pass. Moving deeper, this seems to become some kind of meme, so that by the time I reach the huge blown-up picture of my best friend, my shoulder is actually aching.

  Mike Berrington’s big dopey handsome face grins down at me from the wall. There’s the scar I gave him in nursery school when I accidentally elbowed him into the duck pond – a backward letter S that, inflated, looks like a brand across his chin. I feel El’s hand slip into mine.

  “What’s the matter?”

  I turn to him, hot tears scalding my eyes.

  “Jesus, Ellis, I forgot. It’s his fourth bloody session and I forgot.” I see El’s brow clear as he understands. “It’s chemo day.”

  And I’m officially the worst best friend ever.

  “Do you like it?” says Gemma Argyle, practically falling into us. She throws out her hand towards the big blown-up picture of Mike.

  “What the hell is it supposed to be?” I mutter.

  She looks at me as if I’ve just murdered her grandmother. Or worse, asked if I could borrow her Louis Vuitton ballpoint in English.

  “The committee decided that this year’s ball will be in honour of our brave, inspiring classmate Michael Berrington. All of tonight’s ticket money will go towards buying Mike something really special, once he’s finished his treatment.”

  “Right,” El says, “lovely of you. But what the hell have you done to him?”

  He gestures at the golden light that appears to be radiating out of Mike’s head.

  “It’s the Easter Dance,” Gemma explains.

  “So he’s…” El frowns. “Jesus?”

  El has always liked Mike. He rates him highly because, as El puts it, “Mikey’s smart, funny, nice to look at, and completely non-threatening to my love life.” It’s true. On a good day Mike could give Ansel Elgort a run for his money, but I’ve never once fancied him. It would be like lusting after my own brother.

  “It’s the season of renewal and new life and resurrection and miracles,” Gemma says pertly. She ignores my groan. “And poor Mike needs all the help he can get.”

  Fuuuhhh-uk you! I want to say it, but don’t. I think, deep down, part of all this is genuine and Gemma really does mean well. Anyway, she’s not the villain in all this. I am.

  I’m heading for the door when El catches up with me. I hold up my hand, palm out. “Give me a sec, okay?”

  He nods, all understanding. “Tell the lazy sod I’ll pop round tomorrow and we’ll watch the match, if he’s up for it.”

  I almost smile. Mike and Ellis and football. Ghosts of last autumn and the school bonfire and El’s football petition and the first time I ever planted eyes on this beautiful boy run through my head. I give him a weird double-handed wave and push through the swing doors and out into the car park. It’s cool and quiet outside. The tarmac shines blue-black in the moonlight. Kids are huddled in shadows, smoking, snogging, doing other things. I rest my back against El’s car and bring up my contacts.

  While the call connects, I glance up at the school roof: the scene of last night’s surprise picnic, organize
d by my amazing boyfriend – and where we were secretly filmed mid-canoodle (“canoodle”? Jesus, Dylan!). I’m starting to wonder for the thousandth time who could have done such a thing when Mike picks up.

  “Hey, porn star,” he sighs.

  He sounds tired. God, he sounds so bloody tired. I suddenly feel cold and almost as frightened as when he first told me his news.

  “Please no,” I groan. “Don’t tell me you watched it!”

  Mike chuckles like an old man. “Honestly? No. You guys are so not my type.”

  “Aw, c’mon. If you had to choose between me and Gemma Argyle?”

  “If that was the choice?” he muses. “I guess in those very specific circumstances, you might just get lucky.”

  “I’m honoured,” I laugh. “Bitch.”

  “Bumboy.”

  New nicknames, nothing nasty in them, coined around Christmas when I told him. He was the first to know, except for El, of course. He came out to me so I came out to him, quid pro quo: I have leukaemia; I’m gay. We hugged each other fierce under twinkly fairy lights.

  “I tried calling. Sent you a couple of messages,” he says.

  “Yeah, I turned off my phone after the millionth I’d get that mole on your butt checked out text. Anyway, none of that matters. How are you doing, Mike?”

