The Art of Being Normal (10 page)

The following Tuesday I’m queueing alone in the canteen when I hear someone say Leo’s name. My ears immediately prick up. I glance behind me. It’s a group of Year 11 girls, their heads bent together in a gossipy huddle. I angle my body sideways so I have a better chance of hearing them, and pretend to study the chalkboard menu on the wall above their heads.

‘I’m telling you, Leo Denton is taking Alicia Baker to Becky’s party on Saturday,’ one of the girls, a tall redhead says. ‘Ruby Webber told me.’

Alicia Baker is in Year 11, same as Leo. She always plays the female lead in the school musical, and every Christmas she’s selected to sing the first verse of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ in the carol concert.

‘Lucky Alicia, he’s well cute,’ one of the other girls, a petite blonde, says wistfully, curling a piece of hair round her index finger.

‘Yeah,’ another girl agrees. ‘I love the strong silent type. And a bit of rough is always sexy.’

They all burst into giggles.

‘But isn’t he meant to be insane or psychotic or something?’ the redhead points out. ‘Clare Boulter reckons she saw him coming out of the Sunrise Centre last week.’

The Sunrise Centre is on the outskirts of the city centre. It’s for teenagers with mental health issues. A girl in 10B who self-harmed in the school toilets used to have appointments there. But why does Leo, I wonder. My mind is racing.

‘Plus he’s kind of short, don’t you think?’ the redhead continues.

‘With eyes like that, who cares?’ the blonde replies.

It was only a few weeks ago they thought that exact pair of eyes was ‘crazy’.

‘What do you want, love?’ The dinner lady is talking to me, ladle in hand, a weary expression on her lined face.

‘Sorry?’ I stammer.

‘What do you want?’ she repeats.

I blink, suddenly unable to focus on the words written on the chalkboard.

‘Come on, I haven’t got all day,’ she says.

‘Er, pizza please,’ I say.

The dinner lady shovels a thick slice onto my plate.

I find a table in the corner and sit down. But my appetite has gone and I only manage to eat half my lunch.

All the way home I can’t help thinking about Becky’s party. Not that I’d get an invite to a Year 11 party in a million
years. I don’t even get invited to Year 10 parties.

When I get in I slump down on the sofa with my laptop and before I can stop myself, my fingers are typing Leo’s name into Facebook. I can’t find him. He’s not on Twitter or Instagram or Pinterest either. I google his name but the closest I can find is a load of stuff about some Cloverdale girl called Megan Denton who won a load of swimming trophies once.

‘What you looking at?’

I jump. Livvy is leaning over the back of the sofa, her long hair brushing my arm.

I slap the lid of my laptop shut.

‘Nothing,’ I snap. ‘What do you want anyway, sneaking up on me like that?’

‘Mum wants you to help with dinner,’ she says.

I remain still, my hands flat against the warmth of my gently whirring laptop.

‘Go ahead, I’ll be there in a few seconds,’ I tell her.

‘Weirdo,’ she replies.

The following day, I meet Leo in the library at lunch for our first tutoring session. I want to ask him about Becky’s party, but can’t find a suitably casual way of dropping it into a conversation about factoring quadratic equations. In fact I want to ask him lots of things.

As he leans across to pick up my pen, I get a whiff of soap and aftershave, and when the sun hits him at a certain angle, I can see a cluster of fine light brown freckles across his nose I’ve never noticed before. Both things make me feel strange.

‘Hey guys, can I interrupt?’

We look up. It’s a girl called Rachel from my textiles class, a friend of Lexi’s. She’s holding a clipboard edged with tinsel and wearing a Santa hat and a plastered-on smile.

‘Can I interest you in Christmas Ball tickets?’ she asks.

‘No, thank you,’ Leo and I murmur in unison.

‘Are you sure?’ Rachel asks. ‘It’s going to be the social event of the year. We’ll be transforming the school hall into a winter wonderland. Harry Beaumont is even hiring a snow machine. I promise you, you do not want to miss it.’

‘I’m OK at the moment, thanks,’ I say.

‘Me too,’ Leo adds.

Rachel’s smile quickly morphs into a pout.

