‘You made me a character in your book,’ said Ms Pritchett. ‘That’s so sweet, Rob.’

My monthly meeting, a twenty-five minute bus ride from our house. Summer’s heat was building and the bus had been stuffy, the passengers quiet and grumpy. I don’t know how I can tell the mood when no one is saying anything, but I knew. I felt a bit grumpy myself. The forecast was for low to mid-forties for the next few days. God help us all. Ms P’s office is a further ten minutes’ walk from the bus terminal, so I was irritable and sweaty when I arrived. Not for the first time I wondered why I bother with this every four weeks, and not for the first time I came up with the answer. There’s something pleasant about routine and there’s also something liberating about talking to someone for an hour, knowing you don’t have to make any pretences because no judgements are being made. Plus, her office has air-conditioning …

It wasn’t like that at the start, of course, (she’d always had air-conditioning, though) but Ms Pritchett had gained my trust over the years and hadn’t let me down. That was why I’d given her that whopping sheaf of papers she called my ‘book’ – I got a little shiver when she said that, I don’t mind admitting – because I knew she’d read it, for one thing, and there’d be nothing in there she didn’t already know quite a bit about.

‘I thought you’d get a kick out of it,’ I replied.

Ms Pritchett picked up that fat pile of paper from her desk and started flicking through it. I looked around the office to see if anything was different – it’s a little game I play – but the same framed certificates were on the walls, the same photograph of her daughter on the desk, positioned at an angle so she could see it and anyone sitting on my side of the desk could as well. I liked that. It made me feel just a tiny bit included in her life while I included her in mine.

‘It’s terrific, you know,’ she said. ‘You should get it published.’

‘Oh, no,’ I said, in a pathetic attempt at modesty. Oh, YES! I screamed inside my head.

‘It’s very imaginative.’

‘English teachers have remarked upon this before,’ I said. ‘Apparently it’s discussed enthusiastically in staffrooms, which only proves they need to get out more …’ I stopped, while my brain delivered the results from its processing of her words. ‘Hang on,’ I continued. ‘What do you mean by that?’

Ms Pritchett put the sheaf back down on the desk. A small puff of dust lingered in a sunbeam from the window behind her, motes dancing. She leaned back in her chair and made her fingers form a steeple.

‘I mean, you’ve taken a couple of … liberties with the truth.’

I pointed at the papers. ‘Ninety-nine per cent of that is pure fact,’ I said. I think there was indignation in my voice. I hope so, because I felt it.

‘I’m not a teacher at your school, Rob.’

I waved a hand. ‘Oh, come on. That character plays only a small part in the story and I just put it in for a bit of fun. Like I said, I thought you’d like to be in it.’

‘I could easily have been. We’ve been meeting for … what, four years now, Rob? Yet there’s not one mention of that in this book.’

‘Our meetings are not very exciting, Ms Pritchett,’ I said. ‘Sorry to break it to you.’ I knew I was being snotty, but she was dissing my writing. Not in an obvious way, I admit, but that’s how I felt.

‘That’s true,’ she said. I was annoyed her tone of voice betrayed no emotional reaction to my comment, especially since that’s what I’d been aiming for. ‘But I think it’s interesting your fictional teacher is the one protecting you from Daniel Smith.’

‘It’s not interesting,’ I said. ‘It’s meant to be funny.’

She ignored me.

‘A teacher with superpowers, always there to protect you.’

I snorted. ‘Come on, Ms P. I mean, jeez. Ever heard of humour? Hello?’

She ignored me again. ‘That would have been useful in the real world, wouldn’t it, Rob? Because, as you’ve told me on many occasions, there was no one to protect you at school, apart from Andrew and he couldn’t be there all the time.’ I tried to interrupt, but she was having none of it. ‘And a good few others who gave you grief at school appear to have disappeared from your narrative. All lumped together in the one character of Daniel Smith.’

‘There weren’t that many others …’

‘Should I review my notes, Rob?’

I said nothing and tried to regulate my breathing. I know what I wanted to say – that not one of those certificates on the wall said qualified psychiatrist. But that wasn’t going to work. Ms Pritchett had stuff she wanted to get off her chest and nothing I could do, short of leaving, would stop it. It’s kinda ironic, I thought. I’m normally the one talking and she’s the one listening. Our roles appeared to have reversed and perhaps that would be … interesting.

‘What else is untrue in my story?’ I asked when I’d calmed down a bit. ‘Come on. You talk and I’ll listen.’

She gave a half-smile at that.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Here’s what I think. I think you have told your story with typical humour and decency, but sacrificed things in order to present an idealised version of your world. You’re right. The Miss Pritchett character is a small example. But what about your grandfather? The way you tell it, he never had any significant problems with you being trans, but that’s not true.’ She got up from her chair and stood at the window, her back to me. It would be nice to say she looked out on a cityscape or a park with joggers, and mums and dads pushing prams. But the only view was of a discoloured brick wall and a potholed section of car park. ‘Of course, the most severe … reworking of reality is with your portrayal of your father. In the narrative he’s always understanding and supportive. True, there were hints right at the end – the section about the school prize-giving is the best example – that he wasn’t comfortable with your gender identity, but generally you give the impression of a harmonious home life filled with unqualified love and support.’

She turned to face me. The beam of sunlight had gone now – I had no idea how it had intruded in the first place given the outlook from the office window. Maybe it had been a reflection from a car windscreen. ‘I’m not being critical, Rob. Honestly, I love your book and you made me cry. But I also have a professional responsibility and I worry you’re trying to create the world you’d like to exist, rather than facing up to the one you’re stuck with. Remember, I’ve accompanied you for at least a part of your journey and I know the massive obstacles you’ve had to overcome. Are still overcoming.’

