Elephant shoe, p.22
Elephant Shoe, page 22
“Nope,” I shrug one shoulder. “Well, I mean, I guess part of me probably kinda did. Not like I turned gay overnight or anything, right? It’s just a thing I didn’t ever think too hard on, I guess, like it just never felt…all that important. Until now.”
“With you, I figured your awkwardness was just down to nerves. Inexperience.”
“I’m not a virgin!” I feel the need to defend myself. Against what, I’m not sure. I immediately bite down on my tongue.
“Oh.” Her brows have shot up way high in pride-wounding surprise. “Guy or girl?”
“Girl.” Obviously. I roll my eyes and she almost allows a grin to break. “Just Jody. Just once.” And it was not the most magical of experiences ever. It was in Jody’s room while her parents were downstairs, watching TV. We had to keep really quiet and neither of us had a clue what we were doing. We got naked and fumbled with each other’s bits awhile. Took almost a full ten minutes to get the condom on, a rigmarole that had me go floppy, forcing me to work myself up again. Once inside, four jerky pumps in, I was done and she was frustrated. “She finished with me the next day.”
“No way!”
“Yep.” I remember realising that I should be upset over her, forcing myself to feel the sting of her brushoff: I’d given her my first time, we were supposed to have been brought closer together! I sent her a number of spite-fuelled rage texts and unfriended her on Facebook. She cornered me mid-shift at the supermarket, told me to quit taking the oestrogen tablets and to get over myself. Two days later we were friends again, acting like our brief relationship was a thing that hadn’t ever happened, and we’ve not spoken of the disastrous affair since. “It’s like I told you, me and Jody shouldn’t ever have been anything more than friends.”
“Same can be said for you and me, huh?” She nudges my arm with her elbow.
I match her guarded smile, “I’d very much like for us to be friends.”
“I’m willing to try if you’re willing to be patient.”
“Deal.”
We sit and talk for a few minutes longer, about nothing of any consequence. It’s nice; a relief to have Lyndsay back on side, her lovely smile fills a small hole in me. I let her be the one to call the close on our time.
She stands, stroking her hands down the front of her coat. “We should head in, we’ll be in trouble.”
“I guess so.”
“Thanks for talking to me, Mikey.”
“No. Thank you for asking me to.”
She holds her hand out toward me. I take it.
“You’re a truly beautiful person, Lynds. You’re gonna make someone very happy one day.”
“Uck! Seriously?” She giggles, pulling me to my feet. “Too sappy and cliché, too soon.”
“Shut up.”
Attempting to keep up with Tate’s unstable mood fluctuations is zapping way too much of my energy, I’ve decided.
So, when he takes up his usual seat across from me in Study, my reception of him is dosed with a little more exasperation than enthusiasm.
Though, try as I might, there’s no stopping the tingles that jolt out from my chest through the whole of me as his eyes fix on mine.
He offers nothing in the way of an ‘I’m sorry for schitzing out on your innocent friend on Thursday, I think I got the wrong end of the stick’; nor ‘and sorry I fled right after, leaving you bleeding and stunned. How is your nose?’; nor ‘sorry I’ve since ignored you completely and let my dad slam the door in your face’. Not a hint of an ‘I’m sorry I’m behaving so needlessly difficult, leaving you with no clue as to where you stand with me’ either.
Pulling his bag up onto the table and rifling through while his gaze remains locked on me, what he leads with instead is: “You and Lyndsay made up now?”
I hold my frown in place.
“Saw the two of you chatting this morning. She looked happy.”
So he must have been late in today too, then.
One at a time, he pulls out two textbooks and a pad of lined paper without looking down, and then I track his bag’s move to the floor by his feet. He’s left it open and I spy the secret notebook peeking out. “Not that happy,” I shrug. “I’m still gay.”
“Ah,” he says with a light chuckle. “Friends though?”
I return my eyes to his, narrowing them, “possibly. Why?”
