Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Lucas
It’s eight o’clock the night before my first exam and Amir and I are going at it in his room. I’m talking about revising, obviously. Can you imagine anything more romantic than revising together? Possibly yes, but I’ve spent much of the past few weeks revising with Amir and I had no idea I was going to like it this much. We do it in his room because then Amir has access to the tea bags and biscuits that he likes. We listen to Bach as we revise. Amir offered to listen with headphones, but I find it calming. I like how it connects us. We don’t talk at all once we’re revising. Amir sits at his desk, poring over his textbooks of Renaissance paintings, and I sit on the floor cross-legged, making notes in my illegible handwriting. Amir always looks completely focused, but I have to admit I spend a lot of my time daydreaming.
I can’t believe how well this has turned out. Admittedly, when I pictured myself with Amir, I didn’t see us revising together while listening to Bach. But it’s hard to explain how blissful it feels. It’s better than sex.
Not that the sex hasn’t been good. It started slowly, doing what I’ve always done with boys – kissing and fumbling and getting each other off. I was probably rushing things in the past, but I followed Amir’s lead, observing what he did to me and copying what felt good. That’s the great thing about both being men. To put it bluntly, you’ve got the same parts, and it makes it very easy to know what works and what doesn’t. At least, as far as third base. I’d like to go all the way, but I don’t know how to bring it up.
Amir is too polite to talk about these things, and I’m scared to tell him I’ve never done it. Maybe we don’t have to talk about it. Maybe I can make it happen without saying a word. I get up and cross over to Amir at his desk. He’s got a book open in front of him depicting frescoes on the walls of a chapel in Italy. He told me the name of the artist, but I’ve forgotten. I slide my hands down his torso and nuzzle into his neck. Amir tenses.
‘I need a study break,’ I whisper.
‘I need to finish this section.’
I kiss his ears. ‘Can’t it wait?’
‘No. I’m doing the Pomodoro method.’
I spin Amir’s chair around and straddle him. He looks startled, but closes his textbook, then kisses me back. I could have waited for him to finish his section, but there’s something thrilling about interrupting his rhythm. We move to the bed, our clothes come off and we slip into our usual routine. Except that this time, after a while, I turn and back into Amir suggestively. It takes him a moment to pick up my intent.
‘Do you want me to—’
‘Yes,’ I say hurriedly. I’m not sure I’ll cope if either of us says it out loud.
‘I mean, if you’re up for it,’ I add.
‘Definitely,’ says Amir. ‘Let me just . . .’
He fumbles around in his bedside drawer, then manoeuvres me onto my front. I’m not sure if that’s because it’s his favourite position or it’s less awkward if we can’t look each other in the eye. A few moments later, I feel Amir pressing into me. Honestly, I can’t tell if he’s in or out or some disastrous third option. Either way, I’m pretty sure this is not how it’s meant to feel. Amir seems dissatisfied and I feel like I’m the problem, but I can’t think of anything to say that won’t make it worse. I’m relieved when, a few moments later, I hear my phone vibrating.
‘Do you want to get that?’ asks Amir.
I swear that’s relief in his voice too.
‘Er, I guess I should see who it is.’
I grab my phone and see a missed call plus a stream of messages asking where I am.
‘Fuck! Shit! George!’
Amir sits up in bed and frowns in confusion. I look guilty.
‘I said I’d meet George at mine to revise.’
‘Again?’ Amir asks in surprise. ‘That’s nice of you.’
I shrug modestly. ‘I’m happy to help.’
Amir peers at me with curiosity. ‘What’s the deal with you guys?’
That word makes me flinch. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s just .?.?. Wilbur couldn’t believe I’d seen you two kissing in the club. He thought you hated each other.’
Why am I starting to sweat?
‘The kiss was nothing, honestly. A joke that went too far. Look, George and I have had our differences, but we’ve been getting on better since I’ve been helping him with his exams. He’s a good guy.’
Amir holds my gaze. I really can’t tell what he’s thinking.
‘Cool,’ he says. ‘You should go then.’
‘Better late than never,’ George says with a look of mock disapproval when I make it round to my room a few minutes later and let him in.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I got distracted.’
‘No worries,’ says George, ‘we’ve got plenty of time. Can we start with some econometrics?’
I hesitate. ‘Are you sure about this?’
‘We can start with macroeconomics if you prefer.’
‘No, I mean sitting your exams yourself.’
George frowns. ‘We discussed this. The first exam is tomorrow!’
‘I know,’ I say, ‘but it’s such a huge risk. There’s still time to cheat.’
George looks at me solemnly. ‘Do you remember that story I told you about Hercule Poy Rot?’
‘How could I forget?’
‘Yeah,’ says George, ‘same here. I’ve never stopped wanting to prove that I’m smart. It would honestly mean more to me than winning the Boat Race.’
I sigh and nod. To me it’s still not a risk worth taking, but I created this monster. George is standing up for what he wants and refusing to do what other people tell him. Good for him.
My phone buzzes, and I look down and see a message from Amir saying he misses me already and wants to walk me to my exam tomorrow. I can’t help grinning.
‘Look at you,’ says George.
‘What?’ I say, blushing.
‘You’re down bad.’
I laugh bashfully. ‘I’m not hating it.’
‘Please,’ says George. ‘You two are like an old married couple.’
‘It’s been less than a month! But we have started using the b word.’
‘Bitch?’
‘Boyfriend.’
George looks slightly taken aback. ‘That was fast.’
‘I mean . . . we waited long enough.’
‘Yeah, no, this is everything you wanted. I’m happy for you.’
As George takes a seat on my bed, I swear he looks wistful. We’ve got into the habit of doing our revision sessions there because it’s easier to spread out all our papers and comfier than the floor. I sit opposite and look at him with interest.
‘Have you had girlfriends?’
George looks up in surprise.
‘I always used to have girlfriends. Like, in middle school. Nothing serious. I mean, we didn’t do anything. Then, in the first week of high school, I got together with Kyla Mount. She was in junior year, and everyone thought it was crazy that she wanted to date a freshman. But she pursued me so hard. Then six weeks later, she broke it off.’
George looks like he’s reliving the memory.
‘She didn’t give me any explanation. I went a bit insane demanding to know. I wasn’t even that upset about the break-up, I just couldn’t bear the idea that I’d done something wrong. After that, I guess I was wary of letting people get too close to me.’
‘Whereas your one-night stands never leave disappointed?’
George laughs. ‘Like I said, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.’
That lands awkwardly. We feel like two different people since the last time George made that joke.
He looks at me thoughtfully. ‘The funny thing is, I totally get it. Kyla Mount, I mean. Sometimes you really can’t explain why you don’t want to see someone again.’ George averts his gaze. ‘That night at the gay club .?.?. I went home with Hot Spiderman.’
My eyes widen. ‘You kept that quiet.’
‘I guess I did.’
‘Was that .?.?. the first time you’ve been with a guy?’
‘Second. And I liked it. I was going to see him again, but then .?.?. I stood him up so I could study.’
‘You stood him up?’
‘Like a month ago. He could still be waiting for me at the bar for all I know. I’m terrified of bumping into him.’
‘Wait, are you telling me you ghosted him after arranging a date?’
George blushes. ‘I couldn’t figure out the right wording.’
‘George, you are terrible! Get out your phone!’
He does as I tell him. I dictate a message from him to Hot Spiderman, apologising for the long delay and explaining that there was a last-minute change of heart that felt impossible to communicate. George can’t bring himself to press send, so I do it myself.
‘There,’ I say. ‘That wasn’t that hard, was it?’
George looks up in surprise. ‘I guess not.’
He smiles at me gratefully.
‘Now do you see what a terrible boyfriend I’d be?’
Tomorrow’s exam is on global capitalism. George gets out his notes and we rattle through the topics one by one. There’s no denying that he’s still a pretty weak candidate by Cambridge standards, but all we’re aiming for is that magic forty-mark threshold. I can’t deny that he’s feeling capable of it. I’m embarrassed when I think how easily I wrote him off. There’s something about his earnestness and his desire to please that makes him respond to things at face value in a way which can sound dumb. But once he turns off that switch and thinks for himself, he’s really quite smart.
By the time we get to the end of our list of topics, it’s past 2 a.m. George collapses his head onto my bed in exhaustion.
‘Oh my god, Lucas, we did it. I really can’t thank you enough.’
‘We had a deal, didn’t we?’ I’m incapable of accepting compliments.
‘Yeah,’ says George, ‘but you’ve gone above and beyond.’
‘You haven’t passed yet.’
‘But who thought I’d even be in with a chance?’ George sits up, all excited. ‘I want to thank you properly. Have you ever been to Trinity Ball?’
I burst out laughing.
‘Do you know how much those tickets cost?’
The week after exams is known as May Week, even though it takes place in June. Just another of those nonsensical Cambridge traditions. Several of the larger colleges host black tie balls, and Trinity’s is known to be the most lavish. The St John’s ball is also pretty spectacular, but I’ve not been in previous years. I tell people it’s because of the price of the tickets, but really it’s because I’ve had no one to go with.
‘I know how much they cost,’ says George. ‘I bought a pair.’
‘Ooh, who are you going with?’
George smiles. ‘I never got round to finding a date. They’re for you.’
I’m momentarily lost for words.
‘You can have both of them,’ says George. ‘You and Amir.’
‘George, that’s really sweet, but we’re going to the St John’s ball the next night.’
‘Go to both! It’s May Week!’
‘I can ask him, but I don’t think Amir would do a ball two nights in a row.’
George looks surprised. ‘Oh. Well, the tickets are yours.’
I feel a flood of affection towards George. ‘Let’s go together.’
George frowns. ‘Won’t Amir mind?’
‘No. He’s not like that.’
It’s more that I think he won’t object, but no need to get into fine distinctions. I blush as I recall what Amir and I were doing before I came here.
‘Actually, George, can I ask your advice?’
‘Go ahead.’
I glance at my feet. ‘Just now, Amir and I were trying to .?.?. you know .?.?.’
I can’t bring myself to say it, so I make a gesture with my hands which prompts George to burst out laughing.
‘It’s not funny!’ I say, smarting.
‘Sorry,’ says George, ‘but you can say it out loud.’
‘I can’t. I’m too embarrassed.’
George takes this in and pauses to think. ‘Have you talked about it with Amir?’
I shake my head.
‘You have to be able to talk about it,’ says George. ‘It’s such a huge deal. Plus it doesn’t have to be embarrassing. What could be hotter than telling someone what you want to do to them?’
I laugh uncomfortably and look away. George smiles.
‘I get it. Honestly, I do. But if you can’t talk about it with Amir, why don’t you start with me?’
So I do. I explain that there’s a part of me that’s desperate to try it, but another part of me that finds the whole idea dirty and shameful. George tells me these are normal reactions, but it’s a part of the body that can be washed perfectly clean just like any other body part. He even tells me the best way to do it.
‘I’ve never been on the receiving end,’ admits George. ‘And I’ve only been with one girl who wanted to do it. From what she said, it’s all about relaxing.’
‘Right,’ I say, ‘then I’m screwed.’
George chuckles and turns towards me. ‘Lie down.’
‘What?’
‘Lie on your side. It’s a good position.’
I’m not sure what George is planning, but I trust him. I do as I’m told, then he lies behind me and spoons me. I freeze.
‘What are you doing?!’ I exclaim.
‘You’re so tense, Lucas.’
‘No shit.’
‘How are you meant to feel pleasure in that state? I’m not letting go till you relax.’
That’s easier said than done. I’m terrified that we’re about to have a repeat of Dr Castillo’s cupboard, until I realise that George is shrewdly not putting his crotch anywhere near me. It’s my upper half he’s holding onto, and it feels kind of tight until I realise it’s me who’s clenching every one of my muscles. I close my eyes and try to relax, but my heart is pounding. I can feel George’s breath on my neck, but I have to admit that it’s a nice sensation. I try to ignore the frenetic beat of my heart and focus on the calming rise and fall of George’s breathing. Let go, I tell myself. What’s the worst that could happen?
‘Lucas.’
I blink my eyes open. I’m lying on my bed and I can feel George behind me. It’s light outside. We must have fallen asleep. But that wasn’t George’s voice. I turn and see Amir standing over me, holding a coffee cup and a paper bag which I have no doubt contains my favourite almond croissant from the artisan bakery on Magdalen Street.
‘What’s going on, Lucas?’ Amir trembles.
George’s revision notes are splayed all around us on the bed. George is fast sleep, and has a very visible morning glory which Amir is now staring at.
‘Oh my god, I didn’t—’
I shake George awake.
‘Lucas?’ he murmurs.
‘What happened?’ asks Amir.
Now doesn’t feel the moment to explain.
‘Er, we were revising .?.?. I don’t know how we .?.?. what are you doing here?’
‘I said I’d walk you to your exam! It starts in thirty minutes.’
I’m relieved to hear that we’re in a rush. It means we have to focus on getting to the exam on time, and not .?.?. everything else.
As George puts on his shoes and I splash some water on my face, Amir waits calmly. I can tell he’s not happy, but he doesn’t want to upset me when I’m about to sit an exam, and that just makes me feel worse. It’s no longer the romantic walk he’d envisaged, and I almost want to put him out of his misery and tell him to go home, but I can’t make it sound like I want him to leave me and George alone.
Instead, the three of us hurry over to the lecture hall in silence as I guiltily gobble my croissant. Amir kisses me goodbye, and George and I race inside and take some seats near the back. As soon as the exam starts, I breathe a sigh of relief. I can answer these questions in my sleep.
But what about George? I can’t see him without straining around the girl sitting in between us, but he has special dispensation to write his answers on a laptop, so I content myself with the sound of him tapping at his keyboard. Before I know it, the three hours are up. I race over to George and ask how it went.
‘Really well!’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah! Loved that question on a certain Mr Carlos Marx.’
‘Tell me you didn’t write Carlos.’
‘Lucas, please.’
I laugh in relief. ‘Just checking.’
George beams proudly. ‘There wasn’t a single question I couldn’t answer. Bring on the next one.’
We don’t have long to wait. The very next day, we’re scheduled to sit our second exam, on macroeconomic principles. This is much more theory-heavy than the first paper, and I would have liked to squeeze in another revision session. But since George insists he doesn’t need one and I don’t want to upset Amir, I decide not to push it. On the morning of the exam, I’m twice as nervous as I was the previous day. This time, I manage to sit with a clear sight of George.
I quickly regret it. I can’t take my eyes off him, convinced that every time he pauses, he’s given up, and every time he types furiously, he’s getting it wrong. I get so distracted that I have to pull myself together to complete my own answers in time.
Outside the exam hall, I ask George how he found it.
‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘it was all right.’
‘Just all right?’
‘That question about equity was weirdly phrased.’
‘No it wasn’t,’ says Eleanor, popping up behind us. ‘Not if you understood what it was asking.’
‘I understood,’ George says hotly.
‘Great,’ I say, shooting a glare at Eleanor. ‘Two down, one to go.’
But I can’t stop thinking about George’s comment. What if he did misunderstand the question? What if he misunderstood the whole paper? There are two days until our third and final exam, and I’m not prepared to take any chances. I practically lock George in my room.
Amir is disappointed I don’t want to revise with him, but I have one goal, and that’s to pull up George’s grade as high as I can. The two days pass in a blur. George and I barely remember to eat and drink. This is a situation room.
By the time we turn up to the exam, I’m so wired I feel like I’m either going to produce a revolutionary new theory or forget my own name. As always, the exam goes by in a flash. As we file out of the exam hall, some people cheer, others burst into tears of relief. I look at George nervously.
‘Nailed it!’ he declares with a grin.
‘Are you sure? ’Cos if you’re not, the cheat book had a few ideas about how to—’
‘Lucas, don’t you dare. I’m so proud of myself for doing it the hard way. I’m never cheating at anything ever again.’
As I smile back at him, George’s expression turns melancholy.
‘What’s the matter?’ I ask with a frown.
‘Nothing,’ says George. ‘I just .?.?. I guess we’re kind of done with our deal.’
I feel my chest tighten. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Me neither,’ says George. ‘It’s been fun.’
‘Not just fun,’ I say. ‘We both got what we wanted.’
‘Totally,’ says George.
We hold each other’s gaze. Maybe it’s a good thing that today spells the end of whatever George and I have been doing for the past few weeks. But the thought of it ending is surprisingly devastating.
‘Right,’ I say, turning away in relief. ‘Let’s go celebrate.’
Amir has his last exam on the same day as me, so we meet up and head to a drinks party in college. Afterwards, we go back to his room for a nap. I wake up before him, feeling horny, and decide there’s no better time to put into practice what George taught me. I get up and take a shower, then come back and tell Amir what I want to do. He looks slightly startled to hear me state it so directly, but he’s also relieved that I’ve taken the reins. I suggest that he tries the position I did with George, although not in so many words. He does as I ask, then eases in slowly.
I hold my breath. It’s hard to describe the feeling. It doesn’t hurt like I thought it might, but it’s somehow too much and not enough, all at once. I’m certainly not relaxed.
I close my eyes and picture myself back on my bed, melting into George as he holds me. Like magic, something clicks. So that’s what all the fuss is about. I find myself wanting it harder, faster, stronger. But Amir doesn’t want to hurt me. I promise him it doesn’t, but I’m not going to push him. Not when it already feels so good.
Afterwards, I could happily fall asleep, but Amir has promised to attend a party with the rest of the History of Art crew. Once night falls, he takes me to a house on the far side of town. I’m nervous that it’s going to be another Leonardo DiCaprio not knowing which cutlery to use on the Titanic situation, but this is a very different vibe. Everyone is dressed in charity shop clothes which fail to hide their tans from Easter holidays in Cannes and Portofino. The kitchen is a mess, but I spot a bottle of olive oil that I know for a fact costs ￡11.50 at Sainsbury’s. People are drinking from plastic cups, but talking with cut-glass vowels that were honed at boarding school.
A girl in paint-splattered dungarees bounds up to us.
‘Hey, boys,’ she says in an incredibly plummy tone.
Amir introduces her to me as his course mate. Romily.
She observes Amir taking in the room. ‘You’re judging us, aren’t you?’
‘It’s not like you can’t afford a cleaner.’ Amir turns to me. ‘Romily’s parents would die if they saw how she lived.’
‘No they wouldn’t. My parents are feral.’
‘Which is proof you’re posh.’
‘We’re not that posh.’
‘Your dad was master of Magdalen.’
‘He was acting master. For one term.’
‘I take it back. You’re practically working class.’
‘At least my dad’s not an oligarch.’
Amir looks annoyed at the claim. ‘My dad is not an oligarch.’
‘Amir.’
‘Fine, he owns a company, but he started from nothing. Aren’t you like fourth cousins with Prince William?’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. All these years I’ve spent feeling inferior, and these people are competing to be less privileged.
‘Guys, sorry, but you both lose.’
Romily and Amir look at me in surprise.
‘Single parent family, state school education. We were on benefits for half of my childhood. That is trash you can’t buy.’
Amir is lost for words. Have I blown it? I’ve told him what my mum does for a living and he didn’t seem at all judgemental. But I’m not sure his social circle know that he’s dating a pleb. For what feels like ages, nobody says anything. Then Romily smiles.
‘You win. I don’t know what you’re doing hanging out with us pricks.’
Romily takes this as her cue to introduce me to everyone at the party, who all seem delighted to meet someone with a bit of a twang to their accent. I’m not sure how I feel about being adopted as their token poor friend, but I’m not going to worry about it tonight. The people on this side of the castle wall know how to have fun. Once it gets late, someone puts on some techno. Amir hastily retreats to the kitchen, but Romily drags me onto the dance floor.
‘You’re exactly what that boy needs,’ she says. ‘A kick up the arse.’
Romily reaches into her pocket and pulls out a tiny bag of what I think must be MDMA crystals.
‘Want a dab?’
‘I’ve never done it.’
‘Oh my god, you have to try. You might feel a bit anxious when you first come up, but ride that out, and you’ll never look back.’
Romily dips her finger in the bag then puts it in my mouth. The taste is horrible, sour and chemical, but I immediately feel a tingle. Romily says it will take a while to kick in properly, so we keep dancing. About half an hour later, I start to feel anxious.
I do my best not to panic. Romily said this would happen. I try to ignore the images scrolling through my mind: an undignified death, lurid headlines, and none of the mourners at my funeral believing that it was my first time. Then George sends me a selfie from the bar he’s at with Johannes, and his goofy smiling face really sets me off.
What have I done? Why did I ever agree to let George sit his exams? That was never the plan. It’s such a huge risk, no matter how much George has improved. It would be a disaster if he failed. I need him to be around next year.
We need each other.
We proved it at Henley. Rowing won’t be any fun without George. He’s the first real friend I’ve made in the squad apart from Fran. But I’m never going to be out on the river with Fran, and if George isn’t in that stroke seat, who will it be – Tristan? Fuck that.
Except this isn’t about me.
George was the one who chose to take the risk, and I have to respect that. He stood up for himself for the first time. But why did he do that? Why did he put everything at risk that he’s worked so hard for? It’s because he’s convinced it will prove that he’s smart. Will it? Does it work like that? Has getting with Amir proved anything to anyone? No – all it’s proved is that it was a stupid way to look at things.
George is smart, but passing these exams will prove nothing. If he fails, on the other hand, he might never recover. He’ll be Hercule Poy Rot for the rest of his life. But he also won’t have rowing to fall back on. He’ll have nothing – and it will be all my fault. I let him sit the exams. I gave him that self-belief. This is on me.
It’s too late to stop him from sitting his exams, but it’s not too late to do something about it. I tell Amir I’m feeling sick and need to go home.
I can feel a plan forming, but it only comes into focus once I’m back in my room and get out the cheat book. It describes the marking process, how exam scripts are taken back to the faculty then distributed among different lecturers to be marked. I have to act fast. Thank god George typed his answers. The book describes how scripts for those candidates are printed out then added to the handwritten ones. I get out my laptop and type out the answers to the questions in the paper I’m most worried George fucked up. I’ve always had a good memory. I can remember the style George writes in. I’m not even feeling nervous anymore. I feel amazing. This is an incredible idea. I’m a genius. The writing flows like a dream.
Once I’ve completed one paper, I decide I might as well do all three. In no time at all, I have three substitute exam scripts printed out. I don’t even think of this as cheating. These are just the answers George would have written if he’d reached his full potential. But writing the answers is the easy part.
Around 2 a.m., I head out towards the economics department. The cheat book gives me all the information I need. I wonder how many people have used it over the years. Do any professors know about it? Is it the cause of dozens of unearned degrees? Or am I the only person daring enough to pull the moves that it makes possible?
As I arrive at the economics department, my heart is in my mouth. I catch sight of my reflection in the door.
That’s weird – my pupils are like saucers.
I punch in the security code, and the door clicks open. As soon as I enter the building, an alarm sounds, loud and shrill. I race over to a cupboard underneath the stairs to find the alarm box, flip up the lid and enter the code. Nothing happens. What the hell? Wait – I’m using the door entry code. I pull out my phone, find the alarm code and enter it. The ringing stops. Or does it?
I’m convinced I can still hear it, but no, it’s just ringing in my ears. I dash upstairs to the department office. There are piles of exam scripts on the head of department’s desk, just as the cheat book said there would be. I sift through each pile of papers until I find George’s manuscripts, then switch in the substitutes.
No one will ever know the difference.