‘Suit yourselves,’ she says snootily, adjusting her Santa hat before stalking away.

‘What’s the big deal about this ball?’ Leo asks. ‘There are posters for it everywhere and it’s not even happening for another two months.’

‘Christmas Ball fever hits earlier and earlier every year,’ I say.

‘Do you ever go?’

‘Ess, Felix and I always say we’re not going to, but then at the last minute we end up caving in and buying tickets.’

‘And what’s it like?’

‘Oh, you know, hideous. Harry struts around like he’s cured the world of famine or something. There’s always a massive bowl of really disgusting non-alcoholic punch. And the DJ is super-obnoxious and refuses to play requests, yada yada yada …’

‘So why do you always go if you have such a bad time?’

‘Oh I don’t know. I guess each year there’s this flimsy hope that maybe this one will be different. Stupid, right?’

Leo frowns. ‘Do people take dates and stuff?’

‘A lot do.’

Leo clears his throat. ‘C’mon, let’s finish this equation. You’re really close to solving it.’

As we’re packing away our things, Leo’s wallet slips from his grasp and I drop to my knees to retrieve it. It has fallen open and in the section where you can insert a photograph, there’s a picture of a handsome guy with the same sandy brown mop of hair as Leo.

‘Who’s that?’ I ask, peering closer.

‘It’s my dad,’ Leo says, holding out his hand. Reluctantly I pass him the wallet.

‘You look just like him,’ I say, standing up.

Leo nods slightly.

‘Do you get to see him much?’ I ask.

Leo shakes his head, shoving the wallet deep into his back pocket.

‘Will you see him at Christmas?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘How come?’

‘Look, he left when I was a baby, I haven’t seen him since.’

Now it makes sense why Leo acted so weird when I asked about his dad in the car the other week.

‘But you must at least know where he is?’ I ask.

‘Nope.’

‘But doesn’t he have to pay, I don’t know, Child Support or something?’

‘God knows,’ Leo says, putting on his backpack.

‘Haven’t you tried looking for him? Like on the internet? Surely he’s on Facebook or something.’

‘Course I have,’ Leo snaps. ‘Do you think I’m an idiot?’

‘Sorry.’

Leo sighs. ‘All I know about him is his name and the fact he was a carpenter. I don’t even know his date of birth.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘Nope.’

‘Wow.’

‘Yeah,’ Leo says, his voice flat.

‘Do you miss him?’ I ask.

Leo looks thoughtful. ‘Every day.’

As soon as the words leave his lips, he looks as if he regrets them, like he’s shared too much on the subject.

‘Mental, right?’ he adds with a bitter laugh.

‘It doesn’t sound mental at all,’ I say quickly. ‘It sounds human.’

Leo shrugs, a far-off look in his eyes.

‘Why did he leave?’ I ask.

Leo grimaces. ‘They all leave. Without fail. It’s what Mam does best, her party trick.’

I want to ask more questions, but Leo is looking up at the clock.

‘I’ve got to get going to registration. I’ll see you.’

I watch as he jogs out of the library.

As I pack up my things, I try to imagine my dad leaving
me when I was a baby, but it’s impossible. I’ve seen the endless photograph albums of him in hospital scrubs, beaming away as he holds his firstborn child in his arms, or asleep on the sofa with me, tiny and wrinkled, curled up on his chest. He would never have left me and Mum, ever. What must Leo’s mum have done to drive away her baby’s father, never to return, I wonder. Something terrible. Something unforgivable. I shiver.

As I climb out of the car after school, Mum lets out a gasp.

‘Your trousers are halfway up your ankles, David,’ she says.

The moment we get inside, I run upstairs and lock my door. Mum is right. I’ve grown two centimetres in height in less than two weeks. At first I think it’s impossible so I measure myself again. And again. But the pencil marks don’t lie. When I write it down in my notebook my hands are trembling and the letters come out all wobbly. If I can grow two centimetres in the space of two weeks, how many might I grow in six weeks? Or ten?

On Saturday morning Mum insists on taking me into town to buy a couple of new pairs of trousers.

‘You’re growing up so fast,’ Mum says, as we pull into a space in the underground car park. ‘You watch, you’ll end up taller than your dad!’