“Nothing. No, it’s good. I’m glad you’ve worked things out with her.” Then, with a weird half-smile crooking his lips, he opens up his paper-pad and a psychology textbook, pulling a pen from his jeans pocket, and promptly switches off from me to work.
“Well. Glad you’re glad.” I mutter, frowning at him a few minutes longer to no effect. My attention slides back to his bag – and the notebook calling out to me from it.
28
A One-Way Trip Across Barriers
‘Dad’s on my case again -big time, making the threats of what’ll happen if I fall behind in my studies. Need to stay in tonight and hit the books so he doesn’t hit the roof.’
Tate’s handwriting is easily identifiable: Slanted and loopy and expressive.
Adele’s hand is far cutesier than expected, missing only the hearts over the I’s.
‘Oh, what a surprise. Cancelling on me. Again. Did not see that coming.’
T: You know how he gets.
A: I know he works as a very handy excuse for you.
T: You won’t miss me.
A: ‘Course I will.
T: I’m hardly the life and soul, Ads.
A: You totally rock my world.
T: Still no.
A: Miserable bastard!
-
A: Jackson asked me out.
T: And that’s made you glum because…?
A: The wankshaft did it via text.
T: Shit! You’ve castrated him, haven’t you?
A: In my head, several times, yes.
-
T: Mine tonight?
A: Unless something better comes up, I suppose.
T: Wow. Cheers. I’ll hold off on getting the pizza then.
Just in case.
A: You do that.
-
A: Missed you yesterday. Leave early?
T: Session with John.
A: Go well?
T: Still his star pupil.
A: D’aww, that’s my boy!
Want to guess who Jackson’s taking out tonight?
Hint: Not me.
Another hint: It’s Scarlet Duckface Flemming.
T: No second offer for you then, huh?
A: Nope. The dumb bastard.
-
A: I’m taking you out tonight. Suit up and boot up, we’re having ourselves some fun for once.
T: Nope. Got plans.
A: Suurrre you do. And I’ve got a holiday house on Venus! It was an order, not a request. You’ll disappear into that bastard computer one day, I swear.
T: Fuck you. Megan’s got her dance recital tonight. Both the ‘rents are going. Fun family meal after.
A: Oh. Yikes.
Want me to come with?
T: Am I supposed to take that offer seriously with your face like that?
No, you’re safe, I’m good.
-
A: Ran into Craig today. He actually dragged his eyes away from his reflection in the salon window just to ask after you.
T: And you told him?
A: To go fuck himself, of course.
T: Of course.
-
A: MIKEY ALSTON’S BACK?! Have you seen him yet? What you going to do?
T: Yes, yes and nothing.
A: Nothing? Yeah, right. Totally believe that. This is huge for you, T!
T: It really isn’t. And I don’t want to talk about it, so hush your face. Now.
-
A: Thinking I might get my lip pierced.
T: Ok. What’s your Mum done to piss you off now?
A: Why would you automatically assume she’s got anything to do with anything?
T: Oh, right. Cos she’s NOT the cause of all your
rebellious urges?
A: No. Absolutely not. I resent that you think me so petty!
-
T: Sorry but I’m too tired to follow what you’re saying. Something about my mum?
A: Yeah, I saw her yesterday, after she’d visited you. She was really upset. What happened?
T: Shit! Wish she’d just steer clear while I’m in here.
A: Tell me.
TELL ME!
T: She started bawling when she saw my stitches. Then got mad when I blamed it on Mikey. So I sent her out.
A: Are you for real?!
Can’t be getting pissy with her for worrying about you, dickface! And blaming Alston for your fall, WTAF?
Seriously, how’s that even slightly on him?
I don’t understand why you won’t just talk to him. Tell him.
T: Cos I don’t fucking want to, that’s why. I just want him to take the hint and fuck off.
A: You’re not –
My head whips up as a shadow falls across my table. An ominous tension charges the air and my already pounding heart amps up to slam against my ribcage.
Tate stands across the table from me, Adele at his back. Eyes locking mine, his expression alone nigh on annihilates me.
