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When Jake was a kid, his best friends had been Felix Ferne and Ellen O’Donnell. Except, Felix had been Felicia then, up until they were eleven, when Felix had told them he had never been a girl.
But when Jake had been nine, he hadn’t known that yet, had yet to learn words like transgender and dysphoria. All he had known was that, when he looked at Felix, he saw the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. He hadn’t been sure what to do about that, how to deal with the fact that he loved Felix so much, and so different to how he loved Ellen, or his parents, or his puppy. So he asked his mum, and she’d smiled and held him close, and told him to tell Felix how he felt. “Every girl wants to be told she’s pretty,” she had said. Jake hadn’t been sure about that (even then, some part of him knew Felix wasn’t like other girls), but his mum was always right (that was what his dad was always saying, and Jake was pretty sure it was true).
He’d told Felix the very next day, as they sat in the grass, huddled over their sandwiches. “I think,” he’d said, summoning all his courage, “I think that you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
Felix’s face had twisted strangely. It had looked like he was about to smile and cry at the same time, but not the happy-crying Jake’s mum did sometimes. Sad-crying.
Ellen had acted quickly, pulling Felix up by the hand and leading him away. Jake had sat, frozen, watching them go.
By the end of the day, Felix had started smiling tentatively at Jake again, and by the next day, it was like the whole thing had never happened. Jake never forgot, though, and it wasn’t until two years later, as Felix sat across from him with his confession hanging in the air between them, that he’d even come close to understanding.
He used that to rationalise it to himself, later. When he’d gotten older, and had new friends and football and a father who couldn’t keep promises, but didn’t have Felix or Ellen anymore. When he couldn’t bring himself to hate Felix, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself he did. When he’d come across Felix one day after footy practice, and had paused in the shadow of the building, watching him scrub determinedly at the lurid graffiti on the wall. When the sun had caught on Felix’s face in some small, indescribable way, and Jake had felt a kick in his gut and thought, he’s still pretty.
It was because of the stupid kiddy crush, he told himself. It was because he used to be a girl.
(Jake hadn’t thought of Felix as a girl for years.)
He had gotten very good at lying to himself.
When Jake was sixteen, everyone he knew forgot who he was. He’d stuck to the only people who still remembered him, because it was the only thing he could think of to do, and that was how he found himself blinking awake with the chill of the dawn after a night in the dirt, for the second time in as many days.
It wasn’t quiet – Jake could hear the wind moving through the trees outside, the scuttling of insects in woodwork, the heavy breathing of the other boys – but it felt like it was. Everything felt still, isolated – like the world had vanished around them. It had, in a way.
“Can’t sleep?” Felix said softly, and Jake jumped.
“I thought you were asleep,” he said in reply, just as softly. He checked surreptitiously on the others – Andy and Sam were still dead to the world.
“Yeah, well,” Felix replied. “Bad dreams.” He didn’t elaborate, and Jake didn’t ask. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
“So,” Felix said abruptly. “Is this going to be a thing?”
Jake frowned. “What?”
“The thing where you’re using me as a pillow,” Felix said, and Jake froze. Last night, and the night before, in the bush, they’d all crowded close to each other – “For warmth,” Andy had kept saying. Somehow, both times, Jake’s head had ended up resting on Felix’s hip, and he hadn’t moved it away. There was, despite all that had happened, a comforting familiarity with Felix. He’d only known Andy since high school, and even then, he’d barely been aware of his existence. He knew Sam well enough, but there was something about him – he was untouchable, the golden boy, achieving effortlessly all the things Jake had to constantly work to get. He’d known Felix since they were kids, and had been keeping his feelings in check for almost as long. He still remembered all the sleepovers, lying curled up close in Felix’s bed. He hadn’t expected Felix to notice, or to say anything if he did.
“I-“ Jake started, but Felix cut him off.
“Because if you are, I mean. It’d be okay,” he said, so quiet Jake barely heard him. He wasn’t sure he’d even heard right. But he didn’t want to question it.
Instead he said, “I meant what I said yesterday. About being sorry.” I’m sorry for how I acted yesterday. I’m sorry for all those times I’ve called you a freak. I’m sorry I made you cry when we were nine.
Felix was quiet for a long time. Jake was half-sure he’d gone back to sleep, but then he said, “I know.”
It wasn’t forgiveness. But it was, perhaps, a start.