Chapter Two

AMBROSE AND I had been childhood friends, but only because of proximity. Eighteen months younger, but two years below me in school, Ambrose only ended up in my sphere because we shared a backyard. Our single mothers rented either side of a duplex.

Tracy Jakoby moved in with her five-year-old son when I was seven. She was chalk to my mother’s cheese, despite their similar circumstances. Whereas Tracy had Ambrose when she was little more than a teenager and regularly bad-mouthed Ambrose’s father for being a no-hoper who ran off when she found out she was pregnant, my mother was a socially awkward woman in her late twenties who’d refused to name the man who knocked her up. While Tracy worked a variety of casual positions, such as a hairdresser, checkout cashier, beautician, and waitress, picking up as many hours as she could over multiple jobs, my mother worked for the same legal firm, doing the same thirty-five-hour week since she left high school. Where Tracy was outgoing, vibrant, and loud, my mother was quiet, shy, and uptight. But somehow the two women managed to forge a friendship. Instead of sitting around and bemoaning the positions they found themselves in—raising sons on their own—Tracy and my mother wanted more from life and found that by helping each other out they could benefit.

Tracy would pick us up from school, and I’d stay with Ambrose and Tracy until my mother got home at five. Then Tracy would wave goodbye and leave for her waitressing job, and Ambrose would have dinner and go to bed at my house.

If our mothers were chalk and cheese, then Ambrose and I were calcium carbonate and milk curd. It wasn’t that we didn’t get along, it was more that we had no common interests. Thinking back on that time, I remember Ambrose as a skinny kid who was always on the move and usually outside climbing a tree or kicking a ball. He was part-Aboriginal from somewhere on his dad’s side. The physical stuff came easy to him. He excelled at sporting days and athletic carnivals and regularly outperformed kids older than him. He played football during the winter season, cricket during the summer season, and basketball all year round. His clothes were frequently dirty, his shoes regularly needed replacing because he wore them out, and our backyard was full of balls, bats, and nets of different varieties.

In contrast, I hated sports. It was physical, and I often got hurt because I would miss catching the ball and end up getting hit in the face. I liked reading and would often be found with my head in a book. Scratch that. I still like reading and can still be found with my head in a book. I liked the studious nature of building giant castles with Lego. Ambrose would take the cars and trucks from the set and make engine noises as he played. I preferred to use the bricks to expand my growing castle, where I imagined dragons and elves lived and great wars were fought for piles of gold.

Academically that studious nature gave me good grades. I usually completed my homework on time and studied hard.

“Why can’t you be more like Shane?” I’d often hear Tracy ask as she pulled the scrunched homework sheet from the bottom of Ambrose’s bag or noticed the new hole in his shirt.

The way his mother compared us, it was a miracle that Ambrose didn’t come to resent me. But that was Ambrose’s nature. He was a happy kid as long as you didn’t ask him to sit still. And I never suggested I was better than him in any way because, despite his being two years younger than me, I envied him a lot. He had great sporting ability and a large circle of friends.

I’m amazed that I never regarded him as my little brother. We were together at home from three until bedtime, we ate snacks and dinner together, did our homework together, watched TV together, and played together. Yet my emotional self never thought of him as a brother. Sure I clapped extra loudly at assembly when he received an award, reminded him that it was library day and he’d forgotten his book, and worried when I saw him get injured playing sports, but he was more like my special friend than a little brother.

We had an unspoken agreement between us—I wouldn’t acknowledge him in public, and he wouldn’t join in his friends’ teasing when they decided to torment me.

When.

With bullies, there’s always a when not an if.

I actually remember the first time Ambrose ever stepped in to defend me from his friends. I was year eleven. Ambrose was year nine. I was walking to class with Jamie, and Ambrose and his friends were walking the opposite way. Hunter Mackenzie, one of the popular crowd, sneered at us and said some sort of gay slur. If I remember rightly, it was something about Jamie and me being boyfriends. It was probably more of a compliment to me that Hunter thought Jamie was interested in someone as nondescript as I was. But Hunter, being the douche he was, stepped into my path and said whatever he said, and Ambrose, for the first time in our acquaintance, grabbed his friend, hauled him back, and said, “Get out of his face and leave them the fuck alone.”

