The tempo slows again and he pulls me in, tighter than before. El’s a good head taller than me and I love it, how our bodies just kind of fit together, like they were made that way. And right then I think:Screw every single evil knuckle-scraping bigot who screams “God hates fags!” If thereisa God, then he made us to fit, El and me.
His chin grazes softly against my cheek and the crest of freckles that earned me one of my El-brand nicknames. Frecks, the Unteachable Twonk, the Prof, and McKee D – the last because of my notorious (in El’s eyes) love of all junk food.
“I found you tonight when you became you,” he goes on. “When you told them.”
He’s right. I breathe.I am me. Totally me in a way I never thought possible before. And I don’t care any more that I can’t dance and that there are people lounging against the monkey bars whispering behind their hands and laughing at us, and that a single barked “QUEERS!” erupts when the song dies down. In fact the word’s a prompt and I do something I would never have thought possible twenty-four hours ago.
I stretch up onto my tiptoes, throw my arms around his neck, and kiss Ellis.
Right there, in the gym of Ferrivale High, in front of our classmates and teachers, I snog the ever-loving face off my boyfriend. I’m still so new to kissing that I forget to close my eyes for the first few seconds, and I see El’s lips hitch up at the corners. But then he gets lost in it too. He stops smiling and I shut my eyes and he cups the back of my head and I kiss him until my toes hurt. And yeah, I can still hear the giggles, but they’re background music to the background music. They’re tiny. Minuscule. Hate at the atomic level. They don’t matter. And anyway, I also hear a voice call out: “Woooohoooooo! Go for it, McKeeeeee! Kiss that sexy centre-forward!”
A few whoops and a round of applause greet this encouragement, and then a hand falls on my shoulder.
“That’ll do, gentlemen.”
Mr Robarts, head teacher, looking ultra-stern. I blink up at him and he has this crappyI’m certainly not approving of this kind of behaviourface on. It’s crappy because a second later it completely falls away and he hasn’t a hope of suppressing a small smile. He pats us both on the back.
“Okay, lads, dance away, but try to keep it vaguely PG, will you? I would still like to have my job on Monday morning, and if some of the virgins get jealous, I’ll be getting calls from the parents.”
“Thanks, sir,” I murmur, and even El knows not to pull me back into a snog when we’ve been treated this fairly. Instead he twirls me on the spot and we settle into some kind of ballroom pose, my head on his chest.
I still can’t believe this is happening. Just yesterday I’d have thought it impossible. Us out and proud and dancing in front of the whole school. My heart gives this single deep grateful throb. Thank you, mysterious pervy porno poster, you did me a favour after all.
It suddenly occurs to me that El hasn’t spoken for all of five minutes. This is worrying. It’s like a politician forgetting to lie or Michael Bay making a movie that doesn’t suck balls.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he grumbles, and flicks his face away from me. “It’s just…”
“Ellis?”
“All right.” He looks back and gives this huge theatrical sigh. “I’d just like to know who taught you how to kiss like that.”
I grin. “You really want to know?”
“Yes, I want to know.”
“You might not like it.”
“I’m man enough to deal.”
“If you’re absolutely sure…?”
“Frecks.”
“Okay.” I let him hang for a moment. “It was your aunt, Julia. We’ve been having this secret affair since the very beginning. The truth is, I’m coming out tonight as a straight guy who’s really into aunts.”
“The dirty old cow,” he says, deadpan. “I’ll be having words when I get home.”
He gives me another spin and I take in the gym properly for the first time. And I have to admit, the dance committee girls (who are also the debate team girls, the history club girls, the community outreach girls, the freaking LGBTQ safe-space girls, even though the closest any of them has come to queer is when Katie slipped on a bit of quiche in the lunch hall and her head ended up in Gemma Argyle’s lap) have outdone themselves. The walls are covered with sugary pink banners, while giant papier-mâchéEaster eggs dangle from the ceiling like huge piñata turds.
And then I see their crowning glory and stop dead.
“Oh fuck, they haven’t,” I murmur.
“What is it?” El asks.
And as I stare at the display of unimaginable awfulness on the far side of the room, I feel this hot needle of guilt twist in my gut. Oh sure, it hasn’t been the easiest of days, what with the manic chirruping of my phone at 7 a.m. this morning:
