Maisy May Read online

  “Hungry?” Mark says, grinning.

  A picnic in a secluded spot? Maybe this boy isn't as hopeless as I thought.

  ****

  Ham sandwiches, apples and a bottle of sparkling apple juice to share. It's not exactly gourmet fare like on the movies, but who really eats like that, right? If a guy bought me caviar and champagne, I think I'd panic. Or hate it.

  Dessert is a mammoth piece of cheesecake. Mark removes a sliver with his spoon and holds it out to me. I open my mouth and he slides the spoon in, grinning as my eyes widen. It's lemon, my favourite cheesecake in the whole wide world. And that's the end of the awkwardness I was expecting once the picnic was over, because when I've finished the mouthful I lean over and kiss him, like a peck but a lot longer, and we both know what we want to be doing next.

  And God, no, that's not a fade-into-black kinda moment, alright? We don't lie down and start humping like bunnies or anything. Good little Christians, remember? We just kiss, and keep kissing, and suddenly there are tongues and it's feeling really, really good.

  And next thing I know, Mark's flinching and slapping himself, and there's a high-pitched whining sound near my ear. Mozzies. In droves. Well, there goes the romantic interlude.

  ****

  “Hey, Maisy?”

  “Yeah, Mum?”

  “I'm going out to Mrs Smith's - can you do the vacuuming while I'm gone?”

  “You pay me Aussie dollar?”

  “You know, once upon a time you begged me to let you vacuum.”

  “Uh huh - we're all naïve sometime, Mum.”

  “Usual amount.”

  “Wicked.”

  I toss the magazine I was reading on my desk, grab my mp3 player and headphones, and head for the spare room. Not like I had anything interesting to do anyhow.

  Ten minutes later I'm dancing the vacuum around the lounge to Fat Boy Slim on loud. I've done the actual work and I swing the nozzle around for an extra flourish - and I see Mark standing in the hall looking very, very amused.

  “Shades of a young Tom Cruise, I think,” he says when I tear the headphones off.

  “Bastard! Who sneaks up on a gal when she's cleaning?” I say, grinning, “be glad I wasn't in my undies!”

  “Hmm...” he says, looking me up and down, “not sure I'm glad. Hey, are you home all alone?”

  I get where he's going with this, and grin.

  “She's at a friend's, she'll be gone for a couple of hours more, I'd say...”

  He raises an eyebrow suggestively.

  “Help with the cleaning first - just the hall to do?”

  He makes a face.

  “Do I have to?”

  “You could leave...”

  “Damn.”

  “Just move the stuff off the floor so I have a clear run at the carpet.”

  He sighs and does what he's told.

  ****

  “You're worth the cleaning,” he whispers, nuzzling at my neck.

  I snort.

  “You're such a romantic!” I say with an extra serve of sarcasm.

  He slides a finger lightly down my side, over my hip and down to my knee. Cripes, it feels like every single nerve on the path of that finger goes nuts. I've never had that sort of reaction to a guy before. OK, so the few experiences I have had were mostly idiots who didn't realise that I wasn't into it because I hadn't kneed them in the crotch yet, but... still, wow. I tilt my face up to his and he takes the hint to kiss me again.

  “Yup, much better when you don't say anything,” I say, grinning at him.

  He tickles me, which just leads to more kissing.

  “Crap, Mum's due home soon for dinner,” I say eventually.

  “Already?”

  “Come on, let's go and do something wholesome-looking.”

  ****

  “Maisy?”

  “Yeah, Mum?”

  “What's going on with you and Mark?”

  I shrug.

  “Don't shrug at me, love - what's going on between you?”

  I sigh. Well, the sex talk had to happen eventually.

  “Nothing much, Mum. We're friends, OK?”

  “Just friends?”

  I shrug at her again, and she frowns at me.

  “We tried kissing - it didn't work so good. So yup, just friends, Mum.”

  “Well, OK.”

  She doesn't look happy, but I haven't given her much room to nag me about Mark - and that's all I'm really worried about.

  “So -”

  Oh God, MORE talk?

  “- is there anyone you are interested in?” she asks.

  I shrug again.

  “Words, love?”

