Maisy May Read online

  Tonight, though, it's Sex Talk Night, where they bring in an 'expert' to 'chat' to us about God's plan for our sex lives. I bite my lip and sigh quietly, but a few of the other kids just groan loudly and start making off-colour jokes. Oh well, whatever gets 'em through, I guess.

  The 'expert' - what makes someone a sex expert, I wonder? Do they have sex in front of a panel of judges? Do previous partners write recommendations? Is it just me, or does the whole Christian ethic on sex make it really hard to gain 'expert' status and still be a good Christian? Huh. Anyhow, the guy stands up and introduces himself. He shows us a book called I Kissed Dating Goodbye. Uh huh. Well, a Christian book about sex for teens, that's gotta be good, right?

  The night wears on, and I'm torn between curiosity and confusion. Where the hell do these people come up with this stuff? Or am I just a naïve virgin? I'm an oven, he's a microwave? I'll be happiest in marriage if my first kiss is on my wedding day? This is sounding like a sex talk from the 50s. Any time now he's going to explain that women need to fulfil a man's needs to keep him - oh, Lord, he actually DID just say that.

  I give up and walk out during the question and answer time, which is far too close to being like a Police Academy movie. Funny, but in a really stupid way that makes you want to cry. Half the kids are asking deliberately-stupid questions for the 'fun' of it, the other half are asking scarily sincere questions about stuff my mum taught me when I was in primary school. Don't Christian schools believe in Sex Ed or something?

  ****

  “Why avoid sex before marriage?” I ask.

  “Because God wants us to have sex only with people we're married to?” Mark answers, yawning.

  “And we get this from?”

  “Don't commit adultery. See, I'm a minister's kid, I know these things.”

  “What's adultery?”

  “Sex with a married person not your spouse.”

  “Am I the only one who sees a flaw in that logic?” I demand, sitting up.

  “Oi!” protests Mark. His head had been resting on my stomach.

  Mark sits up too, and looks hard at me.

  “What's with the sudden fascination with sex?” he asks.

  “I'm a teen,” I say, getting embarrassed because - I just realised - I'm talking about sex with a boy. “Aren't I supposed to be thinking about it?”

  “Not if you're a good little Christian girl, apparently.”

  “But good little Christian boys can't help it?”

  “Exactly.”

  I look around for something to throw, but I've got nothing. I settle for thumping the grass next to me.

  “It's just - I never really thought much about what we learn at church, you know? Just accepted what they told me cos it seemed to make sense. And then you start talking about 'what if I was gay' and stuff, and they do a youth group session like last night's which is full of - of crap! - and suddenly I can't see the sense anymore. It's all stupid!”

  Mark sighs.

  “Yeah, it is.” he says, and flops back down onto his back.

  “Thanks a bunch, mate. No wisdom? No bible verses?”

  “Nup. I got nothing.”

  “Great!”

  Mark grins suddenly.

  “Hey, this whole sex preoccupation isn't because of a new thang, is it?”

  “What?”

  “You don't have a crush on some tower of studliness at school? At church?”

  I laugh. The guys I know at school play footy, wear their school trousers as far down their bums as they dare, and act like undiluted arsehole. The guys at church are - prissy. Good. Cotton-wooled half to death. They wince if I say 'shit' and God only knows what they'd do if they'd seen me scaring off a bagsnatcher that day I met Mark. They'd probably make the sign of the cross whenever they saw me and pray for me lots. Actually, for all I know they already do. Goody.

  “That's crazy talk!”

  Mark snorts.

  “Nah - it's just - no-one really does it for me yet, that's all.”

  “Mmm - I feel your pain.”

  “You do? Cos I know you sure float someone's boat!”

  Mark rolls his eyes and sighs theatrically.

  “It's hard being a sex god!”

  I can't help it. I burst into laughter, and every time I look at his pouting face I laugh harder.

  “You don't think I'm sexy?” he asks, semi-seriously.

  I get myself under control by biting my tongue 'til the pain stops me laughing.

  “You're sexy dressed emo, if that helps? But hey, half my class are drooling over you after that disco, isn't that enough?”

  “Really? Who?”