Then he pushed Hunter in the back and urged him to continue to walk the way they were headed. I remember I was still standing where Hunter had blocked my path when Ambrose muttered, “Sorry, Shane.”

It was so different from the usual that I remembered the day. It was the first time he hadn’t merely stood back and watched, stony-faced. Hunter never bullied me again while Ambrose was watching.

Unfortunately Ambrose and Hunter weren’t joined at the hip, so Hunter had a lot of opportunity.

But that’s when I first admitted that maybe I felt something for Ambrose that shouldn’t be there. You have to understand my mindset back then. I was just accepting the fact that I was gay. I’d known it for ages, but accepting it was a different thing. Jamie helped me a lot with that. So I was relaxing and allowing my eyes to roam a little further than they usually did, and they happened upon the tall, athletic, fit, and gorgeous body of the guy who was in my personal space on a nearly daily basis.

Ambrose Jakoby.

At fourteen he suddenly shot up and filled out. He towered over me and started shaving once a week. His genetics made him about one-eighth Aboriginal, and to me it was gorgeous. He had dusky brown skin that was smooth and creamy, and large dark brown eyes. He hated his hair because it was curly, but I was jealous. He wore it long enough to let it be wavy and in the fashionably messy style, while my light-brown hair just stuck out straight at any angle if I didn’t gel it. He had a jawline and a profile, while I was forgettable. He had an aura while I was struggling to find my feet.

But he was still all legs and arms, and my libido said that was fine. Growing up like we had, we were pretty lax about the nudity issue too—no closed doors between us. By high school we no longer needed parental supervision after school, but we somehow still ended up in the same house together. I didn’t know whether it was habit or because Ambrose couldn’t stand to be alone.

I would happily entomb myself in my bedroom with a book after school, but if I tried, Ambrose would appear and demand my attention. I’d stopped fighting it and just went with the flow. So I’d walk up the street after school, following Ambrose and his mates but keeping behind by a good ten meters, and watch as he waved goodbye to his friends and dashed across the street to the duplex. He’d pull out his key, open his front door, and disappear inside. I’d follow a minute later and go through the side gate around to the back of the house, and by the time I got there, Ambrose would have the back door to his house pulled open.

“I’m starving,” he’d say. Which was nothing new with him. He ate Tracy out of house and home. Luckily she worked in a restaurant and often brought home leftovers.

“You’re always starving,” I’d say as I placed my bag on the counter. “I suppose you expect me to make you something to eat?”

“Only because you make the best snacks.”

I’d roll my eyes and check out what Tracy had that I could make something with. Between Tracy and my mother teaching me, I was a pretty good cook. Ambrose was hopeless, because he never stood still long enough to learn and was always eating the ingredients before they were cooked.

Then I’d pull out marinated chicken wings or day-old salad or a pizza base or whatever I found, and Ambrose went to change. Tracy had a firm rule about Ambrose changing out of his school uniform as soon as he came home, which saved on the mud and grass stains. So Ambrose would strip off and wander the house shirtless or in his underwear while he “directed” my cooking.

It wasn’t until after that day with Hunter Mackenzie that I saw Ambrose in a sexual sense. He’d always been muscled from his active lifestyle, but suddenly I could see the muscles he’d have as an adult. He was growing pit hair and chest hair. He was filling out, and I liked it.

Not that I could tell him that. It would take me another year for me to tell my mother I was gay. That day I remember too.

I was seventeen, on the cusp of my eighteenth birthday. Jamie, in his attempt to have everyone experience a glittering social life like he had, had thrown several parties and dragged me along. And at the last party, I’d met someone. His name was Tom, and we messaged one another for four weeks. Then we finally took the plunge and made a date. Tom was a year older than me and would pick me up in his car. So I needed to tell my mum.

About my date.

With a guy.

I’d rehearsed what I wanted to say, picked a time, and had the house nice and clean so Mum would be in a good mood. Then I confessed. My mother was shocked—not upset as in “you shall never darken my door again,” but more “can this be true?” She asked, “Is this my fault? Because you don’t have a father?”

After thirty minutes of explaining and justifying my position, I called a time-out, for my mother’s sake as well as my own. I told her I was going outside so she could gather her thoughts.

And that’s where Ambrose found me—sitting on the swing that somehow still hung from the branch of the gum tree in our yard.