  “We’ll get to my woes in a minute, Dylan.” He lets out a big breath. “So I guess you’ve had one fucked-up day. Do you know who posted it?”

  “Not a clue. But El’s determined to find out.”

  “I can’t even imagine why anyone would do something like that,” Mike mutters. “But I’m with El all the way. We will find out who it was, Dylan, I promise.”

  I smile despite myself. The two most important people in my life are El and Mike. They make me feel safe and wanted, and that’s no small thing.

  “I called your house,” Mike goes on. “Your mum told me you’d gone to the dance. Dude, seriously? The actual Ferrivale High Easter Dance? You know I love El, but sometimes I think he’s a bad influence on you, undoing all my years of hard work. Remember what we used to call that thing?”

  “The Dipshits Ball,” I laugh. “Yeah, and it’s every bit as dipshitty as we imagined. There are these great big shiny turds hanging from the ceiling, and the gym’s so pink it’s like they sealed all the doors and gunned down a herd of flamingos. Seriously, Mike, did you know they’ve stuck a giant picture of you on the wall?”

  He groans. “Yeah, one of the three witches sent me a screenshot, complete with hearts and crying emojis.”

  “Mate, they’ve photoshopped the crap out of you. It looks like someone’s set fire to your farts and you’re basking in the afterglow.”

  “It looks like I’m dead,” he chuckles.

  He meant it as a joke, but all I can do is stare at my hand, and yeah, I know it’s ridiculous, but I swear I can see our two little hands held tight together. Mike and Dylan, walking buddies, trotting along in our supervised line from junior school to the council swimming pool. Mike and Dylan, karaoke buds, hand-in-hand at Tamsin Carlisle’s fourteenth birthday party, belting out “I Got You Babe” and holding up our phones like lighters. Mike and Dylan, last Christmas, holding hands, coming out in our different ways.

  “So do your family know?” Mike breaks into my thoughts. “How’d they take it?”

  “Good.” I nod though he can’t see me. “Yeah. They were okay with it.”

  “Really?”

  He lets it hang. Thing is, I sometimes forget Mike has known my folks for almost as long as I have.

  “Uh huh.”

  “That’s great then…” he says. “If you’re sure?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

  “Dylan. It’s me.”

  “Okay,” I sigh. “So I guess Chris could’ve been a bit more vocal. I basically got a headlock and my skull knuckled, but as it’s a miracle he ever learned to speak in the first place, I suppose that wasn’t a bad reaction. And Mum and Dad? Pretty much how you’d expect.”

  “And they’re cool with El?”

  “How are you, Mike?” I blurt out.

  “I’m fine, Dylan. Really, I am.”

  “And your chemo? You still at the hospital?”

  “Oh, the wondrous world of chemo? Yeah, today was actually all kinds of mad. In the end they had to… Ah crap. Hold on.” I can hear Mike’s mum – not her words, but I’d know that distant mumble anywhere. Carol’s like the Godzilla of mums – scary, but in a kind of awesome and iconic way, and if you’re one of her scaly lizard babies she’ll protect you with her life. Luckily, I’ve been counted as an honorary Berrington ever since I kissed Mike when he fell over and started bawling at his fourth birthday party. I actually can’t wait to tell Carol my news, even though I’m pretty sure she’s already guessed. Mike comes back on the line. “Sorry, buddy. So yeah, grim day. I’ll tell you all about it later. Might make you smile or maybe burst a vessel. My dad nearly took someone’s head off. But look, Dylan, I really have to go. Come over tomorrow, yeah? I haven’t said a word to Mum or Dad, but I know they’ll bake you a freaking cake or sign us all up for Pride or something.”

  “It’s a date.”

  “Night, Bumboy.”

  “Night, Bitch.”

  He hangs up. He sounds okay. Really. Just a bit tired.

  I head back into the dance.

  And for a moment I just watch Ellis. My heart’s still full of Mike, of all the fears we’ve never expressed since he told me his diagnosis, and it helps a little to watch El. Watch him and know that, whatever happens next with my oldest friend, this person will help us through it, just by being there.

