After the final siren sounds to end the school day, I start along the pathway to meet Harley at the gates. Among the crowd of leavers, I feel someone tap my shoulder. I turn to see Francis. I have to look up to meet his eyes.
‘Jonah. Hi,’ Francis says. ‘Sorry if I scared you.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘I’ll walk out with you.’
‘Okay. What’s up?’
We fall in behind the Year Seveners rushing to get to the steps. Buses wait just outside the school gates, lined up all the way to the traffic lights. I see Harley through the steel fence at the bottom of the steps.
‘I was wondering …’ Francis begins. ‘We haven’t really talked, and I know you’re the only other out gay guy in our year, apart from me.’
Oh god. I hope this isn’t going where I think it’s going. He better not ask me to join a club or something.
‘Well,’ Francis continues, ‘I was wondering if you wanted to get a coffee or a hot chocolate or something sometime.’
‘Oh?’ Okay, not exactly the way I thought it was going. ‘Are you asking me out?’
We arrive at the top of the steps, and I stop because I don’t want Harley to hear. He’s waiting for me at the bottom and all I want to do is get out of this conversation.
‘Yeah, I guess you could say that,’ Francis says.
‘Wow,’ I say. My stomach is feeling sour suddenly. I don’t want to harshly say no, but I definitely don’t want to say yes. This is so out of the blue and I honestly never thought for even a second that Francis would be interested in me. ‘I’m kind of already seeing someone. Sorry.’
‘Oh. Ohhhh,’ Francis says, looking down the stairs to Harley, who has turned and spotted us at the top.
‘Sorry,’ I repeat, not sure what else to add.
‘It’s okay. Forget I said anything.’ Francis smiles, then starts down the stairs ahead of me. I worry for a moment that he’s figured out there’s something going on with me and Harley.
‘What was that about?’ Harley asks as I arrive at the bottom of the stairs.
‘It was nothing,’ I say.
As we walk into town, my hand brushes Harley’s, and I want nothing more than to hold it. I’ve never held a boy’s hand while walking in the street before. The thought of it excites me – knowing everyone could see us holding hands and walking happily.
As we turn from the main street into one of the side streets, and pass all the buildings filled with doctors and dentists, my stomach feels hollow and shaky, like there is someone in there poking about.
‘You’ve got this,’ Harley says.
‘I know.’
We arrive at the small brick building. Harley follows me onto the path up to the door. The door slides open for us and I walk to the counter, where an old woman with grey curls and red lipstick is sitting.
‘Hi,’ I say to her. ‘I’m here to see Doctor French. My name is Jonah King.’
She studies her computer screen, clicks her mouse a few times.
‘Ah, Mr King. Please take a seat. I’ll let Chloe know you’re here.’
Harley walks with me to the seats at the other end of the room, where a man is flicking through a magazine from the table beside him.
‘I’ll head off to rehearsals then,’ Harley says. ‘You sure you don’t want me to give you a lift home later?’
‘It’s fine. Dad’s picking me up. Thanks for coming.’
‘That’s okay.’
He stands there and I feel like we should hug or something. ‘I’ll text you when I finish,’ I say.
He leaves through the sliding doors and I sit down on a chair. I check my phone for the time – 4:03. My psych is three minutes late. As soon as I have the thought, a woman approaches from down the hallway.
‘Jonah King?’ she calls. I stand and walk towards her. She smiles and leads me into a room. The back wall is painted a dark blue.
She closes the door behind me, gestures to the couch on the other side of a coffee table.
‘Please take a seat, Jonah. Make yourself comfortable.’
I sit down. There’s a bowl of apples and grapes on the table, so I take some grapes and put them in my mouth. She falls into the white recliner on the other side of the table.
The counsellor smiles, gazing at me through glasses with black frames. She has short brown hair and red lipstick, and is wearing a grey blazer. She’s young – I’d say in her late twenties, early thirties.
‘You look a bit young to be a counsellor, Doctor French,’ I say.
‘I get that a lot. You can call me Chloe,’ she says.
She sits there quietly, comfortable, with her legs crossed, staring at me with a half-smile.
‘Well, I’m very pleased to meet you, Jonah. Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?’
‘Okay, well, umm, my name is Jonah. I’m seventeen, Aboriginal, gay. I live with my two little brothers and my dad. We moved here from Rushton, up the coast, in April.’
‘How long did you live in Rushton?’ she asks.
‘My whole life. Mum and Dad were living there for two years before I was even born.’
‘Changing towns is a pretty big deal. How do you feel about the move to Patience?’
‘I feel fine about it now.’
‘How did you feel about it when you first moved here?’
‘Umm, I don’t know. I guess … my childhood was in Rushton so it kind of felt like I was leaving home.’
‘You must have missed your friends.’
‘I only really had one.’
She hums to herself.