  “I think your latest conquest is Rachel...”

  “Oh God... she's like a mouth on legs!” he wails.

  “Poor boy,” I mock, sniggering.

  Chapter 9: Dad

  I think there's somethin' crazy goin on in your head behind your eyes...

  “Hey Mum - some of this old stuff aint too bad, ya know...”

  “Oh, Lord, what are you listening to now, child?”

  “Umm... Baby Animals? Cute and fluffy, huh?”

  She snorts and wanders off. I put the headphones on and keep ripping her CDs to mp3.

  “You know,” she says over dinner, “we thought some of that stuff was Satanic when I was younger - Alice Cooper, Meatloaf, Poison... I never could let go of their CDs, though, when I joined the church. Not that anyone really cares too much any more. Funny, huh? God, you should have heard the uproar when we found out George Michael was gay...”

  I laugh.

  “No one picked up that George Michael might be gay? With those video clips?”

  “What can I say, we were innocents - even Boy George was a surprise.”

  I laugh so hard I actually do almost fall off my chair.

  “So, did Alice Cooper really bite the heads off chickens and stuff?” I say when I've calmed down.

  “Nah, that was Ozzy Osbourne,” she says, grinning, “but Alice was rumoured to sacrifice goats backstage...”

  “Goats? Backstage? Seriously?”

  “Well, the rumours sounded intriguing... and damn did I want to get backstage and find out!”

  I collapse into giggles.

  “Hey, he's not my bio-father, is he?” I ask.

  She looks round-eyed at me.

  “Are you asking if I slept with Alice Cooper?”

  “What, can he do the Virgin Impregnation thing? Isn't that God's domain?”

  She laughs and shakes her head.

  “No, I didn't sleep with Alice, OK? Or Ozzy Osbourne. Your dad's more likely to be Kurt Cobain.”

  It's my turn to look shocked.

  “NO! I didn't sleep with him either! Crikey, girl, what DO you tell your friends about me? 'My mum's shagged every man-slut in Sydney'?”

  “Nup.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Just all the rock stars.”

  “You - brat! You don't, do you?”

  I raise an eyebrow and slooowly edge into the lounge, grinning, while she stands with hands on hips, looking mostly-joking-about-being-angry. As I flop down into a chair, I hear plates clanging in the sink. Hrmm.

  ****

  I don't really miss having a dad, you know? Although sometimes I'd love to know what he was like, what he did in his spare time - because maybe it'd help me understand me. But then I look around me at all the confused, clueless kids with two parents, and I figure maybe it wouldn't help a whole lot.

  It's just - Mum and I are different, right? Different personalities, different reactions to the same things. Sometimes I really don't get her. And sometimes it'd be nice to be able to say, “oh, I'm like Dad in that” instead of “I don't know why I do that” or “maybe I'm just a freak”.

  Enough of the pity party. I'm just upset because church is just giving me the willies lately. Like I told Mark, this all seemed to make sense once. Now I see stupid things everywhere, and I don't get it. Is it me, is it the church, is it the religion? Is
the bible full of crap, or is someone just really crap at explaining this stuff?

  Sex is the thing that opened the floodgates of what-the-hell. The church is huge on being 'good' when it comes to sex. None outside marriage. None with same-sex partners. Not that we hear many sermons about it, except at youth group. But this guy got kicked out a couple of months ago for sleeping with someone else's wife, and they got caught (obviously). So sex is clearly an important priority for the church, right? Except if you actually read the bible, Jesus never really mentioned sex, he talked about love for each other and sticking to your word and not being judgmental. And hello - when's the last time YOU saw someone get kicked out of church for breaking promises or being an unloving git? Hell, those sort often seem to become elders.

  I don't see why it's all such a big deal. Why does everyone get so heated up about an orgasm now and then? I don't want to talk to Mum about it anymore. She doesn't understand, and she seems to think I'm just looking for a justification to sleep around. Why does this all have to be so hard?

  I'm wondering if I should be praying about this stuff. That's supposed to be the first port of call in case of confusion, right? But how the heck do I ask God, “Hey, Lord, what's the deal with sex and homosexuality and hey, what are your priorities? Do you really care about this stuff?” Uh huh. It's kinda lacking in reverence or something, hey?

