I had always been a bit squeamish at the sight of blood, so you could say I was less than pleased when in year 11 I had my first period. You could probably say more than that, unless you were Johnny Cracker, the mexican kid from next door. Johnny cracker was mute, had been for the three years we’d been neighbours. Although I’d been told by reliable sources, aka his cute sister Kehlani, that this had not always been the case.
I guess you could’ve called Kehlani my friend. When mum found out that our neighbour used a wheelchair, she’d installed a little ramp at the front of the house so that I was forced to invite Kehlani over for tea. Khi said she appreciated it, although I could tell she was just embarrassed by my mum’s enthusiasm.
The other neighbours weren’t so...accommodating, so Kehlani didn’t visit them, even if she had obvious googly eyes for the red-headed girl with large hands and vitiligo three doors down. It was my house she always visited, never me to hers.
I wondered if her parents didn’t like me, if they’d heard the rumours.
They were all true. I’d sucked Graham Adam’s dick in my first year of sixth form. I’d fingered Eleanor Riches at a mixer party last month. And most jaw-droppingly, superbly outlandish in our little suburban cul-de-sac, I called myself Lucas.
Lucas William Loosener. Yes that’s my real surname, yes mum was okay with me calling myself Lucas; it’d be a little ridiculous for a black vegan lesbian to get pissy over the existence of her trans son.
So I guess this is my little introduction, my little welcome to you all, queer or quite the opposite. This is a story of parties and proms, blowies and book clubs, and most importantly: the ever-impossible crush of a hormonal teenage trans boy.