‘I saw a counsellor before,’ I say, ‘when I was twelve. I feel like he talked more than me though.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. That guy couldn’t wait to ask me questions.’
‘I have my own therapist,’ Chloe says. ‘He’s not a big questioner though. Do you get annoyed when people ask you too many questions?’
‘Is that another question?’
Chloe chuckles. I smile. My back loosens and I ease into the couch. I didn’t realise how tense I was feeling.
‘Was it your choice to see a counsellor before?’ she asks.
‘No, it was Dad’s idea.’
‘Do you remember why he wanted you to see a counsellor?’
‘Yeah. I was having these nightmares,’ I say. ‘After my mum died.’ The lump is rising in my throat.
‘I’m so sorry to hear that, Jonah.’
‘You know my mum died, though. My dad told you when he booked this appointment.’
‘That’s true,’ she says. ‘Do you know why you’re seeing me, Jonah?’
‘Yeah. You’re a grief counsellor.’
‘I am. I’m here to listen, maybe provide some advice. Do you talk about your mum much?’
‘Nah. Not really. I … I can’t.’
‘You can’t talk about your mum?’
‘Whenever I start to,’ I say, ‘it’s like this block comes up in my brain. It won’t let me talk about her. I used to write stories in a little book about this boy and his mum who get stuck in a fantasy world. That was what my last counsellor got me to do to cope with Mum.’
‘Did it help? The writing?’
‘Kind of. The nightmares stopped.’
I reach for the tissue box on the coffee table. I wipe away my tears and blow my nose.
‘It’s so difficult to lose a parent,’ Chloe continues. ‘Especially difficult when you’re a child. It’s hard to understand, to accept. Our brains are these amazing things and when something hurts us, they put things in place to protect us. It might be a bit hard, but I’d love to talk to you about your mum, if you’d like. Would that be all right?’
‘We can try,’ I say, sniffling, breathing the lump down in my throat that I’m begging my brain to make go away. I think the tears have subsided for now, but I keep the tissues grasped in my hand just in case.
‘What was your mum’s name?’ Chloe asks.
‘Monica.’
I can’t fucking help it – my eyes are burning and the tears begin to leak again. I wipe them away in silence.
‘Monica. That’s a lovely name,’ Chloe says.
‘I suppose.’
‘You know, we all have tools we can use to work through our grief, to understand it better. It sounds like writing might be a good one for you.’
‘Dad talks to Mum sometimes, when he thinks no one can hear him.’
‘Talking to a loved one who’s passed away can help some people. And writing can be very therapeutic. Does writing help you, when you think about your mum?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘I want you to write a letter to your mum,’ she says. ‘Do you think you could do that?’
‘A letter about what?’
‘I want you to tell her about moving to Patience. I want you to write to her and tell her about your life now. I want you to write all the things you want to say to your mum.’
‘Sounds kind of weird.’
Chloe chuckles. ‘I understand. It can feel weird at first. You might realise it doesn’t help at all. I’d still like you to try. You don’t have to let me or anyone else read it, but I’d like you to write it. Do you think you could try?’
‘I guess.’
‘Tell me something else about you,’ she says. ‘Something I didn’t learn from your dad when he booked this appointment.’
‘Umm,’ I begin. ‘Well, I dunno. I … I kind of have a boyfriend-ish thing.’
‘Boyfriend-ish? Can you tell me his name?’
‘Harley.’
‘And how long have you and Harley been boyfriend-ish?’
‘Well, we’ve been seeing each other for, like, a while. But it’s a secret. He’s not ready to be out yet, which is okay. It’s fine.’
Chloe sits forward, adjusts her legs. ‘How is it?’ she asks. ‘Are you happy?’
‘Yeah, I spose.’
‘Spose. Your eyes darted to your lap when you answered that question. Did you feel something just now? Something you want to share?’ she asks, and dammit, she is right.
‘Well,’ I say, clearing my throat. ‘Yeah, I mean, it’s okay. He’s not ready and that’s fine. So … we’re a secret, which is okay. Well, it was okay for a little while, but …’
Chloe smiles at me again and nods, like a sign of encouragement for me to keep going.
‘I guess I just …’ I say. Why is it so hard to tell her what I’m feeling? ‘I don’t want to hide forever. I’m waiting for him to be ready, and I don’t mind waiting. Really. I would never force him to come out, but I’m getting kind of over the secrecy and the hiding. I want to hold his hand and cuddle him and kiss him. And I feel shit about myself because a part of me wishes he would … you know … hurry up. I don’t like being this thing he has to hide from other people.’
Chloe’s voice is soft when she offers her advice. She tells me that I need to tell him how I’m feeling, that I need to prioritise my own feelings and not hurt myself waiting for a day that might not come for a long time. She can tell I don’t like what I’m hearing, because she slides the box of tissues closer to me over the coffee table. I take a tissue and wipe my nose.