“Hey” was his opening gambit.

I watched him in the dark as he settled on the grass at the base of the tree. Already sixteen, he was still growing up, and we wondered how far he’d go. Despite me going on a date with Tom, I couldn’t deny my attraction to my friend.

“Hey,” I answered. “Whassup?”

The light from the windows allowed me to faintly see his expression, and I saw him grimace. “Nothing much. I was just trying to do some stupid geometry when I heard some raised voices from your side. So I came to check on you.”

“Geometry’s not stupid,” I said, trying to deflect his attention from me. “I know Mr. Evans is a pain in the—”

“I don’t care about maths,” he said firmly.

“I know you don’t care about maths,” I answered hotly. It was a bone of contention with us. Ambrose’s grades sucked because he was too busy with his social life and sports. “But you need to learn these things if you’re going to go to the university or technical school. You need—”

Ambrose had heard it all before from me, and I wasn’t surprised when he made a sharp motion with his hand. But it did surprise me when he said, “Not that. I don’t care about maths at this minute. I care about you. What were you fighting with your mum about?”

It was a role reversal for us. I was usually the one who listened while Ambrose ranted about how unfair his mother was being with his curfew or that she’d had another meeting with one of his teachers about his grades and behavior. Ambrose rarely had to listen to my woes.

I stared at him. I’d never talked about my sexuality with him. In fact, sitting in the dark with my friend of ten years, I couldn’t remember talking about any sort of romantic or sexual stuff. We talked football and movies and homework and friends, but we never talked girls—or in my case, guys. I frowned. I knew I actively avoided such conversations so I wouldn’t have to lie, but I couldn’t recall ever changing the subject with Ambrose. And Ambrose had never once mentioned girls to me either.

“I told her I’m gay,” I stated softly and waited for his response.

He showed no horror or shock. He merely nodded almost sadly. “It didn’t go well?”

“She’s blaming herself,” I said.

To my astonishment Ambrose picked up a stone from the grass and threw it across the yard in a show of anger. “What? Doesn’t she know that being gay is no one’s fault? It’s just how you’re born.”

I couldn’t believe that a sixteen-year-old who could barely get a C in any class would understand that liking boys was a matter of biology, not environmental exposure.

I shrugged. “Obviously not.”

We sat in silence for a bit. The crickets chirped and the sounds of traffic nearby kept us company, until Ambrose asked, “So why tell her? Why tonight?”

That made me blush with pleasure, although I knew Ambrose couldn’t see in the dark. It really did feel good to be wanted, and Tom was a sexy guy. “I have a date.”

“With a guy?” Ambrose asked with patent disbelief.

I chuckled. “Since that is the definition of being gay, then yes. Dating a girl wouldn’t do anything for me.”

“Who is he?” Ambrose sounded defensive and almost angry.

“A guy I met at Jamie’s parties. You know Jamie. He knows everyone in Perth, or at least a large section of the queer community.”

“But why him?” Ambrose asked, and I wondered what it was to him.

I shook my head and told him, relieved to be able to speak about it to someone other than Jamie. “Because he’s nice. Because he’s gorgeous. Because I’m seventeen and want to know what it’s like to date and kiss and fool around with someone who makes my heart pound. Because I’m sick of seeing my friends have boyfriends and girlfriends and me just tagging along as an unwanted extra. I want to be wanted, Ambrose. I want someone special who’s for me.”

I could see his head bent as he stared at the ground. Then he spoke, his words barely audible. “I don’t have a boyfriend or girlfriend. You don’t have to have one.”

For a moment my concern stopped being about me and started being about my friend who was my friend, despite us not talking outside the house. We never talked about sex and girls… and maybe we should’ve. Maybe I should’ve been willing to listen to him like the big brother I tried to be. Maybe he had problems he needed to talk about.

I angled my body and stretched out my foot until it was resting next to his. The touch anchored us to each other. “No. You don’t have to have one, Ambrose. But at the same time, I’m nearly two whole years older than you. It’s odd to not have had a date by my age.”

“I’m not that much younger than you,” he protested.

I tried not to smile. From my perspective those eighteen months were huge. So much growing had happened to me since I was sixteen.

