Chapter 31

Chapter 31

But the hysteria grew. The following Monday, I'd never seen the library so busy. Kids everywhere. Rifling through the shelves, flicking through various volumes – all of them looking for the book. I wondered if they all wanted to find something outrageous and shocking, something smutty, or if just a couple of them secretly hoped they'd find themselves.

It was those last couple I felt for. I wished they could. Like I did.

Mrs C was the eye of the storm – calmly shelving armfuls of abandoned books while chaos whirled all around her. "So, this is fun!" she said to me.

"Parents have been complaining," I whispered.

"I know," she whispered back. "And you don't need to whisper because it's common knowledge and it just sounds … sort of suspicious?"

I nodded. "But there's not even a book. And even if there was … there's barely anything in it that's wrong."

"There's nothing in it that's wrong, Jamie. And facts don't matter to these people. The sort of people who want to ban books are not the sort of people who are interested in truth."

I swallowed. "Is it going to be OK?"

"Yes, Jamie." She gave me a gentle smile. "It's going to be OK." Her face changed. "Oh, as long as I remember to remove that copy of Hot Gay Sex for Teenage Boys, illustrated edition from non-fiction.*" She winked at me. "Oh, bless your hopeful face. I was joking."

"My face wasn't hopeful."

"OK."

"That's just how my face is. I'm an optimist."

That optimism was tested to the max over the next couple of days. Rob wasn't in school much, but when he was, he kept his head down the whole time. He wouldn't even acknowledge me. I hated it, seeing him so scared of what the consequences might be, afraid just to look at me in case someone spotted it and somehow just knew.

Because that was the other thing. Rumours had now spread about there being notes towards the end of the book between two boys, and the hot topic was the identity of the "two homos". And so, like the Salem witch hunts, everyone was busy denying it was them, while gleefully suggesting it might be someone else. It felt like a clock was ticking, and eventually someone, somewhere, would hit upon the correct combination to blow the truth wide open.

On Wednesday morning, the protest started.

The group of parents were standing outside the school gates with a banner reading "Protect Our Children!" and an assortment of placards: "No Homo Promo!", "Hands off Our Kids!", and "Keep Gays Out of Schools!"

Long shot: me, Jamie Hampton, a bit of a hero, albeit an undercover one, walking past them, head not down but not exactly up either. Do they know the enemy in their midst?

Pan across: the protesters. Why do these people always look the same? Mean, pinched faces. An air of respectability. Middle class. A lot of women, mostly blonde, plus some men with awful beards.* Someone has a sign saying something vague from the Bible. Jesus is mentioned on another.

Fantasy sequence: Rob runs up to me. "Jamie! Jay! I came to say … screw it all!" He gestures to the protesters. "And screw them! I love you. I fucking love you! I'm so fucking gay for you!"

He shouts it mostly at the protesters, rather than me. Their chanting stops. Shock and obvious horror.

"Kiss me, big boy!" I shout back.

And, boy, does he. We are all over each other, rubbing the protesters' faces in all the gay. Tongues, everything. Before we start ripping each other's clothes off and—

Reality: I walked right by them. I didn't look, I didn't scowl. But what they couldn't know was the scene that was playing out in my head. Me and Rob. And that felt like a little bit of sweet, sweet defiance.

That's the thing, right? I didn't need a book to get "ideas" about doing stuff with other boys. I had plenty of my own. Since this whole thing had started with Rob, I'd developed a whole library. A film library, mostly. In the sort of definition that wouldn't be mainstream for at least another twenty-five years.

So, that was our lovely hate montage, and now, picture that spinning newspaper that features in every film you've ever seen with some breaking news, only this is the new edition of the Wickby Mail, and rather than a big headline, it's the letters page, and one letter in particular.

Oh yes, it was "out there".

But while the storm raged around me (the fallout was immediate and massive – everyone was speculating about who the "Gay Teenage Boy" was; more outrage; accusations about being "anti-Christian", the lot), let us focus in on one small, very lovely, very significant moment. In any storm, it's important to find the calm. And this was it.

The location: English lit, period 5.

The players: me – Jamie Hampton, and Rob West, the love interest. (He would kill me for calling him that, he was obviously so much more.)

Action!

