How To Be a Boy (5 page)

And still they lay motionless on the grass. The boots came down again, among them a man’s bare black feet; a muttering of words like hailstones:
passport
,
papers
,
proof of identity
. Adan looked up and saw Uncle, his eyes as dead as dried-up wells. They glimmered briefly as he looked down on him, before the police pressed him into the car.

“You’d better come home with me,” said Ti.

Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go
.

DEAR TADPOLE,

I feel like a right moron emailing someone who’s not even born yet – let alone able to go online & read emails – but Mum thinks it’ll help us “bond” & she’s bought me this iPhone, so … here goes.

Right, 1
^st
things 1
^st
– here’s some ammo on Mum & Mandy (handy during negotiations for money/parties/alcohol, etc.).

Mum’s weakness is the waterworks. I’m not proud of it – it’s not manly – but when you’re in
really
deep shit, the tweezers/leg-hair manoeuvre is definitely the weapon of choice: transforms raging beast into teddy bear in two tears flat. Result.

Mandy’s a harder sell – she doesn’t buy mushy stuff – but FYI she
hates
housework. So if U need anything, just offer to do her chores – she can’t resist.

If all else fails, there’s always the “You two ruined my life!” approach – that
always
works. Yeah, it’s a bit harsh – they can’t help loving each other, blah blah blah – but it’s scored me a laptop, Nintendo Wii
and
tickets to Razorlight. You can’t argue with results.

I’m expecting Jerry Springer any day now.

— — —

OK, guess I should tell U about myself.

I’m 15, five foot seven, spiky hair (cut by Mum – be warned) & – between U & me – I’m still a virgin.

I don’t know why it’s such a big deal – everyone’s always bragging about what they’ve done, who with & marks out of 10, but I reckon it’s all bull. I’m pretty sure none of my mates have— Oh wait, I should introduce them…

There’s Charlie – techno-maestro.

Belch – Leicester City fan.

And Kevin – well … judge for yourself…

Bus shelter, today:

Yes, Suzy said no.

In front of the entire class.

In fact, Suzy wet her knickers laughing – in front of the entire class – & then said no.

I hate school discos.

I hate Suzy.

I hate girls – it’s impossible to get one alone, let alone ask her out & then… Humiliation.

Hard to Get
or
Not Interested
? –
How can u tell?

Kevin’s
got a date?
Everyone’s
got a date, but me?!

Do I stink? Am I a minger?
What?

What if everyone else really
is
shagging like nympho-bunnies? – What if I’m the only virgin left at Oakley High?

I mean –
Kevin
??!

— — —

Dear Tadpole,

Don’t do it! Save yourself! Stay in there, where no girl can ever rip your heart out and skewer it with her stilettos.

The girl in question? No, not stupid Suzy – not even the same stratosphere.

No, Kelly McHenry – school goddess & totally out of my league.

Till today. Today, I actually thought I stood a chance. Today, she came over to me. Today … well, here’s what happened:

Try. to. find. words
.

Wait – is she asking
me
?

No. Way. Kelly McHenry thinks I’m fit?!

?!!*?!?*!!?

Gazza pisses himself laughing, along with rest of school…

And then I went off on one, right there in the street, throwing a total paddy right in front of Kelly McHenry.

Torture at her sweet hands was the worst torture of all.

— — —

Dear Tadpole,

Is this why Suzy said no?

Does
everyone
think I’m gay?

I rang Charlie, but he was busy. Probably having a family day. They used to invite me along – brilliant days out ice-skating or bowling or watching old westerns with his perfect family…

Bastard.

I went to see Belch.

He’s right. I’m turning into a girl.

— — —

Dear Tadpole,

They’ve ruined my life. They’ve
actually
ruined my life.

It’s their fault Suzy laughed in my face.

It’s their fault everyone thinks I’m gay.

It’s their fault I’m the only one in the whole school sat at home Saturday night because I couldn’t get a date.

How am I supposed to know how to be a boy when I’ve got no dad & I live in a
pink
house?

I mean,
look at it!
No wonder I’m screwed, there’s potpourri on the mantelpiece,
Cosmo
on the coffee-table, knickers hanging off every radiator & women sobbing over chick-flicks on the sofa!

And why do women do that? Why
deliberately
watch something you know’ll upset you? OK, so Belch does it every time he watches Leicester City, but at least there’s a
slim
possibility of a happy ending there.

But
Titanic
always sinks, Romeo & Juliet always die – so why torture yourself?

AAARGHH!

I hate my life.

But why am I telling you? You’re probably a girl anyway.

— — —

You’re a boy!
Get
in!

— — —

Dear Tadpole,

OK, so – man to man – something’s really gotta be done. The women’s time is over. No more Brownies (don’t ask). No more bubble-baths. Mission Testosterone is a go.

Phase 1: Mum’s got U listening to “soothing” (girly) music thru headphones clamped on her belly overnight, but don’t worry – I recorded over Mandy’s Enya CD with The Killers.
Strike 1 for the boys!

Phase 2: Your bedroom. Mum chose this soppy little-blue-bunny wallpaper but when U kicked her at the till, I switched it with this cool racing-car roll – and she didn’t even notice!

Teamwork, bro.

Phase 3:

OK, we’ll come up with Phase 3 when U get here.

— — —

Dear Tadpole,

Went training with Belch today – weights, wisdom & (warm) beer:

I asked Charlie for a second opinion.

His dad wasn’t home.

The car was gone.

His mum was crying in her bedroom.

He put the stereo on loud and thrashed me 15 times at Street Fighter.

— — —

I spent today studying Gazza. He mooches around school, flashing his Calvins, pushing people and throwing spitballs.

And that’s what Kelly goes for?

Seriously, I don’t get it.

— — —

Dear Tadpole,

I’m staying with Belch.

I told Mum tonight:

So here I am. At Belch’s. In the “Den”, surrounded by weights, trophies and stuffed (real) animals. I feel more manly already.

And a little freaked out.

Seriously – cavemen?

Caveman, my arse. I know who wears the trousers in this house.

So we bring tea & custard creams to the clucking biddies.

“Ooh, haven’t you grown!”

“What gentlemen!”

“Well, aren’t they boy scouts, bringing us tea?”

“No, Carmel. This one’s more of a Brownie – look at the
Gazette!”

I freeze.

Of course it is.

It’s a photo of me helping Mum at the Brownie dance-show.

Waltzing with a Brownie.

Wearing a sparkly bow-tie.

I want to die.

No, I want to punch something. Then die.

— — —

Dear Tadpole,

FYI if U ever punch something, make sure it’s not solid (like, say, a wall), because it might break your hand. And it kills.

— — —

It wasn’t broken, but when Mum arrived at A&E, I expected her to break it for me. Instead, she was really quiet. Until: