Chapter 10
TEN
DION
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO - APRIL
“Come on, Claire has a spliff for us to share.”
“Oh, a joint shared among eight of us. How delightful.”
“It's better than all this,” Raquelle looks around us, “old art.”
I bite my lip so I don't call her something rude. It's not her fault she thinks it’s boring looking at some of the oldest surviving artworks in the world, not to mention some of the most famous paintings to ever be created.
“Nah, I'll pass.” I say. “I actually like all this old art.”
She makes a face but lets it slide. “Suit yourself. I'll text you where you can find us.”
“Cool. Enjoy your eighth of a high.”
“Well, actually it'll be a seventh because you've forgotten how to have fun!” Raquelle sticks her tongue out at me before turning and walking away, leaving me surrounded by countless tourists and one marble statue that I can’t quite take my eyes off.
Spartacus, the enslaved Roman legend who freed himself, stands in front of me, completely naked and with a very serious expression on his face.
This was what I was looking forward to seeing in person as soon as I found out that a trip to the Louvre was included in the itinerary of our French A-Level trip to Paris.
If I had told Raquelle this, she would have laughed at me or berated me for ‘perving on dead dudes with small penises’.
I mean, I don't hate men with beards, and how do I even know what's small or not when it comes to male genitalia.
I've never seen any up close, least of all done anything with one, and yet I do find myself thinking about penises a lot.
I find myself thinking about men a lot. Not in a …
I want to fuck them or love them. I think about men in a . ..
I think about men because, for a long time now, I've been asking myself — am I one of them?
And the question is getting so loud, echoing off the walls of my brain, that I can't sleep.
I can't eat. I can't focus. I can't be around people for more than ten minutes before I want to scream at them to fuck off and leave me alone because the noise inside my head is too loud for me to hear anyone else.
I had hoped coming to stand in a room full of men made of marble, all in peak muscular condition, all with their sculpted bodies on show and their masculinity holding up to scrutiny, that I would get my answer.
That I would feel like one of them. That I would find clarity and something like clearness about what I should do about it.
But that’s not happening. Because I know I will never look like Spartacus. I will never have a flat stomach or defined thighs. I don’t have a penis or testicles. I don’t even want to be the kind of man who breaks his chains, although I desperately want to be free of the invisible shackles I feel.
I experience so much confusion about my gender and so much anguish that I can't believe people don't pick up on it when they're around me.
Like, why haven't my parents asked me what's twisting up my insides?
Why hasn't Raquelle asked me why I'm vibrating with angst all day every day?
Why aren't strangers looking at me, horrified at the thoughts I’ve been having.
No, not the ‘Am I a man?’ thoughts but the ‘How the fuck do I do this?’ How do I find peace with this when it feels like those I love will lose theirs?
It's not that I think my parents will be angry or disown me.
I am quietly confident they'll support me through whatever steps I take to transition medically, socially, whatever.
But the rest of town, Mum's work, Dad's doctor and therapist, our neighbours, the whole fucking close-minded town I already live on the very fringes of .
.. They won't just make life hard for me.
They'll make life hard for Mum and Dad and for Lyla and Devon too.
Harder. They'll make life harder. I will make life even harder.
“Penny for them?” a familiar voice says from my side. I tear my eyes away from Spartacus and turn to see Ben Smith standing next to me.
Dressed in the Adidas sweater I think he lives in, dark blue jeans and a pair of Converse, his hair is tousled from the wind outside, and I quickly spot an unpopped zit on the side of his neck.
His presence is an immediate juxtaposition with the smooth and unblemished marble statues around us.
But there’s something almost charming about how real he is compared to all this cold stone.
Momentarily I wonder if he looks like Spartacus under his clothes. Strong legs, toned abs and powerful arms. I know he’s tall and slim, but he plays football all the time. That must have put some muscle on his bones.
“D-?” Ben prompts when I still — ridiculously — don’t reply.
“What did you just say?”
“Penny for them. For your thoughts. You looked lost in a daydream.”
“Just admiring the art,” I say before turning to him and very much changing the direction of the conversation. “Why aren’t you getting high with the others?”
He shrugs but it’s not effortless. Not at all. “Just don’t fancy it. Weed and booze … They don’t make me feel good.”
I snort. “You need something harder?”
He laughs at that. “Maybe.”
“You probably can’t mess with your body what with your hopes and dreams of Premier League fame.”
“How do you know about that?” He blushes.
“You told me,” I tsk him. “In French oral lesson. You know, est-ce que tu veux devenir?”
“Oh, yes.” He nods. “And you said you wanted to be an artist, which is probably why you’re here rather than outside in the drizzle sharing a lonely spliff with the rest of the class.”
“Exactement,” I say and when I look at his smile, it makes me smile too.
Which is why I look away again.
“You reckon you actually will make it? To Man U or Arsenal or Liverpool?” I purposefully change the subject.
“Wow, three whole football teams. You know your shit.” He nudges me with his elbow, and I ignore how it leaves warmth under my jacket.
I also ignore how I catch a whiff of his scent.
I’ve smelled it before. It’s a fresh air kind of smile with a soft, floral undertone — ylang ylang, I think.
It’s a comforting smell, the kind you want to fill your lungs with, which is why I hold my breath and lean back a little.
“I know that it’s pretty fucking impossible to make it to that level,” I say more aggressively than I intend, but he’s challenging me and I am not in the right headspace to simply ignore challenges. “Shouldn’t you have already been scouted or something.”
“I was, for Clevedon Town.”
“You play for them?”
“Yeah. Started a month ago. Every Saturday.”
I don’t need to look at him to know he’s smiling proudly.
“So non-league division one today, Premier League tomorrow?”
“Maybe. Some scouts are apparently coming down in a few weeks, but … I don’t know. But seriously, how do you know so much about footie?”
“My dad,” I say, although the truth is I don’t mind watching it with him at all. In fact, I often turn Match of the Day on when my dad’s already gone to bed on a Saturday night. I can appreciate good footwork, physically strong and technically skilled professionals when I see them.
“Is he a City or a Rovers supporter?”
“Neither. He was born in Liverpool so he’s a toffee all the way.”
“I’d love to play for Everton one day,” he says with a soft air in his voice. “Goodison Park is one of my favourite stadiums.”
“You’ve been?”
He sniffs, and his voice changes. “Dad used to take me when I was little. We had Chelsea season tickets believe it or not, but when he left …”
His voice drifts away and I find myself turning towards him again.
“I didn’t know your parents weren’t together anymore.”
“Yeah, he lives down in Exeter now. Got a whole new family. Two little girls. Half-sisters of mine that I’ve never met.”
“Jesus, that’s …” I hold back the fruitful language I was going to use at the last moment.
“Fucking shit?” he offers.
“Yeah, that,” I say, and suddenly we’re smiling at each other again. Silly, sad smiles that seem to hold more in them than the teasing grins we shared earlier.
“Anyway, I’m not so sure Premier League will happen,” he says wistfully. “That’s why I’ve applied for uni. My mum always says it’s good to have a back-up plan.”
“Where have you applied to go?”
“Birmingham, Salford, Cardiff and Leeds are my top choices, in that order.”
“To do …”
“Sports Science and Business.”
“Sounds unbearably dull,” I say with deliberate derision. I’m relieved, and annoyingly pleased, when he laughs.
“What about you?”
“Oh, I’m not going to uni.”
“What?” His voice lifts, making a few heads in our vicinity turn.
“Academia is an elitist, racist, misogynistic and capitalist undertaking, and I want no part in it,” I say with my whole chest.
“Oh,” Ben says simply, and a few months ago I would have been glad to have silenced him with a truth bomb but now I feel strangely awkward.
“Also, I don’t want to move away from home.”
“You don’t? I’m surprised by that. I thought you’d be the first person to leave.”
It’s not the town I want to stay close to, I think, and I almost say but then I hear his comment in a different way.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Just that you don’t seem, I don’t know, happy there.
You’re one of the kids at school who looks like they can’t wait to get out at the first opportunity.
And for good reason. You have so much …” he pauses and I wait, “talent. And confidence. And the way you see the world. I mean, that says it all. You actually see the whole world. You see beyond the perimeters of our backward town. I would have thought you’d want to be out there as soon as possible, exploring, creating, being …
” another pause, and this wait feels more charged, “you.”
“You make me sound like a snob,” I say, and I’m not lying. He does, although he also makes me sound like many other things too. Things that light up my brain and swell my heart.
“No, that’s not what I said,” he rushes to explain. “I just like the way you don’t give a shit. You just … are.”
That small comment hurts the most. Because am I being what I really, truly am?
“Forget I said anything,” he blurts when I don’t reply for a long moment.
“No, it’s okay. I’m just … I don’t hate our town and I’m not in a rush to leave.”
Maybe I could tell Ben why I don’t want to leave, why I don’t want to be far from my mum and dad while my siblings are still young and Dad needs so much help. Maybe he’d understand …
“I am,” he says. “I can’t wait to be away from … people.”
He frowns, and I sense he’s also debating what to say and what to hold back.
“The football boys,” he finally admits. “They’re … fucking idiots.”
I snort again. “You don’t say.”
“But I let them get away with it, you know.” He turns towards me.
He’s not even pretending to look at the statues now, and I find myself doing the same, facing him.
“Two years ago I asked them to call me Benji because that’s …
that’s the name I prefer. But they laughed at me. Said it was a gay name.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” I roll my eyes.
“Exactly,” he says and then his eyes widen.
“Wait. No. Not that I think gay is bad. That’s not what I …
Fuck. Sorry. My point is that I can’t be myself with them.
Just recently, I’ve started to see that they’re not real friends, to me, to anyone.
And that makes me realise, I just want a fresh start.
Somewhere where I can just be myself. Benji. ”
As Ben, no, Benji speaks it feels like each word punches out a brick in a wall I’d long ago built up.
Not for him specifically, but for … well, everyone.
I start thinking a million new thoughts at once.
Could I have a fresh start? Should I go to uni and just start over, be completely who I am?
Is it too late to apply? What would it be like to have people call me a different name and see me as the man I think I am. No, the man I know I am.
My stomach flips. My mind stays busy. My eyes glaze over and I’m no longer looking at Benji. I’m getting a glimpse at a very different future, and I feel something I haven’t felt in a long, long time. Hope.
“I can call you Benji,” I say when I start to return to my body and the Louvre and Paris.
Benji gives me a smile that is nothing but pure joy and I think to myself, somebody should do a marble sculpture of that. Of all his teeth, at the tip of his tongue poking through the middle of them, and of the way his blue eyes crinkle with laughter lines.
“That would be cool,” he says.
“Want to go see Mona Lisa?” I ask. “I read ages ago that apparently she may have been modelled on Da Vinci’s gay lover.” The words tumble out of me as I simultaneously want to forget and hold on tight to that moment we just shared.
“No way? Yeah, let’s go.”
And that’s exactly what we do.