“You also have tons of friends, Ambrose,” I said. “Perhaps you don’t feel the need to date like I do. I mean, you’re my friend, and Jamie is too. There are a couple of friends I have at school, but no one close. I want to be able to talk to someone about things inside of me. I want to bitch about things that go wrong. I want to look forward to hanging out with this one special person. I’m not a guy who makes friends easily like you. I rely on the one-on-one partnerships I do make to support me.”

“You can talk to me,” he said softly.

I sighed. I’d put up with the status quo between us for ten years. I’d accepted it because we were children. But now, in my ancient wisdom of seventeen years old, I could see our relationship wasn’t always healthy. I moved off the swing and sat next to him on the grass.

“Ambrose? I am your friend. I’ll always be your friend. If you call me at midnight, I’ll come and pick you up in the car I don’t have with the license I haven’t gotten yet. If you need me, I’ll come. But you have to see that you… you’re….” I sighed again. “Tell me. If I went up to you at lunchtime in front of your friends and said, ‘Hey Ambrose. Can I talk to you? I just found out something, and I need to talk to a friend about it,’ would you come? Would you tell your friends you couldn’t hang with them on Saturday morning because you were hanging with me? Would you invite me along to the next party you go to?”

I watched his head drop lower.

“It’s not your fault,” I said, daring to put a hand on his bare calf. He rarely wore trousers because he grew out of them too fast and shorts were so much better for his active lifestyle. “I allowed it to happen without ever complaining. But you have to see that I want someone in my life who’ll be there for me no matter what—not only there if no one else is around to see him talking to me.”

“It’s not like that,” he muttered. “I just don’t want them to think….”

He trailed off, so obviously uncomfortable that I forgave him. Like I always did.

“I know,” I said. “It’s happened, and we can’t change it. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m going on a date, and I’m excited. And it doesn’t change the fact that I need to date.”

He didn’t say anything. He just continued to stare at the grass.

“And,” I said, putting a note of excitement into my voice, “you will get a date. I’m sure of it. I’m sure the girls are hanging out just to see if you’ll ask them. You have your pick. We’ve never talked about it before, but now seems like a good time. So which girl do you like?”

He hesitated for a bit and then said with a note of questioning, “I like Jodie Palmer. What do you think of her?”

I struggled to match the name to a face. Girls really didn’t hit my radar, and usually not year ten girls, but a wisp of memory came to me. “Tall girl with curly blonde hair? The one on the basketball team?”

“Yeah.”

She wasn’t the girl I would have envisioned for Ambrose. My view of heterosexuality was that the muscular sports-star guys seemed to pick the model-like—often brainless—good-looking girls. Jodie wasn’t brainless or good-looking. She was focused and determined about her sport. I’d seen her play.

“Go for it, then,” I advised.

“Do you think she’d go out with me?” he asked with a tone of uncertainty.

“Sure. I’m sure she’d love to. I’d love to go out with you if I were a girl.”

I’d go out with him even though I wasn’t a girl. But he didn’t need to know that.

“Okay.” He nodded decisively, and I gazed back toward the house.

“Do you think Mum will have calmed down by now?”

Ambrose turned toward the house as though he could see through the walls. “If she hasn’t, come over to mine. You can sleep in my room.”

There was another big silence between us. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It just wasn’t usual.

“Shane?” Ambrose finally asked.

“Yeah?”

“If Jodie were the wrong girl for me, would you tell me?”

That was a large fuzzy gray line, but I answered as honestly as I knew how to. “I think so. If there were something big I knew about her, like she was cheating on you or something, I’d tell you. But if you loved her, and it was purely that I didn’t like her because her laugh was too loud, or she was a pretend vegan, I wouldn’t interfere.”

“Why not?”

“Because you love who you love, flaws and all.” I didn’t know much about love, but I knew that. “And who you love is important to you, not to me. It’s you that has to put up with her.”

He seemed to be staring intently at me, as though willing me to give him the correct answer. But just like in maths, he needed to figure out the correct answer for himself.

“But I want you to tell me. Okay?”

I paused. I had a feeling I would hate any girl Ambrose went out with. But if he wanted me to say I would tell him if his girlfriend weren’t the right girl for him, then I’d do it. I’d do it for Ambrose. Because he was Ambrose.

“Okay,” I agreed.

But I lied. Boy, did I lie.