  “Mum! There's no-one. It's Bathurst, they're all idiots.”

  She laughs.

  “Fine, I'll stop torturing you,” she says.

  “THANK YOU!”

  Chapter 12: Fuck Buddies

  “Mum finally started asking the questions,” I say.

  “What'd you say?” Mark asks, quirking an eyebrow at me.

  “That we're just friends - we tried being more and it didn't work.”

  “She was happy with that?”

  “Kinda - I think she'd prefer I didn't touch a man 'til I'm 30 or something.”

  “Hey, are we - more than friends?”

  Huh. I shoulda seen this one coming.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I think so,” he says, looking serious, “I mean... if one of us is thinking one thing, and the other is thinking another, then... couldn't someone get hurt?”

  He's making a lot of sense, but I'm antsy. I want this to be like our friendship has always been before - simple, just like jigsaw pieces fitting together. Right because we fit, not because of something we say or do.

  “I - want to be friends,” I say in a rush. I know this is likely to hurt him, or hurt us, but I can't think of any tactful way to get it out. “I love you, I love kissing you, but - I don't want to do the playing at love thing, you know? I'd prefer to be friends, and be more, but leave the pressure out of it?”

  He nods.

  “And what if one of us falls in love? With the other, with someone else... what then?”

  I sigh.

  “Then... I guess we talk.”

  He nods. Funny, he's not looking at all cut up. Maybe that was exactly what he was wanting to hear. And now that I think that, I feel just a little bit sick. Geez, this shit is more complicated than it should be.

  “So, fuck buddies for ever?” I say, jokingly.

  He looks shocked, then catches the mischievous look on my face and laughs.

  “Kiddo, you never stop surprising me!”

  “If I do, call an ambulance.”

  ****

  Every time Mark and I get together and find some privacy, we've been going a little closer to the fornication that Ben keeps nattering about. I'm not sure I see the big deal, you know? It feels good, really good, and yeah, I do keep wanting more... but I can't see myself turning into some uncontrollable slut over it. Can't see myself drooling over guys from school to get it. Ew. That just gave me a mental picture that I'll need bleach to get rid of.

  Mum's at work 'til 7 most weekdays, and though I'm not supposed to have visitors, it's not like we have nosey old women neighbours who'll spy and tell Mum that I had a boy over. And she doesn't really care, as long as I don't have wild parties and leave beer bottles all over the lawn. So Mark comes over after school now and then, and we hang out at my place. Weekends we go out, to Voracious or the cafe or the beach.

  One afternoon, Mark comes over not long after school's finished and lets himself in the back door. I pause Mission Impossible and stand up to kiss him.

  “Ooh, movies and snuggling?” he asks suggestively.

  “Not on your life, boyo - if Mum comes home unexpectedly I want more warning than 'click, shove, MAISY WHAT ARE YOU DOING YOU'RE GROUNDED!' ... thanks!”

  He laughs.

  “Oh, easy for you to laugh!”

  He prete
nds to sober up.

  “Come with me...”

  “Awww, but it looks comfy... and you have Twisties!”

  “Huh - fine, stay here. I'll be in my room.”

  He follows meekly down the hall, snickering.

  I close the bedroom door and he grabs me around the waist, pulls me to him and kisses me. Man, this boy can kiss. When I can be bothered coming up for air, I break away and grab his hand.

  “Come lie down with me - you wanted comfy, remember?”

  He pulls back a little.

  “You sure?”

  I shrug.

  “I want comfy and close, that's all,” I say, and grin.

  We lie down, side by side, and kiss again. Then his breathing gets heavier and faster, and he puts a hand on my waist, slides it up under my t-shirt and over one breast. I freeze for a moment, but he slips a finger under the bra and it grazes my nipple and OHMYGOD my skin goes tingly and it feels GOOD. Then we're kissing again and that feels even better, and he stops kissing my mouth and starts to kiss my neck and my ribs and my breasts and then he's sucking on a nipple.

  “OW!”

  “Sorry,” he says, and stops, looking kinda silly.

  “I didn't say stop.”

  “Maybe we should, though.”

