The Art of Being Normal

  We’re at the end of the high street and turning onto the seafront when David clasps his hand to his mouth and lets out a gasp.

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask.

  ‘I didn’t pay our tab!’

  We lose it then. We have to hold on to each other we’re laughing so hard.

  I know then I’m officially drunk.

  Considering it’s a Friday night, the streets of Tripton are pretty quiet. In the distance we can hear music. We head towards it. At some point, David’s arm links through mine and by the time I realise, it feels too late to shake him off. As we get closer, it’s obvious the music is coming from a pub called the Mermaid Inn.

  I push open the doors. The music we heard originates from the corner of the pub where a large woman is standing on a tiny stage belting out ‘Beautiful’ by Christina Aguilera, a glittery silver curtain twinkling behind her. As we make our way towards the bar, I can feel the punters’ eyes on us. For the first time since arriving in Tripton, I can sense David’s nerves as he grips my arm, his fingernails pressing into my skin, even through my multiple layers.

  I guide him over to an empty table by the window.

  ‘Are people looking?’ he whispers, his eyes wide and fearful.

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘Do I look OK?’

  ‘You look fine.’

  I peel a twenty-pound note out of my wallet.

  ‘No, my round,’ David says. ‘I insist.’

  I open my mouth to protest, but then snap it shut again. I need this money, pure and simple. If I’m going to come here to live with Dad, I can’t just turn up empty-handed, I need to contribute, earn my keep.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll have a pint.’

  ‘Here,’ David says, pressing the note into my hand. ‘You go up.’

  ‘No, you,’ I say, passing it back. ‘You’ve got a better chance of getting served.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Everyone knows it’s easier to get served if you’re a girl.’

  A massive beaming grin spreads across David’s face.

  ‘What? Why are you smiling?’

  ‘You just called me a girl,’ he says, his cheeks all pink and pleased.

  And I suppose I had, in a way.

  ‘You called me a girl,’ David repeats, his eyes turning all misty, and I start to worry he might cry.

  ‘Go on then, get the drinks, I’m thirsty,’ I say quickly, prodding him on the shin with my foot. He bites his lip and nods, before taking a deep breath and heading up to the bar.

  My eyes wander around the pub. It’s one of those old-fashioned sort of places, with lots of dark wood panelling and brass everywhere. Even though it’s only November, it’s already decorated for Christmas with a wonky plastic tree on the bar and fake snow sprayed unevenly all over the windows. Over on the stage an old bloke, clearly wearing a toupée, is also getting into the festive spirit, ready to belt out ‘The Fairytale of New York’, if the intro is anything to go by.

  David returns with a pint in each hand and at least five bags of crisps shoved under one arm, a huge smile plastered across his face.

  ‘He didn’t even ask me for ID!’ he says. ‘And he called me darling!’

  I laugh. ‘Told you so,’ I say, relieving him of my pint. David perches on his stool and rips open the bags of crisps.

  ‘Cheers,’ I say, raising my glass.

  David looks up and smiles.

  ‘Cheers,’ he says. ‘Here’s to … what?’

  ‘I dunno. Does it have to be to something?’

  ‘Of course it does!’ he cries.

  He thinks for a moment. ‘Here’s to us! To Leo and David!’

  I roll my eyes but clink glasses with him anyway.

  The old bloke on the stage reaches the chorus and as most of the pub joins in, I find myself murmuring along with them. David looks at me in surprise.

  ‘It’s my favourite Christmas song,’ I say with a shrug, fiddling with a beer mat.

  ‘Really? Don’t you find it a bit depressing?’

  ‘Nah, I like it,’ I say. ‘Besides, life is depressing, isn’t it? It’s a well known fact murder rates rise on Christmas Day.’

  ‘But that’s horrible! Christmas is meant to be a time for magic.’

  I shake my head. ‘You’re well cheesy sometimes, you know that? You’re gonna tell me you still believe in Santa next.’

  David sticks his tongue out at me and sips his beer. His mouth leaves behind a lipstick mark on the glass. He holds it up to the light and admires it for a second.

  ‘What’s your favourite Christmas song then?’ I ask.

  ‘Guess.’

  I think for a moment before snapping my fingers.

  ‘Mariah Carey, “All I Want for Christmas is You”,’ I say.

  David smiles a slow smile.

  ‘Wrong. It’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”, the Nat King Cole version.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Exactly. Don’t think you know everything about me, Leo Denton,’ David says, wagging his finger at me.

  David using my full name like that, just like Alicia used to, reminds me of her all over again and I feel myself slipping away for a moment, back to her bedroom on Bonfire Night. It was only just over a week ago but it feels like longer.

  ‘How do I look then?’ David asks, as the song ends and the karaoke host begins to announce the next singer.

  ‘Eh?’ I say, dragging myself and my wandering thoughts back to the Mermaid Inn.

  ‘How do I look?’ David repeats.

  ‘I told you before, fine.’

  ‘Can you be a bit more specific?’

  ‘You look … good,’ I say.

  ‘But good how? Do I, you know, pass?’

  ‘Pass?’ I ask.

  ‘You know what I mean! As in, do I pass as female?’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, that’s a hard one.’

  David’s face falls a little.

  ‘What I mean is, it’s hard because I know you as a boy. But I reckon if I was a stranger and saw you on the street, I would assume you were a girl.’

  ‘Really?’ David says, his eyes full of wonder again.

  ‘Sure,’ I say.

  He bites on his lip to stop a no-doubt massive grin spreading across his entire face.

  ‘Because you look totally like a boy,’ he says, ‘and sound like one too.’

  I glance over my shoulder, relieved to find all the people around us wrapped up in their own tipsy conversations.

  ‘It’s just practice,’ I say with a shrug, ‘knowing what works.’

  ‘Have you met a lot of people like us?’ David asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘What? Not any?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘But how? What about the special clinic you go to? Down in London?’

  I shrug. ‘It’s easy enough to avoid the other patients if you need to. My therapist always goes on at me to go to support groups and stuff, but it’s not my bag.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Because it’s not. I’m stuck in this body, for now anyway, so what’s moaning about it to a roomful of people going to do to help? Nothing.’

  ‘Don’t you find this helps though?’ David asks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Being able to talk to me and not have to hide anything. Doesn’t that feel like a relief?’

  I hesitate, keen to divert the conversation away from me.

  ‘So what’s your girl name then?’ I ask. ‘You haven’t told me yet.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You’ve got to have a girl name, surely. You can’t seriously expect people to keep calling you David when you look like this.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ David says, looking down at his lap and carefully smoothing out his dress.

  ‘So what is it then? You must have thought about it.’

  ‘Of course I have,’ David says. ‘I take this stuff seriously, you know, it’s not just a game.’

  ‘Jesus, I know that
,’ I say, taking a swig of beer. ‘C’mon then, don’t keep me in suspense.’

  ‘Promise you won’t laugh?’

  ‘Course I won’t.’

  David takes a deep breath.

  ‘OK then. It’s Kate.’

  ‘Kate? What, as in Middleton?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s not why I picked it,’ he says quickly, ‘although she is amazing.’

  ‘So why did you?’

  David leans in, his elbows resting on the table.

  ‘I once asked my mum and dad what they would have called me if I was a girl, and they said it was going to be a toss-up between Kate and Olivia. And I couldn’t pick Olivia, because that’s my little sister’s name, so I went with Kate.’

  ‘Kate,’ I repeat. ‘Kate Piper.’

  ‘What? Don’t you like it?’ David asks.

  ‘No, no, I do. I just thought you would have picked something a bit more, I dunno, jazzy.’

  ‘Jazzy?’

  ‘OK, maybe jazzy is the wrong word. I dunno, something a bit more out-there, quirky. Kate is nice though. It suits you.’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he beams. ‘What about you? How did you pick your name? Leo.’

  I pause to fold up one of the empty crisp packets, smaller and smaller until I can’t go any further, making my fingers slick with salt and grease.

  ‘Well?’ David prompts.

  ‘Mam helped me pick it,’ I say, wiping my hands on my jeans. ‘Leo’s my star sign, not that I’m into that stuff. But Mam suggested it and it just kind of worked.’

  ‘That’s so cool,’ David says. ‘I cannot imagine having that conversation with my mum, not for one second. How did you get everyone to start calling you it?’

  ‘I refused to answer to anything else. And eventually it just stuck. I was never much of a Megan anyway.’

  There’s a long pause. Even though we haven’t stepped a foot on the beach, there’s sand under my fingernails.

  ‘What are you going to tell Jimmy?’ David asks quietly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  ‘You know, about you being a boy now?’

  ‘I’m just going to tell him straight out,’ I say boldly.

  ‘Do you have a speech planned?’ David asks.

  ‘I don’t need a speech.’

  The truth is, I have so many things I want to say I can’t even begin to put them into a proper order. Every time I imagine the conversation we’re going to have tomorrow I stall, because so much of what I’m going to say depends on Dad.

  David gets hiccups then, really badly, and I’m glad of the distraction. Thinking about tomorrow makes my head hurt. David’s hiccups are so loud people start looking over at us. I try to get him to drink backwards out of his glass, but it goes all over his dress and the hiccups continue, louder than ever.

  Between hiccups, we continue to chat about other stuff – music, films, TV – our conversation sound-tracked by Tripton-on-Sea’s residents belting out song after song, some more tunefully than others. And for a bit I can block out the uncertainty of tomorrow and just live in the moment. And it’s a good moment, it’s fun, and I feel almost free in a way that seems brand new. It takes me a little while to work out that David was right earlier (not that I’d ever tell him so); it’s because I’m not having to lie. For once I’m able to talk to someone without having to edit each sentence before it leaves my mouth, just in case it drops me in it. Being with Alicia was amazing and exciting and all that, but there was always this fear bubbling just under the surface, always the feeling I was walking on a tightrope, likely to fall at any time.

  The conversation moves on to school and David is talking about Zachary, the blond kid he likes, and how he won some all-county athletics thing last week.

  ‘You really like him, don’t you?’ I say.

  David goes red instantly.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, running his finger round the top of his glass. ‘It’s hopeless though.’

  ‘Definitely?’

  ‘Of course. Do you really think someone as popular and amazing as Zachary would fancy someone like me? That’s what’s so frustrating sometimes. Being like this. It shuts down all these possibilities.’

  ‘It might not …’ I say, but my lack of conviction shows in my voice as it trails off. After all, it was being like this that killed stuff with Alicia.

  ‘Yes, it does,’ David says. ‘It has already. God, I long to be normal sometimes, and to be able to do normal teenage stuff.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, nothing major. Just, I don’t know, dance with a boy at the Christmas Ball or something.’

  The ball. I was meant to be taking Alicia.

  ‘But normal is such a stupid word,’ I say, anger suddenly rising in my belly. ‘What does it even mean?’

  ‘It means fitting in,’ David replies simply.

  ‘And that’s what you really want? To fit in?’

  ‘Not all the time perhaps. But a lot of the time, yes, I think it would be a lot easier to just blend into the crowd. Isn’t that why you don’t tell people?’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘Is it though?’

  I don’t answer.

  ‘What about Alicia?’ David asks. ‘You think you’re going to be able to sort stuff out with her?’

  ‘No way. It’s over,’ I say, flipping my beer mat off the edge of the table and watching it arc in the air before catching it. ‘Well and truly.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I say, downing the rest of my pint.

  David needs to go to the loo then and I’m glad as it means we don’t have to keep talking about Alicia. Only it’s got her back on my brain. I check my phone on the off-chance there might be a message or missed call from her, but there’s nothing, and even though I’m not surprised, I feel the sharp sting of disappointment.