Apparently Dad was always one of the shortest kids in the class until, in the space of less than a year, he had this crazy growth spurt aged fifteen, and shot up to one metre, ninety
centimetres pretty much overnight. This is fine if you’re a guy. If you’re a girl, it’s a disaster.

Mum and I head for John Lewis. It’s too warm and bustling with shoppers.

In the lift there’s a buggy with twin babies in it. A boy and a girl.

‘How old are they?’ Mum asks their parents.

‘Coming up to eleven months,’ the mother replies.

‘Such a fun age!’ Mum says. ‘They’re gorgeous.’

‘They’re a handful!’ the father chimes in, and everyone laughs as if he’s just made an absolutely hilarious joke. I inspect the babies. The girl is asleep. She is all in pink. The boy is awake and chewing on a soggy rice cake. He wears denim dungarees with a tractor embroidered on the pocket and his free fist is clutching a toy car. He eyes me wearily. I bet already his parents assume he’s going to be a typical boy; that his favourite colour will be blue or black or red, that he’ll play football and like cars and trucks, that one day he’ll get married and have babies. And even if he’s not typical, even if he likes ballet or baking cakes or kissing boys instead of girls, they’ll still imagine that their little boy will grow up to be a man. Because why wouldn’t you? As we leave the lift, the boy and I eyeball one another until he is wheeled out of sight.

In the school uniform department Mum flips through the racks of trousers, every so often holding a pair up against me and muttering to herself.

I wander across to the racks of school skirts – pleated, flared, long, short. I reach over and trail my fingers over
them, feigning uninterest as I do so, just in case Mum glances across and notices what I’m doing.

In the fitting rooms, I try on four identical pairs of navy trousers.

‘He’s having a growth spurt,’ I hear Mum confide to the sales assistant in a stage whisper as she waits on the other side of the curtain.

The fitting room light is bright and harsh, not like the dim light I use in my bedroom for inspections. The whole time I’m changing I keep my back to the mirror.

Afterwards we head to the food court for lunch and eat at Yo! Sushi. We sit side by side on high stools in front of the conveyer belt. I coach Mum on her chopstick technique. She lets me have two portions of the chocolate mochi for dessert.

‘This is fun,’ she says, filling up her glass with fizzy water from the tap built into the bar we are sitting at. ‘We should do this more often.’

My mouth is full so I just nod.

‘We’re all so busy these days,’ she continues, ‘Dad and I with work, you and Livvy with school. I don’t feel like you and I have had a proper chat in ages. You know, proper mother–son time.’

She pauses and sets down her glass. I feel her eyes settle on me, studying me. I dab the chocolaty corners of my mouth with a napkin.

‘Everything is all right at the moment, isn’t it darling?’ she asks slowly.

‘Of course it is. Why do you ask?’ I reply, keeping my eye
on a portion of cucumber rolls snaking their way round the conveyer belt, tracking their progress.

‘You’ve just seemed a bit preoccupied lately.’

‘It’s just that school is really busy,’ I say lamely.

‘You would tell me, wouldn’t you, if something wasn’t OK, or if there was something you wanted to get off your chest. Because your dad and I would understand, you know.’

I swallow. Because here it is; my opportunity to come out with it. Six little words: I. Want. To. Be. A. Girl. But they don’t come out. They stay stubbornly lodged in my throat, choking me into silence. Because the thing Mum is trying to get me to tell her isn’t what she’s been preparing herself for. Because Mum is expecting me to tell her I am gay. I suspect she’s been working up to this moment for years; ever since I requested my first Barbie for Christmas, tore around the house in my first pair of fairy wings, wrapped a towel round my head and pretended it was a mane of long hair. She’s probably been rehearsing her response for months now, practising in the mirror the right balance between surprise and acceptance. She’s certainly dropped enough hints, initiating passionate pro same-sex marriage debates around the dinner table and making constant references to her gay second cousin, Craig, who lives in Cardiff with his boyfriend, Aaron. But she and Dad have got the signals all wrong, just like Leo got it wrong in the canteen the other day. Because I’m not gay. I’m just a straight girl stuck in a boy’s body. But how do I go about telling them that?