Since my outburst in support of Rob's essay, Ms Wilkins clearly thought it amusing to put us together whenever she wanted us to work in pairs. "Since your views on literature are so aligned!*" she would tell us, a sarcastic smile on her face. That day, we were working on the symbolism of weather in Wuthering Heights, and how Heathcliff is a storm, or whatever. We were getting towards the point in the term where the actual real weather had become hotter, the fifth years and upper sixth were all on exam leave, and nobody could really be bothered any more. Various events loomed on the calendar: sports day, the garden fete, a sponsored walk, the ball, of course, and even the lessons had taken on a more relaxed atmosphere. Hence why, despite this being A level, we were making big posters featuring the core cast experiencing various forms of weather – such as Heathcliff being under a thundercloud, for example. Shockingly babyish stuff, but I didn't much care, and having something that wasn't taxing to think about was a blessing.

Rob was staring down at the desk when I moved across from Beth and sat down next to him. It was undeniably awkward. But just as I was about to offer up a suggestion about starting with Cathy, he muttered, "I'm sorry."

I didn't reply. I wasn't sure I'd heard him correctly, or, if I had, that he was referring to me and him and "the situation" rather than, say … well, I didn't know. Or, rather, I didn't dare hope.

He was still staring down at the desk. "A Gay Teenage Boy?" he said. "You know how to wind up the bigots, I'll give you that."

I laughed.

And then he cracked a smile and looked at me. For a moment, he studied my face. It felt like he was seeing me for the first time, or maybe seeing someone different. I suppose I was. Inspired by him, I should add. It was funny. When this first started, I'd always seen myself as the one who was going to save him. This lonely boy, who I was going to help. And maybe I did, a little bit, but he also saved me. I sometimes wonder what the hell I would have become if I'd never met Rob West.

There was a hum of activity in the room: the general chatter of students only vaguely focusing on the work in question, mainly just gossiping. Ms Wilkins was doing some marking at her desk. It made it easier.

"Do you hate me?" he muttered.

"Of course I don't."

"Thank you," he said. He gave me a small smile then added, "Hey, passed my driving test, by the way."

"Aw, well done!"

"Take you for a ride sometime, huh?" He winked at me.

That was it, we started to get on with the work, except for one thing: he shifted his left leg so it made contact with my right, and that's how we stayed, throughout the whole lesson, legs touching under the table, a little piece of comfort in an otherwise hostile world, and a little bit of hope that, maybe, things might be OK between us.

*

That evening at home, Mum, Keith and me had just finished eating some lamb chops (yes, Keith was back), completely cremated (Mum can't stand pink meat), and, of course, totally unsatisfying – lamb chops being the frustrating intersection of too much work and not enough actual meat – when the phone rang.

"Probably for you," Keith grunted at me, as he picked up a bone to gnaw on.

"864450?" I said, picking up the handset.*

"Hello, is that A Gay Teenage Boy?" came the reply.

I literally started choking on my own salvia.

"Who is it?" Mum mouthed at me.

I shook my head, as if to indicate it didn't matter, cleared my throat several times, and stretched the phone cord around with me into the hall, shutting the lounge door between us, to afford some small level of privacy – although not much since Mum and Keith would be able to hear everything through the door anyway.

"Hello! How are you?" I said, all jolly, so no one would suspect anything. If I started whispering, or being weird, they'd know something was up, in that way mums always do.

"Ah, your mum is there, isn't she?" Rob said.

"Yep!" I said brightly. "I … didn't know you had my number."

"I didn't. I went through the phone book."

"You went through all the Hamptons until you found me?"

"Yeah." He didn't sound like that was a big thing.

"But there are loads of us!"

"I know. Started at the top and got lucky on number forty. Pity your mum's name isn't closer to the start of alphabet."

I blew out a breath. That was dedication.

"It's been fine when women answered, but I've asked about ten guys if they're ‘gay teenage boys' tonight, and it hasn't gone down well."

I laughed.

"Worth it for your reaction, though!" he added.

"You're outrageous. And what happened to us agreeing not to phone each other?"

"Emergency. I need to see you. I want to explain. And I owe you a huge apology."

"Now?"

"Yeah. Have you had your tea?"

"Yeah."

"Main entrance of the cemetery. I'll be there in about fifteen minutes."

The phone went dead. He was always dramatic like that. Later, I learned he had a thing about "goodbyes", which kind of explained it, though.