Busted!
My chest feels set to explode.
“Reading anything interesting there, Mikey?” He grits out.
I shouldn’t have taken it, I know. It crossed the line. In fact, it was a giant leap way over a pretty damn solid barrier. And now here are the consequences of that move, caught up with me far swifter than expected and intent on my ruin. I’m pathetically unprepared.
Tate’s supposed to be in psychology this period. I’d counted on having this fifty-minute slot safely to myself.
Way across the opposite side of the school, I’ve settled at a study table in the library, one with a clear view of the doors – just in case. But my prudent positioning has been for nought, obviously, because I’ve failed to maintain my caution and he’s slipped right on through.
Separating his notebook from the Media textbook I’ve used to mask it, I close it and slide it across the table toward him. He snatches it up, his grip tight enough to make his knuckles blanch.
He works his jaw, looking set to finish me off with a savage unleashing. But instead, he turns on his heel and storms away from me, out of the library, without another word.
I gape after him, disgusted with myself. Thoroughly.
“Your stupidity knows no bounds, does it?” Adele alerts me to her remaining presence. Jolting, my eyes snap to her. She’s looking uncharacteristically flustered, not a hint of smug satisfaction evident on her face. “Up, shit-for-brains, move! Follow him. The two of you are long overdue this hash-out.”
I think my body’s given up on me.
When it becomes abundantly clear I’m not moving anywhere anytime soon, Adele powers around the table, yanks out my chair and tips me off it.
She continues blasting motivational obscenities and orders at my back as she shadows me out the library doors and along the corridor, herding me toward the Quad.
We find Tate sat atop our usual lunch table, his feet on the bench where I sit. It’s raining and everything’s wet, his hair’s already starting to slick to his head. Headphone’s on and the notebook still clutched in one hand, he’s leaning forward with his arms crossed over his knees and his eyes trained on the double doors. He gives no reaction when I pass out through them, I get the distinct impression he’s been very much expecting me. That makes me nervous.
I leave him plenty chance to speak up first, but he offers nothing, so I start.
“How am I to blame for your fall, Tate? I didn’t push you. I wasn’t even freaking there! How can you put that on me?” Perhaps I should have eased in with an apology first but screw it.
His gaze flicks from me to Adele, stood just behind me. I’m almost certain he’s decided to blank me out, and am about ready to swoop in on him and toss those detestable headphones from his head when he locks his eyes back on mine and clears his throat. “I blame you for triggering the seizure which led to the fall,” he says flatly, his lip curling. “And for the further seven I had while in A&E which got me admitted.”
My mouth drops open, but I’m given no chance to formulate any kind of response before he continues:
“Ten months I’d gone without a single episode. You show up, crowding me like I’m your fucking life support, and I have eight in one fucking day! Hospitalised and scarred; you’re the stressor that caused that.”
All my words have gone, all sucked away into the dark pit burgeoning within my chest. He watches me with a painful passivity as I flounder.
“Seizures?” I finally cough up. “Like, epileptic seizures?” What I get from him in reply is a no-shit-Sherlock head tilt and nothing more. “How? When? Why…why did you feel you had to keep that from me?”
His gaze is so intensely formidable in its dispassion, I want to hide from it. He doesn’t answer me, not so much as a suggestive muscle tick this time.
I throw a glance over my shoulder at Adele to find her mouth moving silently, her fix on Tate so concentrated I can almost believe she possesses a witchy power that’s bending him to her will. The instant she notices I’ve caught her out, her lips press tight.
The pit in my chest volcanoes.
Yes, epilepsy is a crappy hand to be dealt; yes, it permits him some allowance of anger toward the powers that be. But it sure as hell does not prevent him from having friends and a social life. It offers no reason or excuse for his repellent hostility.