  Chapter 10: A Bit of Alright

  Mark and I walk down toward the beach, hand in hand. It's the weekend before school goes out for the Easter holidays, and we should be floating on a cloud of anticipation of the freedom. But Mark's not coming to the party. He's quieter than usual, and it's bleeding obvious that something's bugging him. I let him be, figuring silence is easier for him than trying to be sociable. When we get near the water, he throws himself down onto the sand and sighs heavily.

  “Want to talk about it?” I ask.

  “I went on a date last week,” he says.

  Umm. This isn't sounding end-of-the-worldish. I thought a relative died, or he's going back to Sydney, or something.

  “Who with?”

  “Rachel,” he says, and sighs again.

  So much for the 'oh yuck, not her!' factor, I think. Weird that he didn't tell me about it 'til now though. Heck, maybe the poor guy's feeling desperate.

  “It didn't go well?” is all I say.

  “Bored me to tears and pissed me off... then told me I was a shite date and she only invited me out because she felt sorry for me.”

  I snort, amused in spite of his misery.

  “Dude, she's been after you for weeks, that was not a pity date!”

  He shrugs.

  “I'm short, I'm weird-looking... what hope do I really have?” he asks, looking up.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Nope.”

  Right. Sure, he's not Mr Popular, but if I had as many boys drooling over me as he's had girls, I wouldn't exactly be angsting about how ugly I was.

  “You know,” I say slowly, “I happen to think you're a bit of alright...”

  Mark frowns slightly and stares at me.

  I sigh. Well, I'd meant to mention it eventually. If I'm going to screw up the friendship, it might as well be when he needs to feel better about himself, right?

  “You look nice, you're the person I like best out of everyone I've ever met, and you smell good. I like you. I wouldn't mind kissing you in the slightest...”

  He's silent. Well, that's a bad sign.

  “Don't you like being friends?” he eventually asks, looking utterly confused.

  “Why would that stop us being friends?” I ask.

  “I don't know, it just - it does, doesn't it?”

  I shrug.

  “I love you. I can imagine hating you for a while if things went screwy... but I can't imagine ever not being your friend.” I say quietly.

  Nothing.

  No “I think you're kinda hot too”.

  No “Get lost, I'm trying to angst”.

  I might as well have said, “I think Beyonce's new clip is kinda cute”.

  He lapses into silence, and stares at the sand for an hour. I leave, and get the briefest of waves and a slow “Bye”. It takes all my self-control to not grab him by the shoulders and shake a decent response out of him - or kick him in the nads.

  Now I'm sitting at home angsting about making an idiot out of myself - again. Geez, will I ever learn? He's clearly not - really, really not - interested. He's probably trying to work out what to do with the lovestruck piece of patheticness that's me. Now that I've offered to shag him, then told him I love him. Moron. Idiot.

  I have got to get out of the house and do something vaguely useful. Or entertaining. Anything.

  ****

  The vacant block next to the servo is filled with cars and people. But these aren't just cars - these are beasts. Part performance machine, part artwork, they're things of beauty, and I love them. It's the local informal revhead convention, held once a month or whenever someone can be arsed setting it up. And I didn't even know it was on, just figured it's Thursday and it was worth a cruise past to check.

  “MAISY! Dude! Where ya been?” Gav yells from the side of his Baby. She's still looking shoddy on the outside, but the hood's up and I can see she's had a complete internal makeover.

  “Gav! School, exams, you know how it is, yeah?”

  “Mazza!” a guy with dreads and tattooed arms waves from the centre of a clump of people. “Check out the new engine!”

  I make my way over, stepping carefully in the stirred-up mud. Lochie is leaning on his Falcon 500. The hood is up, and the engine is huge and gleaming.

  “Wicked! That's a Barra Turbo,” I say. “You been robbing banks again, mate?”

  “Ain't she gorgeous?” he says, grinning.

  I stroke a hand over the heart of the beast, smiling. It's gorgeous, alright. Damn, I can't wait 'til I'm old enough to get a license and a proper job.