  More people are on the dance floor now. I can’t help grinning as some of the football team start dancing with each other, mimicking my and El’s moves. There’s no sting in it. They’re laughing and pretending to make out, and it feels like a kind of tribute. In a weird way, I’m sort of proud. It’s something like progress, right? A little step for Ferrivale High. Maybe next year there’ll be more out kids dancing together and there’ll be no parody in it at all.

  I switch from the boys whispering fake sweet nothings to each other to El. He’s working the room in his usual easy way. It always amazes me how he can flit between these groups and be accepted by almost all of them. Now he’s laughing and joking with Gemma and the committee witches. Now he’s huddled up with the rugby lads, cackling over some sports reference I’d never get. Now he’s with the library kids, probably talking the latest queer fiction and wondering whether Jane Austen was just a teeny bit bi. Then he’s high-fiving this grinning parade of teachers – Dementor Harper, sweat-rings Robarts, little Miss Buchanan with her adorable moustache, Mr Morris, our history teacher, only skipping art teacher Mr Denman, just back from sick leave, who stood up too late. Sure he gets a couple of weird looks here and there, but he deals as El always deals – he makes them all silently ashamed with the hugeness of his heart.

  I rock back against the monkey bars and think: What now? Everything in the past four months has been about me and El and making sure no one knows. Not gonna lie, it’s been exhausting. But none of that effort is needed any more. I guess we can just be. We’ve got final exams coming up, then, if we get the grades (please God!) we’ll be heading to Bristol in September. We decided way back we’d ditch halls and get a little student flat together. A cosy crib for two. Maybe we’ll adopt a feral cat or try not to kill a goldfish for a month or two, and we’ll be ultra-sociable with uni clubs and stuff, but it’ll be our first real chance to exist properly together, as a couple. I get excited just thinking about it. But first there’s summer, and all the possibilities of summer: El dragging me to gigs and galleries; me dragging him to comic book conventions and my favourite medieval castles and battlefields. Late nights, late mornings, breakfast in bed, reading, sketching, touching.

  Me and El.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Another of El’s whiplash moments. I’d been watching Mitchell Harrison an
d Joe Cotterill slow-waltzing to “Uptown Funk”, laughing my head off, when suddenly he’s there, right in front of me. And he’s different. Ellis without at least a trace of a smile is always disconcerting. It’s like you can finally see that darkness he trailed with him from Birmingham all those long months ago.

  “What’s the matter?” I say, catching at his sleeve.

  “It’s nothing. Just, let’s go, okay?”

  He looks over his shoulder, but I’m not sure where his eyes are focused: the committee girls; the footie lads; the library geeks; the teachers. All I know is that when he looks back at me, those perfect pink lips are trembling.

  “Please can we go?” he repeats.

  An unnamed fear, strange and yet horribly familiar, grips my heart. I’ve seen Ellis like this before – back in those dark days over Christmas when he inexplicably vanished on me. I won’t go through the pain and fear of that miserable week again. I won’t. We have to talk.

  We’re in the car, not moving. El sits silently in the driver’s seat, his fingers plucking and twisting at his pearls. He looks…I don’t know. The best I can come up with is lost. His eyes are huge and blank and it feels as if he isn’t seeing me at all.

  When I reach out to touch him he flinches, like I’ve scorched him with a cigarette. He looks down at my hand and swivels sideways in his seat, arching his back until his shoulders are almost touching the ceiling, as if being anywhere near me disgusts him in some way.

  “El, Jesus, what the hell’s going on?”

  There’s a weird sort of pleading in my voice, and I don’t like it. It scares me that I’ve done something, today of all days, that has made him hate me. What the hell that could be, I’ve no idea. My mind flips back over the past thirty minutes or so. It can’t be me heading off to talk with Mike, he can’t be jealous of that. El has always understood the me-and-Mike thing. So has someone said something to him? Something awful about me? I’m now tearing through my entire school career, hunting for some deep dark secret that I’ve never confided to El. But that’s impossible. The only secret I’ve ever had that’s been a source of inner shame was exposed this morning, and, Jesus, it was El himself who taught me there was no shame in that at all.