“All I’ve done is try to be your friend, Tate,” I blast, whirling back to him, “I just want to understand you. You don’t make any sense. I’m sorry I took your notebook, okay? I sincerely am. That was wrong. But, jeezus, what’s even the deal with that thing anyway? Every time I’ve seen you with it, you and Adele have been sat face to face, totally alone, and there wasn’t a damned thing I read in there to justify such freaking secrecy. You could have yelled all of that out for the whole world to hear and not a single person would have given a single toss! Note passing should have been left behind in primary school, Tate. It’s immature. The pair of you just come off looking goddamned infantile!”
“That’s fucking rich, coming from you,” he bites back after a torturous moment of cold scrutiny. His tone remains impassive, as do his eyes, but his nostrils are flaring wide and his jaw’s set taut. He moves down from the table and closes in on me. “Your head’s still stuck in primary school, right, Mikey? Hell-bent on dragging me back there with you.”
Every calculated step and cruel word he aims my way beats me down. “I miss what we had, that’s all.” As quickly as I erupted, I’m spent. “I don’t get why we can’t still be friends. Why are you so intent on shutting me out?”
He stops just beyond arm’s length from me. “Words. So many pointless fucking words. I don’t have to. Explain. Myself to you. And I. Clearly. Can’t trust you to respect that.” He juts his head toward the table where the notebook’s been left. I mark the splotches of rain darkening its cover before I fix onto his headphones, his gaze too hard to hold. “I’m done. Keep clinging to that fucking Pokemon card; you’re getting shite all else from me. I’m so done with you, Mikey. Stay the fuck away from…”
“He’s deaf!” Adele slices in shrilly over him.
“…me.” Tate finishes.
“Deaf?” I echo. Vacantly. The word’s meaning is completely lost on me. Deaf? It stampedes through my brain, frantic to find its place. Then, CLICK! And the whole world slams to a sickening standstill. “You’re… you’re not deaf.”
Tate releases me, locking onto Adele. I can’t see what Adele’s doing, but his expression turns uglier. His eyes blaze.
It’s confirmation enough.
For all I can’t fathom it.
“He deserved to know, Tate. You should have told him.” Her voice sounds surprisingly calm for someone being rendered to ash.
Never thought I’d see a day in which Adele has my back. I dart a glance behind, dumbfounded, but her attention’s tunnelled in on Tate. She’s looking far from calm. She’s looking closer to terrified than I ever considered her capable of. Lyndsay’s tale of a previous confrontation between these two, where Tate threw his fist at a wall, butts itself into the chaos.
“The guy…shit! He decides he’s fucking gay and can’t keep it to himself – not even for a minute. Goes and announces it to a party-full.” He strides on past me to bear down on her and I unwittingly turn, tracking him; my body’s working on auto-pilot, my brain buckling under the sudden strain wrought upon it. Adele takes a nervous step back. “Next minute he decides he’s in love with me, set to fucking burst with his need to declare it. How long do you think he can hold the lid on this, Adele, eh?”
Now Adele’s eyes slide to me, widening in horror with her realisation of the monumental mistake she’s made. And our moment crashes to its end.
Eye’s drilling in to the side of Tate’s head, my vision’s blurring. Has his opinion of me always been that low? It’s a mistake to blink; I’m grateful for the blanketing rain. “So much for your ‘I don’t care what people say, I’m fine with who I am’ bollocks, Tate, huh?” I choke out.
But Adele’s cautioning, “Alston,” is the only response I get.
Because Tate can’t hear. And he’s pointedly refusing to look at me.
It’s a savage kick. One that’s swiftly succeeded by another: I hate him.
A terrible reaction. Shameful, even.
Pretty sure I should be channelling my efforts toward processing… working to unjumble the chaos of questions beating against my skull; plying him with reassurances that it makes no difference to me, that I’m here for him still and he can absolutely rely on me to keep his secret.
Can’t find any of that in me, though.
Because it wasn’t him who let me in; he didn’t ever plan to let me in.
Because he doesn’t trust me. He’s hiding himself away and he doesn’t trust me to help cover him.
His betrayal is crushing.
Right now – for that – selfish though it may be – I hate him with excruciating clarity.
