The rest of the class flashes by, and when the bell rings, we pack our stuff up. “Thanks, Jude,” Aaron says, meeting my eyes before focusing on his maths folder. “It was real decent of you to help me out.” Then he’s gone.
Receiving a basic compliment from Aaron Wynn, a random classmate, shouldn't affect me so much, but it does.
A week passes, then another. R arrives late A few times, saying he got caught with his friends. The lost time isn’t a big deal because we become experts in getting each other off quickly.
He learns that I like it when he makes a circle with his thumb and forefinger and pushes up against the underside of the tip over and over until my toes curl. I learn that he likes it when Irotate my fist over the length of him, but what really sets him off is when I kiss him hard with a hand curled into his hair.
One afternoon, after we’ve cleaned ourselves up — we’ve both gotten into the habit of carrying tissues with us — R flops his head on my lap and I comb my fingers through his locks.
“Your hair’s so silky,” I comment.
“I use conditioner.”
I smile. “I use conditioner, and my hair’s not as soft as yours. I bet you’re gorgeous.”
He’s quiet for a few seconds. “I’m really not.”
I tug on his hair, and he makes a noise that toes the line between aroused and pained. “I bet you are.”
“I’m just average. I’m not pretending to be humble. It’s the truth. I mean, my mum says I’m handsome.” He shifts so he’s closer to me. “I know you are, though.”
“I’m what?” I say, purposely oblivious.
“You know. I’ve touched your body. You’re toned and tall…”
“You’re tall, too. I think we’re the same height.”
“I’m six foot.”
“Same,” I say. I’ve measured to make sure, and I’m one hundred and eighty-three centimetres exactly. “Well, anyway, being tall and toned doesn’t equate to a pretty face.”
“I’ve touched your face. I’ve kissed you. I know you have pouty lips.”
I bring one hand up to my mouth.
“In my head, you’re very handsome,” he continues.
I wish I hadn’t called him gorgeous. Not that I don’t believe it, but we should’ve avoided this topic altogether. No good will come out of imagining what the other person looks like because of course, we’re going to imagine they look perfect. The reality will inevitably be disappointing.
Then again, we’re never going to face the reality, never going to turn the lights on. So, I suppose there isn’t any real harm inimagining what his hair looks like in the sun. In imagining what shade of pink his skin turns when he blushes. In imagining the colour of his eyes.
8
Aaron: Middle Names
June marks the beginning of winter. Now, every student at Easton Grammar wears their winter uniform: long-sleeved shirts and striped ties. Girls wear kilts and tights while the boys wear long pants.
“I can’t hang out at lunch,” I say in Literature, my tone casual. “I’ve got a meeting with Mrs Johns.”
“Dude, you’ve been meeting her every week for, like, a month now,” Ricky says. “You having an affair with her or something?”
I almost choke on my spit. “No! I’m just so bad at maths that Ihaveto have weekly sessions with her otherwise I might fail Year 12.”
“It’s all good. We get it,” Ethan says. “If you finish early, we’ll probs be sitting near the oval with the girls like we always do.”
I nod, but there’s no chance I’ll finish early. F and I use up every minute we can get. We’ll kiss lazily or talk about nothing in particular. Even after we get off and feel too lazy to do anything, we’ll still lie there in silence. Being in his company is nice, in a dark room where I can’t see anything. It’s one of the rare times my mind goes quiet, and it’s calming.
Then he’ll have to leave. And five minutes later, I’ll leave too and check myself in the bathroom to make sure I don’t look like a dishevelled mess. And then the bell will ring, indicating the end of lunch, and I will have to wait for the next Monday or Friday.