I spun Mum and Keith a story about a "minor ball emergency" (Keith's response: "Sure it doesn't require a trip to casualty, Jamie?" – eye-roll), threw a hoodie on and headed out.

Early June, so it was still light, and it was fairly warm. He was waiting for me just behind one of the brick pillars that flanked the entrance, grasping a bunch of flowers (for me?!), Casper at his feet, and a look on his face of relief when he saw me.

"Thanks for coming," he said. "Thank you."

"It's OK." I shrugged and eyed the flowers.

"Oh, these aren't for you." He laughed. "Do you like flowers?"

"Never been given any."

"Hm," he said.*

We walked in easy silence through the cemetery, Casper stopping to sniff periodically, and Rob pulling him on, fearful he was about to piss on someone's grave. If I'd really thought about it, the flowers were a big clue, of course, and we ended up standing in front of where his mum was buried. He removed some old stems from a pot by the headstone and put the fresh ones in, arranging them so they fell nicely. Satisfied, he stepped back, gazing softly at the grave.

"So, this is Mum," he told me. "Mum, this is Jamie."

"Hi, Rob's mum," I said quietly.

"Oh, good, I thought you might think I was weird, talking to her like that."

"Not at all. I … have someone I speak to as well."

He raised his eyebrows, then smiled. "Sometimes it's nice just to come down here and get it all out. I don't have anyone else I can do that with."

"Yeah, I get it."

He sat down cross-legged at the foot of the grave and patted the turf next to him so I joined.

"I'm sorry about what happened at mine," he said, picking at some grass. "About how I reacted."

"It's OK."

"It's not OK. You were only trying to do something nice."

"It was too much. And we'd already agreed to keep everything quiet, so I don't know what I was thinking, really."

"What you were thinking, I expect, was how lovely it would be, to have a little piece of normal. To be able to be with some friends and show them what we mean to each other. I think about that too. It's embarrassing, but I sometimes fantasize about bringing you round for supper, with my dad, and we're just open about it all, and he's OK with it, he even likes you, and we have dinner, and we laugh, and it's all just what everyone else gets to do." He turned to me. "I'm scared."

"I know, so am—"

"Wait. That's not it. I'm scared … because, I think, maybe, you've fallen for me."

I sighed.

"And I've fallen for you."

I tried not to smile at that, only because it felt like this was a serious moment, you know?

"By which I mean properly fallen for you. And that means I have to deal with the pain of, one day, losing you." He looked up and stared at his mum's headstone and sighed.

I chewed my lip, looking at him. "I'm not … planning on dying." I hoped that didn't sound crass.

"Nor was Mum."

"OK, but—"

"It's not even that. Mum got ill; I know that can happen to anyone. Bad luck. But, one day, you'll be taken away from me, or me from you. Because they'll never let us be together." He shook his head. "And everything that's been happening in the last couple of weeks? The hysteria? Over a book? Those parents writing to the paper and then protesting? Dad's read the letters – flat-out asked me if it was anything to do with me. Told him ‘no way', but he clearly wasn't convinced – I found the brochure for that evangelical school on the desk in my room yesterday. That's a warning, right? A threat. Irony is, Dad acts pure as the driven snow, but he's a hypocrite about a lot of other stuff…"

Rob shook his head, lost in thought, while I mused on what exactly that was meant to mean.

"Then some reporter from the News of the World* turned up at my front door a couple of days ago," Rob continued. "They're desperate to get some dirt on Dad and it's staring them right in the face, they just haven't been tipped off about it yet. It's … how is there a way out of this?" He looked at me again. "Realistically, I mean. None of your relentless optimism."

I nodded, glum. "On the roof, you talked about happy beginnings. So, what's this? Our unhappy ending?"

"No." He shook his head. "I don't like endings. I don't believe in them. Same with goodbyes."

"Aren't they inevitable?"

"They are not," he said. "When Mum was dying, I never said goodbye to her. The last thing I said was ‘Have a good sleep', even though … I knew. Goodbyes, endings, they suggest something is over, finished, but it never really is, is it? There is no end, because life carries on, just in different ways; someone dies, they become worm food, or they fertilize the flowers. Still life, still here, just different. Someone walks out of your life, that isn't ‘the end', that's just leaving that story for the moment and walking into another one, and maybe those stories intersect again, one day, and ultimately we're all just this bunch of captive atoms in the universe being reconfigured until…"

"The end?"

