Chapter 38

Autobiography

The line is pulling tighter and tighter. The story is dragging me towards the ending. But it’s not other people’s words, anymore: I’m writing it, and I won’t let it be a tragedy. Coming out gives me the power to write my own story.

That’s great, right? So, why do I have to keep doing it over and over again?

I’m going to tell my dad first. Not that I don’t think Mum will be accepting: she definitely will. She accepts everything, up to and including the existence of unicorns. I know she’ll be okay about me—but she’ll also make a big deal out of it. It’s just her way. She’ll want to show me how accepting she is by taking me dress shopping or something, and then I will shrivel up and die and all this angst will have been for nothing.

So, Dad it is. Knowing that he will probably make a mess of my coming out takes the pressure off me.

I find him in their bedroom. He’s sitting on the bed with his laptop on his knees; the sort of thing teenagers do, not adults. The silence in the rest of the house is either reassuring or creepy. I won’t know which until after we have this conversation.

‘How’s the book going?’ I ask the back of my dad’s head. He gives a startled squeak, and I laugh. ‘Well, you’re certainly absorbed in it.’

‘Sorry,’ Dad says, as he beckons me to come in. I sit next to him and peer at the screen. 12,660 words: sounds like a lot.

‘It’s going well,’ my dad says, ‘and it’s helping me to process…everything. I doubt it will ever be a bestseller, but I’m getting a lot out of writing it—just proving to myself that I can write a whole novel is pretty amazing.’

‘It is pretty cool,’ I agree. ‘I can’t imagine doing something like that.’

‘Well, they say everyone’s got one novel in them somewhere,’ Dad says with a grin. ‘What would yours be about, do you think?’

‘I reckon it would be an autobiography,’ I say.

This makes Dad laugh. ‘I think you’ll need to be a bit older before you start writing your life story!’

‘Oh, it wouldn’t be mine,’ I tell him.

‘Then it wouldn’t be called an autobiography,’ my dad explains, but I just smile. I know what I mean. And who knows? Maybe one day I will write Aliya’s story, so other people can learn as much from her as I have.

She taught me how much better it feels to live your truth. And that starts now. When I say the words I know I have to say. Quite a few of them are long words that I learnt off Google. Except I can’t remember a single one of them now.

‘I don’t feel like a real boy.’ Okay, that definitely wasn’t what I’d planned.

Dad looks confused. ‘Is that a quote from Pinocchio?’

Can he possibly be serious right now? I’m trying to have the most important conversation of my life, here!

‘No!’ I shout so loudly that my voice comes out in a broken squawk. ‘I’m quoting from my own damn life! And it is not a Disney movie! I’m not a Disney princess. I’m the frog, and I don’t know who I’m going to turn into!’

I’m aware that I’m not making sense anymore, and that I’m pacing around with my fingers digging into my scalp like a crazy person, but I can’t stop. ‘I don’t feel right, and it’s awful. I have to stop pretending to be the son you want me to be, or I will literally explode and there will be frog guts all over the floor! And that won’t be pretty. Is it so wrong to want to be pretty?’

There is a stunned silence. I’m panting for breath, but for once the fluttery panic isn’t coming. I made a complete and utter mess of that, but I feel lighter. I’m by the door—I don’t even remember moving—so I spin around and leave. I tell myself I’m strutting away like a diva—I can be a diva if I want to, that’s the point, right?—but actually, it’s more of a stagger. I’m drunk on adrenalin. In about two minutes I’ll have a hangover.

I make it down the hall to my room and collapse face-down on my bed. Coming out is supposed to get easier the more you do it, right? So, how did that just go so wrong?

This is the first time that being rejected would be too much to bear.

After about two minutes, Dad knocks on the door and then comes and sits beside me. ‘Can we try that again?’

I nod into the duvet.

‘Do you want to be a girl?’

I roll over so I can see him. His face is carefully non-judgemental. ‘No… It’s more like I want to stop having to be a boy.’

Dad looks confused. Who can blame him? ‘Aren’t those the same thing?’

I shake my head slowly. ‘No, I don’t want to change who I am, my body or whatever. The opposite, really. I want to be able to be who I already am, not what people expect me to be because I’m a boy.’

‘Well, I’m glad you don’t want to have a sex change.’

‘Dad! That’s…probably offensive. Although I’m not quite sure why.’

He grimaces. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll probably say the wrong thing a lot. Try to be patient with me, will you? Whatever happens, you’re my son, and I love you. Or my daughter? See, I’m getting it wrong already. But I still love you.’

I throw my arms around his waist and cling to him tightly. It’s not how a boy hugs. I think Dad realises this too, as his arms close around me as if he’ll never let go.

Mum’s voice breaks us apart. ‘Fred! Come here now.’

The urgency in her voice makes me follow Dad downstairs. Mum is standing in the living room, clutching the phone. So many emotions are crowded onto her face. Lily is sitting on the sofa, white as a corpse. My heart begins to hammer.

‘Has the hospital phoned?’ Dad asks. ‘The test results are in? Keira, you’re scaring me.’

‘It’s good news,’ Mum says, but her face is still saying something different. ‘The tumour has shrunk. They’re going to operate tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Dad says.

‘Urgent. Small window of opportunity,’ Mum says.

One day.

Only one more day.

Dad goes to sit next to Lily on the sofa, and I say, ‘Mum? I need to talk to you.’

We go into the kitchen. I don’t know where to start. I hadn’t planned to do this tonight, but time is a luxury I don’t have anymore.

‘I’m non-binary.’

‘What?’ Mum snaps.

‘It means—’

‘I know what it means.’

‘You do?’

‘Of course. What I don’t understand is why you’re airing this now. This is no time for selfishness.’

Mum was supposed to be the easy one. I was expecting a conversation, not a round of machine-gun fire.

‘You’ve already spoken about this to Lily, haven’t you?’ Mum accuses me. ‘I’ve heard her calling you Luca. How could you do that to your sister? Don’t you think she has enough to worry about?’

‘Why would my gender identity worry her?’ I ask. ‘It’s not like anything’s wrong with me.’

‘Of course, nothing’s wrong with you!’ Mum says, and for an instant all the tension inside me releases. Then she continues, ‘It’s just a made-up problem. It doesn’t compare to having cancer, does it?’

‘No, it doesn’t compare,’ I say between gritted teeth. ‘Cancer is a problem. I’m not.’

‘So, why bring this up now, of all times?’ Mum asks, her voice rising. ‘I know all my attention has been focused on Lily, Honey, but surely you can understand that? I just don’t—I can’t—I don’t have the space to deal with this on top of everything else.’

Tell me about it. I don’t have the space to deal with Mum’s hysterics, either. Hurt and anger are swirling around, waiting to burst out. This is all for Lily, whatever Mum thinks. For Lily’s sake, I needed to come out. To stop holding any of myself back. That’s true, isn’t it? Or am I so messed up that I can’t even tell that I’m being selfish?

When I fall asleep that night, I can’t dream at all.