  “Mmm... you're probably right,” I say, pouting. I know he's right, but I want more. Now.

  ****

  The next day he sneaks over, I do to him what he did to me - lie him on his back, pull his t-shirt up, slide my fingers lightly over his muscled belly and chest, kiss his neck and throat and his chest. His breathing speeds up whenever I kiss his neck, and I smile. Got him, the mongrel.

  ****

  One evening, liberally smeared with mozzie repellant, we lie in our place near the beach on the river. We eat another picnic, then push it aside to make room to lie down. We kiss and nuzzle at the other's neck and shoulders. Feeling daring, I put a hand on his stomach and instead of shoving his t-shirt aside, I move it slowly downwards, over the hip of his boardies, down the outside of his thigh. Again his breath gets faster and heavier, then he pulls my hips against his and kisses me hard, shoving his tongue into my mouth. At first it's just uncomfortable, then I realise that the hard bit pressing against me is his erection, and he's really turned on, and it's like hearing I've won the lottery, except the feeling's all in my groin. Suddenly I see how this whole thing can get dangerously addictive, and I don't care. He stops, moves away a bit. I frown and start to close the distance, but he puts a hand on my stomach and pushes gently so I roll onto my back. Then his hand worms downwards 'til it's between my legs, and only thin boardshort fabric between it and my skin. He presses gently, feeling his way around, then just strokes very gently, and I have my first orgasm.

  “Holy crap, was that supposed to happen?” I say once I have my voice back.

  He blushes.

  “Guess so?”

  We laugh.

  “That was amazing.”

  “Umm... thanks?”

  “Can I - do the same for you? Seems unfair, otherwise.”

  “Should we really be doing this?”

  I shrug.

  “It's done now, right? Can't hurt to reciprocate, I figure?”

  He frowns.

  “I can't help thinking there's a flaw in that logic,” he says, but I can tell he's not too interested in looking for the flaw.

  “What do I do?” I ask, moving a hand to his hip and kissing his throat.

  Just like that, his breathing changes and I know he's done arguing. I trail my fingers over his shorts to the erection, curious to actually feel one. It's hard, like muscle on someone lifting something heavy, and larger than I'd imagined. It's not completely smooth, more like slight ridges at odd angles, and one big ridge the entire length, down the front. Huh. The things you don't learn in Sex Ed, eh? There's a softer part on the end, more sensitive I'm figuring, because he draws in a quick breath as I slide a couple of fingers over it, and his eyes lose focus. I stroke up and down a couple of times, kind of like what I've seen guys do to themselves in movies, and he stiffens and grimaces, then pushes my hand away a few seconds later.

  “God, that was -”

  He seems lost for words, gives up talking and just kisses me instead.

  I think he liked it.

  Chapter 13: Showtime

  The church is transformed. Bright banners on the walls, big paper flowers on the end of every pew. The band squawks loudly to itself, the singers are singing nonsense rhymes, and Mark is stretching like a runner before a race.

  “Are you planning backflips?” I ask curiously.

  “Huh,” he says, looking up at me, “I never thought of that - great idea, kiddo!”

  Darn, now I've done it. He's going to be the first ever worship leader to be carted out by paramedics with a blood nose and a sprained ankle. Or chucked out by an enraged congregation, one of the two.

  Early worshippers trickle in, some of them gathering in one of the side areas. Pre-service prayer group, I guess. The minister wanders in, fiddles with something at the lectern and wanders out again. An elderly woman brings the silverware out to the altar.

  “Oh, Maisy! Are you singing today, dear?”

  Mrs Catrick walks up the aisle, beaming at me.

  “No, I'm not musical - I'm just here for moral support,” I say.

  “Oh, that's nice of you!” she says, nodding, “How kind - I'm sure Mark appreciates it, don't you dear?”

  Mark's busy fussing with the mike and doesn't even hear her, I don't think, but she doesn't seem to care.

  “Maisy, dear, I haven't seen your mother yet - how is she?”

  “She's well, she's coming this morning, just a bit late. How are you, Mrs Catrick?” I ask, finally remembering the manners thing.

  “Oh, wonderful - it's lovely having Mark in the house, he keeps me young!” she says, smiling. “Well, must go fix up the flowers - good luck, dear!”