"Not the end!" he said. "Something will happen after the world explodes, who knows what?"

He breathed out heavily.

"Well. I'm depressed," I said.

There was a moment's silence.

"I want to be with you until the world explodes, Jamie."

I let those words sit…

And then I burst out laughing. "What?! I can't keep track of you."

"Seriously, I can't keep track of myself!" He sighed sadly. "I'm scared of losing you, like I lost Mum, and like I ended up losing all my mates at my last school, but then … if I don't do anything, then I've lost you anyway, right? Nothing is still losing. Better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all."

"Shakespeare?"

"Oh, Jamie. Tennyson." He glanced over his shoulder, then reached out for my hand. "I saw your letter in the paper. I read it, and I thought, when did he get so brave?"

"When I met you," I said.

"Have I finally brought the best out in someone?" He smiled, stroking my hand with his thumb.

"Hardly brave, anyway," I said. "Didn't even put my name to it."

"But what you said was brave, knowing I would almost certainly read it. Admitting all that. To me. To yourself. I know that isn't easy."

"No. It's not."

"And, when I read it, I felt … I was beaming. So proud. Proud that you … were talking about me. That it was about us. And I thought, why should we have to hide? Why shouldn't we celebrate that? Who gave those people the right to decide what's right and what's wrong?"

"Right, OK, but I feel you've done a complete three-sixty here—"

"Not entirely. Everything I said is still true. The odds are stacked against us. Dad will still send me away if he knows. The press would love a juicy story. We'd both be beaten up. All that is true. Classic star-crossed lovers."

I did blush at "lovers" because we'd never gone that far.

"But I'm also sick of not living," he continued. "So, I change my vote. Let's live as close to the edge as we can. Maybe we do spend time with Beth and Dan, and just hope we can trust them both. We can be careful, but not to the point of not existing for one another. We speak in school. We hang out. Sit together at lunch. To everyone else, we're friends. As long as we're never caught actually … doing anything, what have they got on us?"

"We, you, especially, have to be so careful."

"I know. But what's the alternative? We don't exist just because they don't want us to exist? We can't change who we are. I don't want to change it, either. I love us. Individually and together. I want to be with you. Whatever happens. Because having something, even for a bit, is still better than never having it. And what's the point in being alive if you can't actually, live, anyway? If you can't be you. If you're not allowed to love?"

I squeezed his hand.

"And, like your letter," he said, "perhaps we start to push back a bit. Because this has to change. Things have to change. Even if we do something quiet and underground – but isn't that how all revolutions started throughout history?"

"You've got something in mind, haven't you?"

He grinned and nodded. "I do have something in mind." He clocked my questioning face. "All in due course. I feel like we have some time to make up for first."

I leaned towards him.

"Not here!" he said, laughing. "Just in case. Plus, it's slightly weird in front of Mum, not that I think she'd mind. In fact, I think she'd really like you, but still… She's still my mum. And we're all British and massively uncomfortable with public displays of affection."

"Sorry, yeah."

He indicated the dense holly bushes at the edges of the cemetery. "But how about in there?" He smiled at me. "She won't see us, and no one else can. What do you think?"

A snog in a graveyard! That's something to tick off the bucket list, isn't it?

Did you pick up on that thing about endings, and Rob not liking them? That had a big effect on me, and I grew to hate endings too. That's why, if you read any of my books, you'll never find the words "The End" in there. Because, like Rob said, it never really is. Life goes on. Stories go on. Just in different ways. Despite that, with some of Rob's ideas, I honestly thought he absolutely wanted to bring on Armageddon, our total demise, and, yeah, The End. Get ready for it, folks…

*I was still looking for this title as late as 1998, no matter what she said. It doesn't exist, folks.

*I promise you, look at any photo of an anti-LGBT or anti-abortion protest, and this is how a lot of the protesters will look.

*Some years later I bumped into her when I was in town visiting Mum. She told me she'd put us together on purpose, because she could tell we liked each other. In all the hate, there are always people who do their bit to rebel and restore some love. I like that. And I like them.

*Yes, most people answered the phone by repeating back the number the caller had presumably called. It stopped being a thing a year or two later, and I kind of miss the formality of it.

*I assumed that response meant he might plan to at some point. To this day, Rob West has never given me flowers. Rob: white roses, please! Come on!

*They were always scum.