Golden Boy (18 page)

We’re all pretty excited about Auntie Julie having a baby. It’ll be cool to have a cousin. We don’t have any real ones. Plus it’ll be really cute. I love babies. You can see them learning, listening, watching you, figuring you out behind their eyes. I’ve never been around a really tiny, just-born baby much before either.

They didn’t find out the sex. I think it’s because Auntie Julie knows about me. When she came round the other weekend, she said that she doesn’t care if it’s a boy or a girl. I didn’t meet her eyes. I don’t know if she was looking at me. I kind of hope it’s a girl. We don’t have one in the family yet. I think Julie secretly wants a girl. She just doesn’t want to jinx it. I can understand that. But I think a little girl would be perfect. We’ll know soon, I guess.

F
riday morning. It’s my fault the house is full of hassle today. Everyone is wound up. I suggested it: a family photo, one of the cheesy ones with a white background, everybody laughing. Steve said he could do it as part of the campaign, cover the cost, get a few different shots taken.

‘I want to use them as Christmas cards, so we have to do them now,’ I had said.

Whenever I receive similar ones in the mail from friends and colleagues this time of year, I usually go along with the boys as they describe them as ‘cheesy’ (Max), ‘silly’ (Daniel) and ‘a bit nineties perhaps’ (Steve), but secretly I think they’re so cute. With this picture, I want to capture something, a moment in the life of our family when everything is perfect; some example of happiness we could all aspire to achieve every day, in case we forget how to do it or what we are aiming for. Maybe that’s ridiculous. All I told Steve was that we needed it, so we took the boys out of school for the morning.

At any rate, Steve agreed.

‘It’ll look good blown up on the big wall in the entrance hall,’ he said. ‘United front. Family values. Maybe one on the stairs.’

‘Mm,’ I hummed. ‘Well, that’s not exactly . . .’

He swept away to get it booked.

Daniel seems to have turned over a new leaf. Max has been talking to him a lot recently about his frustrations at school. I think Max has been a bit ill. He’s tired a lot and wants to stay at home after school rather than go out and play football, so it’s good that he has Daniel as a little project. He’s a good example and I can’t help feeling overly proud of him, in a smug, motherly way. I don’t know what I’d do without him.

The newly-sweet Daniel helps me with the washing up after breakfast and stays in the kitchen to talk. He is telling me about a project he is doing for History, about the Ancient Egyptians, when Max wanders in, in his jeans and an old flannel shirt. He slumps down next to me at the kitchen table and starts going through all the ironed clothes.

‘Mum, where’s my blue jumper?’

I look up from ironing my jeans. ‘Oh, do you have to wear that, Max?’

‘Huh?’

‘That shirt’s so old and those jeans are ripped. No, sorry,’ I say firmly. ‘You have to change.’

‘OK,’ he says dubiously, looking down at his clothes.

I pull a freshly ironed pair of khaki trousers from the pile, still warm. ‘Put these on, and this shirt.’

‘I wouldn’t wear these with a shirt,’ he mutters reproachfully.

‘What would you wear with a shirt?’

He thinks. ‘I guess I wouldn’t wear a shirt.’

‘Well, you’ll have to one day for work, so get used to it.’

‘Only if I do something like lawyer-ing,’ he says grumpily.

I frown at him, too surprised to tell him off. Max is never moody. ‘OK, well, pick a T-shirt.’

He hesitates and chooses one from the pile of ironing.

‘Hand me what you’re wearing for the wash. I’ll just give these trousers another iron; they’re still a bit creased.’

He looks down.

‘Come on, we haven’t got all day, Max,’ I instruct, stressing. ‘We have to be there by nine.’

Max obediently pulls the flannel shirt over his head, holding his hands over his chest. He pulls the T-shirt on.

‘Come on.’ I hurry him along.

He nods and unbuttons his jeans, still slowly. He takes them off.

‘Which blue jumper was it?’

‘Um . . .’

‘Which one, honey?’ I glance distractedly at the laundry basket.

‘Why are you ironing Max’s trousers and your jeans?’ Daniel asks me.

Max asks me about getting the trousers, but I barely hear him. I’m thinking about not being late, about doing my make-up, about where Steve is, about elongating this precious bit of peace with Daniel.

‘To get the creases out, sweetheart,’ I reply to Daniel, sounding calmer than I feel. ‘Do you want me to do yours?’

‘Mm.’ He thinks, sipping orange juice from a carton. ‘No.’

‘Can I have my—’

‘Which blue jumper, Max?’ I repeat impatiently.

‘Mum, THE blue jumper, my only blue jumper,’ Max snaps. ‘Pass me my trousers!’

Daniel and I turn to stare at him.

‘What’s wrong with
you
?’ asks Daniel.

‘I just want the trousers,’ Max whines, uncomfortably. He is crossing his arms over his boxers and looking stressed.

‘Sweetie, I’m
ironing
them,’ I say. ‘Do you want to iron them?’

He shakes his head despondently.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ Max mumbles. ‘Just want my trousers and my jumper.’

‘When did you last wear your jumper?’

‘Urgh!’ He runs his hands through his hair and repositions them over his boxers. ‘OBVIOUSLY I’ve already thought of that. I can’t find it!’

‘Max! Don’t talk to me like that!’ I frown. ‘Sweetie, what’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. Talk like what?’

‘You’re shouting,’ I say soothingly. ‘You never shout.’

‘Daniel shouts all the time and way worse!’

‘Yeah, but you don’t,’ says Daniel.

‘I just want to put my fucking trousers on.’ Max growls so comically that I laugh in spite of myself.

‘I changed your nappies, Max. There’s no need to be bashful! And don’t say the eff word.’

‘Hey, Max,’ says Daniel.

‘What?’