  The service is a resounding success, if you ignore the standard complaints about loudness and young people having bad taste in music and not appreciating blah blah blah. Little kids were actually dancing and trying to sing along, instead of being bribed with lollies to sit quietly and draw. So many people loved it that there's talk of making it a regular feature.

  “You're a star!” I tease Mark as we walk away from the church, down the main street.

  “Oh, yeah, I'm gonna be famous,” he says, laughing.

  “Uh huh... you could be, like, the next Darlene Zschech! But hairier!”

  He snorts.

  I grab his hand and tug him toward the cafe.

  “I want coffee... you?”

  He nods and we walk in, take a table in the corner.

  “Two lattes,” he says to the waiter, and the waiter wanders off.

  “MARK! Mate!”

  I turn toward the shout - a guy over the other side of the cafe is looking our way and waving wildly. He weaves his way through tables to get over to us, and as he does, a suspicion pops into my head. Something about that hip movement? Maybe I'm paranoid. Maybe he's a dancer.

  “Andrew, hi!” Mark says when the guy's made his way over to us. “Whatcha upto?”

  “Hot date!” he says and winks at Mark.

  “Well, don't let us distract you!” Mark says, grinning.

  “Oh, he's not here yet anyhow...” he says, pouting, but then grins happily enough and walks away, still swishing a bit.

  About now, the suspicion's pretty darn strong.

  “Is he... gay?” I ask Mark quietly.

  “Yup.”

  “Huh.”

  ****

  “Love is about more than sex.” Mark explains.

  “Of course.”

  “It's about connection.”

  “Right.”

  “You don't sound convinced.” he says, looking at me quizzically.

  “Well, the explanation's kinda hokey so far.”

  “Fine. How would you explain love?”

  “Kn
owledge.”

  “Of what?”

  “Another person's soul.”

  He sniggers.

  “And you called mine hokey!”

  “Huh,” I say, frowning, “this is harder than I realised.”

  ****

  “So where do you know that guy from the cafe from? Andrew, was it?”

  “Oh, just around, I guess.”

  “Just around?”

  He shrugs and goes quiet. Oh, for crying out loud - what is it with men? Is he worried that having a gay friend makes him gay, or is he wondering about whether the cricket's on? They have the same facial expression for 'worried' and 'sports'. And then they wonder why women get irritated. ARGH!

  ****

  I've been thinking about boys and girls, and the differences that we always talk about. I don't understand all these differences and how the hell they come about by hormonal differences. I'm good at maths and science AND I can communicate in words of more than two syllables - do I have a male or female brain? I love cars and I'm a darn good driver and I can reverse-park like a pro... and that makes me male without a shadow of a doubt, right? Except I have boobs and a vagina and I definitely have all the female hormones. And I like getting presents, and flowers, and I have a teddy bear collection. I'm starting to wonder if all this male/female stuff is a total load of crap.

  ****

  “It's all rubbish,” says Mark.

  “All of it?” I ask.

  “Uh huh - girls are taught one thing, boys taught another, and then the people who taught them look at the results and proclaim that the differences must be inherent, because they treated them exactly the same - if you ignore giving the girls dolls, giving the boys trucks and guns, and telling the boys they're strong and tough every five minutes, while telling the girls they're pretty and have a nice dress on.”

  “You sound kinda bitter.”

  “I am! My dad always pushed me to do 'manly' stuff, and I only really realised it now, you know? I was always kinda miserable as a kid, and I remember feeling like a failure at everything, even when I was good at it... I think it was just because I didn't want to do a lot of it, you know? I didn't realise it was OK to not enjoy it, I guess.”

  “That sounds nasty.”

  “Yup.”

  “Mum never really pushed me any way, I guess... just let me do what I wanted, if she thought it was safe.”

  “Yeah, well, that's because you're a girl.”

  “Huh?”

  “Girls are allowed to be boys, it's not scary. Boys aren't allowed to act girlish, though.”

  “Georgie's not allowed to do boy stuff.”

  “Well, in general, though. Like, no one looks at you weird for being good at maths, right?”