I sat in my chair for a long time, saying nothing. It was important to frame my response carefully and rationally, especially since emotions were bubbling up and threatening to overwhelm. Sometimes, these days, just the mention of Grandad’s name can do that. But I was wounded. So I tried to see things from Ms Pritchett’s point of view and that calmed me. I could see why some stuff in my book would worry her. And there was another irony. We had discussed many times how my ability – my determination, Ms P said – to always see the other person’s point of view was a good thing and a bad thing. She hinted that my empathy sometimes made me want to forgive the unforgivable. I thought it made me a nice person.

Ms Pritchett gave me a wad of tissues. I hadn’t even realised I was crying. So I snorted and sniffed and was generally disgusting for a few minutes. But it helped. My voice trembled only slightly when I spoke.

‘Thanks,’ I said. I dropped a large, wet bundle of tissues into the bin and gave one last revolting sniff. ‘I’ll try to explain. First of all, the other kids and Daniel Smith. I told you about threats at school because … well, obviously they hurt. But I also said, many times, that this wasn’t the whole story.’ I brushed a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. ‘Maybe you think Milltown High is full of prejudiced bullies, but it isn’t. It really isn’t. Yeah, some kids gave me grief, as you put it, but most didn’t. They did accept me. They were supportive.’ I pointed at the photograph on the desk. ‘You’ve got a daughter about my age, Ms P. I don’t know if she talks to you much. I can’t imagine you do to her what you do to me.’ She smiled at that, but said nothing. ‘Kids of our age, I think, are tolerant in ways older generations aren’t. Most kids simply don’t care. Provided you don’t hurt anyone, they’re cool with the colour of your skin, your sexuality, your size or the way you dress.’ Ms Pritchett put a finger to her lips as if considering the point, so I carried on. ‘Yeah, some kids care about all those things – the bullies, the nasties, the unpleasant pieces of work. But, trust me, they’re the minority and they’d have a go at anyone they thought was different. Ask your daughter. I think she’d agree.’

Ms Pritchett took her seat again. It was obvious she’d resumed listening mode, because there was silence for ten or fifteen seconds and she seemed in no hurry to break it.

‘Grandad,’ I said finally. ‘Ah, Grandad.’ I took another tissue because it’s best to be prepared. I pointed at the manuscript. ‘Everything in there about Pop is true. Everything. Sure, he had difficulty understanding when I first told him, maybe three years ago, but who wouldn’t? I remember he said to me, “But, Roberta, why would you want to be a boy? Boys grow up to be men and men are blankety idiots. It’s men who’ve caused all the blankety wars in history. It’s men who blankety hurt women. If I could, I’d be a woman, because men are the blankety scum of the earth.”’ I rubbed at my nose with the tissue. The way this hour was going I’d be doing a good impersonation of Rudolph by the end. Unfortunately, I’d left my festive antlers at home.

‘So what did you say to that?’ I must have been quiet for longer than I thought, lost in memories, because Ms P doesn’t normally have to jog me.

‘I said, “That’s the point, Grandad. If I could. But you can’t be a woman and neither can I. It’s not a question of me wanting to be a boy. There’s no choice involved. A boy is who I am.”’

‘Did he understand?’

‘Not really. Not fully. But you know what’s more important, Ms P? He tried. He tried so hard. And he accepted me, loved me, for who and what I am.’ I placed my hand on the pile of paper. ‘That’s what I hope is in here.’

She nodded. ‘And your father?’

‘Oh, Dad.’ I laughed. ‘He was so embarrassed that night of the award ceremony. Didn’t speak to me for four days, came home that night rotten drunk. But before that he was normally okay – provided the subject of me being trans never came up or, God forbid, was ever discussed. Mum called him the fat ostrich. The golfing ostrich with his head in a bunker, showing his bum to the world.’

Ms Pritchett smiled. ‘But not openly supportive.’

‘Oh, Ms P,’ I said. ‘You want everyone to be perfect.’

‘Sometimes I think I’d like you to act like a thirteen-year-old. You’re way too mature for a kid of your age.’

‘No pleasing some people, so snotty poo bum bum,’ I replied.

‘Do you think trans people grow up quicker?’ she asked. There was genuine curiosity there.

I gave it thought because it had never occurred to me before.

‘I reckon,’ I said finally. ‘We have to deal with things others don’t. As you said, I’ve struggled to get to where I am now. Plenty of pain and suffering that most people can’t even think about. And probably more to come.’ I pointed at her. ‘But you’d probably know better than I do. You’re the authority. What do you think?’

‘I think I’m not trans.’

I laughed at that. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Earlier you thought my book was … what were your words? An idealised world. Something about me writing a world I wanted to exist, but that didn’t, not really. That’s not true, Ms Pritchett. It does exist. I think people are good and kind. Generally. Sure, there’re bad people out there. Whoopy doo. But I didn’t want to write about bad people, partly because that’s my choice, partly because they’re on the wrong side of human history, but mainly because I feel good about myself. I feel normal. Perhaps that will change, but at the moment, I feel normal.’

We gazed at each other for a few moments, then Ms Pritchett snatched a tissue from the dispenser and dabbed at her eyes.

‘Get the hell out of here, Rob,’ she said. ‘You’ve overstayed your hour and your welcome.’ But she smiled as she said it.

The walk back to the bus was hard work, especially since the heat was trying to suck the life out of me. Anyone who could, stayed in air-conditioned cars or buildings. We pedestrians shuffled along like the walking dead.

I had my earbuds in, my phone tucked into my jeans pocket. Sweat trickled down my forehead.

But I felt good, walking to the beat of a song only I could hear.