  ****

  “Maisy?”

  I'm at school and I'm hurrying to maths class. Mrs Hunter gets ridiculously upset if anyone's late. But there's a hand on my shoulder, and I know exactly who it is. Timing, much?

  “I'm late already, later?”

  “I -”

  “Hey,” I say, and turn around and give Mark a quick hug, “I've gotta go. But we'll talk later, k?”

  “Umm, k.”

  I'm just late enough that Mrs Hunter is about to close the door as I slide into the classroom and sit down at a desk. She glowers at me but doesn't say a word. Phew - caught her on a good day, I guess. Or maybe the holidays are having a cheering effect on her. That'd be a miracle and a half.

  80 minutes of dead-boring algebra later, it's lunchtime and I'm detention-free. I head straight for the caf, buy a salad sandwich and a coke, and head for my lunch spot outside. Mark's sitting on the grass looking depressed, which is kinda his default look at the moment. Oh joys. I could do with some more depression. Not.

  “Hey, you!” I say.

  “Hey,” he says. His shoulders are slumped and he doesn't look up.

  “So, what's up?” I ask, wondering if he's finally going to get around to talking about 'the confession', or whether he's going to pretend it never happened.

  “I - ummm...”

  I sigh and bite my tongue. Don't prompt him. Don't strangle him.

  “I think you're a bit of alright too,” he says in a rush.

  That was what was so difficult to say? That's what he was looking depressed about? Huh?

  “Thanks,” I say.

  Silence.

  “So...” I say.

  “Huh?”

  “So does that mean anything for us two, or do we just go on ignoring it?”

  He shrugs, and looks back at the ground. Oh, fer crying out loud. This is getting pathetic.

  “Anyone'd think I'd turned into Rachel or something,” I say, letting some of the irritation I'm feeling creep into my voice.

  He looks up and smiles.

 
“I just - don't know what to do now,” he says, spreading his hands and looking helpless.

  “You could try kissing me sometime,” I say.

  “What, here?” he says, looking scandalised.

  I laugh. OK, we're in pathetic territory for sure.

  “I'm sure you can think of something,” I say.

  Then I unpack my lunch, lie down on the grass and start eating. Relationship angst can wait till another day, when I'm not starving.

  By the end of lunch, he's still moody and quiet, but I can't be bothered trying to cheer him up, the git. I blow him a kiss and head to History.

  Chapter 11: Maestro

  Ben, the youth group leader, stands at the front of the room and claps for attention.

  “Right, people - our group's been asked to lead worship next month...”

  Ooookay...

  “What, like a morning service?” someone asks.

  “Yup, the whole service - it's a special 'Celebration of Youth' week that the church is running. So -”

  The room turns into a loud babble of questions, suggestions and general chatter.

  “OI!”

  Near-silence.

  “First, how many musicians do we have? Put up your hands. Great! Now - come out the front, and write down your name, what you play, and what sort of proficiency... beginner, intermediate, advanced. K? Right... who can sing?”

  Soon everyone has a job to do. I'm part of the bible-reading-choices committee, since I have zero interest in singing in front of people, don't play an instrument, and didn't feel like fighting over the song choices. Mark's worship leader, because he's the only one of us apart from Ben with experience in it.

  “Worship leader, aren't you the big cheese!” I tease as we break up.

  He grins.

  “Just call me Maestro!”

  “Oh, modest, too! Y'know, I didn't even realise you could sing, let alone do the other stuff.”

  He shrugs, then grabs my hand.

  “Come with me, kiddo.”

  Hey, look at that. It's only taken a fortnight, but he's back to acting vaguely normal around me.

  ****

  Mark leads me down to the beach on the river, and a couple of the girls take time out from their goss session to stare at Mark pulling me along the sand and into the trees.

  “Where are we going?” I ask for the fiftieth time.

  “Almost there!” he says, and pulls me between two spiky bushes.

  “OW!”

  Then we're through, and in a spot I never knew existed. It's completely surrounded by thick trees and tall bushes, as by the looks of it, no-one else knows about it either. No needles or used condoms, just some grass on enough flattish ground to lie down on. And a blanket, and a picnic basket.