‘You swore at Mum. You’re the bad boy now.’

Max reaches out with one arm and shoves Daniel’s chair. It’s only a slight move of his arm, but the chair leans sideways for a moment, tilting as if it will right itself, then Daniel slips across it, the weight shifts, and it topples to the floor.

‘Ahhh!’ Daniel bursts into a sob. ‘My head!’

‘Max!’ I cry, aghast, running round the table to help Daniel up.

Max’s face creases up and I can’t tell if he’s about to cry or scream. He takes his trousers off the ironing board.

I watch him, incredulous, while I hug Daniel. ‘What’s come over you?’

‘I didn’t mean for the chair to fall over,’ he mutters, pulling the trousers over his socks.

‘You pushed him,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I’m so disappointed in you.’

‘What’s happening?’ says Steve, striding into the kitchen.

‘Max pushed Daniel,’ I hear myself say, uncomprehendingly, as if the laws of gravity have just been suspended.

‘I’m sorry,’ Max mutters, his trousers already on.

‘Why did you do that, Max?’ Steve’s deep voice cuts through Daniel’s crying. Steve picks up Daniel and holds him, big as he is, on his waist. Daniel puts his arms about him.

I turn my attention back to Max. He stares at Steve, attempting to speak, but not knowing what to say. His fingertips touch each other and he picks his nails anxiously.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. Everything about the situation is alien to him, to us. Max toes the line. That’s just who Max is.

I am suddenly so deflated. I wanted this day to be special for us. Max looks at me, crestfallen, reading my expression.

‘Isn’t it funny when Max is the bad one?’ Daniel comments, sniffing.

Max looks from me to Steve as if he doesn’t know what happens next.

‘Did you push Daniel off his chair?’ Steve asks.

Max doesn’t say anything.

We stand in silence, a family portrait.

Finally I clear my throat. ‘We have to go in ten minutes.’

‘Max hasn’t apologised to Daniel,’ says Steve.

Max looks at Daniel in Steve’s arms. His lips open. Daniel pulls closer to Steve. Max frowns. He doesn’t speak.

‘Max!’ Steve snaps.

Max swallows. He looks at Daniel, but he can’t apologise. We wait. Max looks at me. I switch the iron off.

‘Sorry, Danny,’ Max says softly.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘I found your blue jumper. Let’s go.’

T
he day of the photographs, the last day in November, was freezing and I felt weird, unwell, unhappy. I got up, walked through to the bathroom to pee, looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and retched. Nothing came up, but I think it was just something about the way my hair and mouth looked. It was . . . I don’t know. Seductive. Kind of innocent. It was too quick between the look and throwing up for conscious thought. I just gave myself a glance then turned to the toilet and my stomach heaved, just once, but I briefly thought about how people who knew about my condition might see me. Hunter’s one of the only ones who does, and he couldn’t stop himself from doing that to me. It’s weird to think of yourself as this seductive thing, with no thought to you, how you are. It’s as if my sexuality doesn’t belong to or have anything to do with me, just Hunter, or the other people who look at me, and how they see me.

I looked so otherworldly for a moment in the mirror. It’s not often that you really look at yourself, is it? It’s not often that you stare in a mirror. In the bathroom this morning I saw an androgynous fullness to my lips, a softness to the long slope of my jaw, this ambiguous eye, full lashes and no make-up, coming out from behind my hair. I don’t look girlish. I do look boyish. But I don’t look like a man. I’m something in-between, and normally I don’t see it. It was just that angle as I turned, as I looked up. It made me flinch. It made me wonder if I was the kind of person who turned perverts on.

It made me wonder, for a brief moment, if that was the only kind of person I could turn on. Then I remembered how Sylvie looks at me sometimes, and I felt OK again. This was after I’d thrown up, after I’d washed my face, while I was sitting on the closed toilet seat, the door locked, picking my nails, wondering. Feeling inadequate, lost and indefinable. There are no real words for me. Intersex means between two real things.

I stood up and turned around to pee. I pulled down my boxers and took my penis out. I’ve never had a real problem with my junk. It’s the only junk I’ve ever had. I don’t know any different. I wonder if it would gross Sylvie out, though.

When I was little, the doctors called me a hermaphrodite. It’s got a lot of stigma, but as a word on its own, I like it better. It’s a thing. It’s not between things. It’s an ancient Greek word. It makes me sound old, like we were always around. I like that.

After we get the photograph taken –

(‘Amazing, gorgeous, perfect,’ the photographer, a woman, kept saying. Danny and I exchanged nervous looks.

‘Incredible, amazing, perfect.’

I sighed and I saw his little shoulders in front of me lift and drop too. We smiled until our cheeks ached.)

– they drop us both back in school. I could have stayed home but I have Games in the afternoon. Didn’t want to miss football. We’re playing a friendly 5-a-side tourney.

‘Oi, Captain, look out!’

I turn around and catch the ball on the tip of my shoe. I spin it around, and head upfield, dribbling and running with it.

‘Big Tom, take it!’ I kick it over to Tom, who is open on the other side of the field. He takes it out and towards the goal, passes to Tiny Tom, then I’ve run up near the goal on the other side of the field and Tiny Tom passes to me. I shoot, and we score.

‘Nice one Big Tom and Tiny Tom!’ I shout.

‘Thanks, Captain!’

‘Alright, you tosser, I’m gonna get you,’ Marc laughs, running back to mark me.

Marc’s captain of the other team. Me, Carl, Big Tom, Pete and Little Tom are doing well, up two goals to one with twenty minutes to go.

The regional coach, Matt Baxter, is on the sidelines, with our school coach, Mr Harvey.

My chest is aching and I think back, but can’t remember getting hit by the ball. I look down my top to see if I’m bruised, but I can’t see anything.