  When David returns, his lipstick freshly applied, he has more drinks in his hands and a mischievous look on his face.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I say, taking the drinks from him and setting them down on the table. ‘What are these?’

  I take a sniff at the unidentifiable liquid in the glass closest to me, almost poking myself in the eye with the umbrella decorating the glass in the process.

  ‘I asked the barman for a surprise,’ David says, slamming down on his stool hard and almost tumbling off backwards. I take a long sip. Whatever it is, it’s sweet and strong and goes straight to my head. Opposite me, David’s face looms larger, then smaller, than larger again, as if I’m looking at him in a wall of mirrors at the funfair. His voice too seems to have faulty volume control, going up and down, up and down. Soon we’re both laughing, over what I’m not too sure, but it’s contagious and we can’t stop and soon the people on the tables around us are laughing as well. David asks someone to take a photo of the two of us on his phone.

  ‘No,’ I protest. ‘I look shit in photos.’

  But it’s too late, David is putting his arm round my shoulder and yelling ‘cheese’ as the flash goes off, super bright, white dots dancing in front of my eyes.

  At one point David does actually fall off his stool, slipping off the edge and landing in a heap on the carpet. I’m laughing so hard I can barely help him up. It’s as I’m crawling back to my own stool, tears rolling down my cheeks, that I hear my name being called.

  ‘Leo? Can we have Leo up on stage, please?’ the compere, a round little man wearing a spangly waistcoat, calls hopefully over the microphone.

  ‘Over here!’ David yelps. ‘He’s over here!’

  ‘No! No way, David,’ I slur, trying to back away against the wall.

  ‘Please!’ David begs, putting his hands together as if praying. ‘Pretty please, Leonardo!’

  ‘That’s not my name,’ I say.

  ‘Come on, lad, don’t disappoint your girlfriend,’ a bloke to my left says.

  ‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ I begin to say, but my voic
e is swallowed up as I’m pushed through the crowd. The pub is suddenly packed, as if the entire population of Tripton-on-Sea has turned out to witness my stage debut.

  I don’t know how I get up on stage, but somehow I find myself being passed the microphone from the compere as the introduction starts. I squint at the crowd. David has managed to make his way to the front and is sitting on a stool, clapping his hands together in excitement.

  ‘Go, Leo!’ he yells, cupping his hands round his mouth.

  I try to focus on the screen in front of me but the words are dancing about, refusing to stay still. I don’t know the verse so I just stand as still as I can and speak the words in rhythm with the white dot bouncing across the screen. But then the chorus kicks in and I realise I know the tune and it’s like I’m having an out-of-body experience as I find myself singing louder and louder until, by the time the chorus kicks in for a second time, I’m belting out the words and strutting up and down the stage like a wannabe rock star.

  ‘Right now, the time is ours! So let’s fly higher!’ I bellow. ‘Light the stars on fire! Together we’ll shine!’

  And suddenly some old bloke has got his lighter out and a few seconds later there are at least five lighters waving in the air and people swaying along to the music. And I am drunk, so, so drunk. And all the time David is whooping his head off and it’s so bizarre I start laughing and end up half-singing, half-laughing my way through the rest of the song. Then it’s over and David is dragging me down from the stage and throwing his arms round me.

  ‘You were like Justin Bieber up there!’ he cries in my ear.

  ‘Piss off,’ I say, pushing him off me.

  I’m laughing though. We both are. We stumble back to our table, punters thumping me on the back with congratulations as we go.

  ‘I should kill you for that,’ I say.

  ‘But you’re not going to, are you?’ David says, grinning wildly. And he’s right. Because I’m grinning too.

  ‘Your turn!’ I say, leaning across to the table next to us to grab hold of the song catalogue.

  ‘No way,’ David says, snatching it out of my hands. ‘Believe me, no one wants to hear me sing. I’m tone deaf.’

  ‘No you’re not.’

  ‘Yes I am. I discovered this at the age of nine when I was tactfully dropped from the school choir.’

  ‘The bastards,’ I growl.