Henry catches me watching them. “What’s wrong?” he asks, which of course gets Alison’s attention.
“Nothing,” I respond. “Can’t you get ink poisoning like that?”
“I doubt it,” Henry says. “I draw on myself all the time.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure ink from a pen isn’t toxic, Dr Rosselli,” Alison says.
Under the table, I clench my fist. Yesterday, Henry called me his nickname in front of the girls and they’ve used it ever since. I hate it. Only Henry can call me Dr Rosselli.
I jerk my eyes away from them and look around the boring classroom with walls covered in educational posters. The windows provide little distraction. There’s the same pale blue sky and singing birds like every other day. The sports shed is not in sight, but I think of it. I think of Henry kissing me, teasing me. And then of Eve, in the doorway, the way her brows raised and her mouth opened when she put the clues together, realised, understood.
I make myself remember how understanding she seemed that evening. How nice she still is, when I text her. But that moment of shock on her face replays in my mind.
I mean, look at me. I play football and drink beer at parties, and last year I dated a girl from the year above. I’m making stereotypical generalisations, but I know the way people perceive me.
I know one day people will find out about me, but what scares me the most is the surprise, the shock. Will people ever find out about Henry and me, though? I know what Henry would say if they did. It didn’t mean anything. He was just horny.
Me? I can’t use that excuse. I wouldn’t be able to say I was a … a non-straight guy settling for anybody to kiss, because Henry isn’t anybody.
I remember the first time I admitted to myself I was attracted to Henry, but it started far earlier than that. It built up through the months, emerging underneath our friendship. I’d always wanted to spend all my free time with him. I remember being afraid to hang out with him too often because I didn’t want to seem like I was a clingy friend. It’s a weird fear to have as a guy, but I always wanted to be his partner in class, sit next to him on the bus, practice footy together …
Halfway through last year, the dreams began. I ignored them as much as I could until one day, I said to myself — holy fucking shit. I’m attracted to Henry.
It was horrible at first — it still is horrible, but it was worse back then because I thought there was nothing I could do about it. There was no way Henry would ever be attracted to me. I tried to act normal, but I know that didn’t work — I was awkward in the change rooms, quiet when the boys talked about girls and sex, shy when Henry and I were alone.
Then the summer holidays happened. I remember the day perfectly — it was late December, 40-degree heat, bushfires on the news. We were at Henry’s pool, the water turquoise. We both wore swimming shorts, and the amount of skin on display made my brain glitch.
I didn’t realise I’d been staring until Henry laughed and flexed an arm. “Impressed much?”
I could tell my cheeks were turning pink, but I hoped Henry would chalk it up to sunburn. “You wish,” I said, splashing him.
He splashed me back and then we were tackling. We’re pretty equal in strength — we’ve always been, so it’s difficult to win — when he protested. “Noah, Noah, Noah,” he said.
I paused, ready to strike because I knew Henry’s tactics. He would pretend he needed to pause and use the opportunity to win.
He smiled because he knew I knew. There were droplets of water on his eyelashes. His wet hair was dishevelled, and I felt the warmth of the skin under my hands.
My heart started hammering as if it knew what I would do before I did it. I remember looking at his lips. Then I was kissing him. His lips were soft. He tasted like chlorine.
I felt two hands on my chest, and the next thing I knew, I’d been pushed away. I had to catch my breath while he stared at me, my body going cold.
Was he going to say something? Should I speak first?
I inhaled and exhaled as if I’d been underwater. “I’m … I’m sorry.”
He looked away.That’s it. I’ve ruined everything. Fuck.
Then he met my eyes and came towards me. He shoved me again, and I let him, slamming into the edge of the pool. He was going to punch me, and I was ready for it.
Idiot, idiot, idiot, why did I do that —
But he didn’t punch me. He kissed me. It wasn’t quick and frenzied, the way I kissed him. He kissed me on the lips as if he were shy. I was so shocked, it took me a minute to kiss him back.
We ended up in the pool house, falling onto the floor and rolling around, each of us wanting to be on top. I gave up and let him straddle me. I pressed my hips hard against his.
In the middle of kissing, he drew his face away.
Fear spread through me.He’s disgusted, he hates me —
