Dan's Conundrum - 3. Chapter 3

'If you’re having Chinese everyday, how the heck are you possibly so thin?’

A girl asked me this years ago. Who was she? I couldn’t remember her name. Probably someone from my first school. Anyway, I remembered telling her (although I was trying to be annoying) that because I was Chinese I was therefore immune to the effects of Chinese food. We invented it, you know. Lipids from Chinese food were broken down more quickly by those who had the inheritable Chinese gene – which I had and she didn’t. Then she asked, with infinite admiration, if I could be charitable (for once) and give it to her, or at least tell her how to obtain the Chinese gene.

Actually, it was a load of crap anyway. You see, there is a secret to this, of how we tackle Chinese food.

The secret is – we don’t eat them. Not in our own homes anyway. For big occasions, maybe. Just like people over here – I couldn’t see them having full English breakfast every morning. Tonight, on our dinner table were homely dishes: tomatoes and scrambled eggs, stir fried courgettes with bacon and finally steamed salmon fillet topped with fried ginger and spring onions. And rice – well, rice was something of a constant. You can’t not have rice. Sometimes though, I really wished we could – just for once – have an English meal for dinner, with forks and knives and plates and candles and napkins and glasses of wine. But my parents weren’t too keen on the idea. They liked bowls and chopsticks and not much else. Maybe they thought that if they started feeding me English food, I’d start behaving like one, too. And that would not be good.

My mum was an accountant. It was through the British Nationality Selection Scheme that we were able to come to the UK after the handover. My dad though was a driving instructor, now working as a volunteer helping out in the local Chinese community. They met in Hong Kong one evening during a speed dating event – God knew what went on in those. I never bothered asking for details. Four years later they reproduced – and baby Dan was conceived.

I watched silently as my parents said grace amongst themselves before dinner. We ate together as a family for as long as I could remember. It was nice to spend some time together every day, when usually we would be doing our own things. Dinner was a routine with fun variants – sometimes the parents would share stories from their childhood, sometimes a chopsticks contest over the last pork chop and the one with the strongest grip takes all – usually Dad. We all have a slightly different way of holding our chopsticks though – maybe that was why he had an edge. Once, we even had a full-blown discussion on the structure of chlorophyll, a conversation I couldn’t take part because I hadn’t learnt about it yet, but I listened anyway and absorbed whatever I could.

‘How was your day, Tse-Ho?’ Mum asked me, her usual warmth returning as she smiled at me.

Okay, so Tse-Ho is my real name. My other self. My old self. Only those who spoke the language could use it of course. Otherwise – just call me Dan.

‘Not bad. I think I made a friend today.’

She appeared surprised. ‘That’s great!’

I smiled. She had no idea how good looking my new friend was.

‘Speaking of friends,’ Dad said, ‘Tse-Ho, I know someone who could be your friend.’

‘Oh?’ I looked at him, cocking my head.

‘He just came over with his family. Mandarin speakers. You two would get on well,’ he continued. ‘Next Sunday, come to church with us. We can introduce him to you.’

Next Sunday, come to church with us. That was an unusual request, I thought. An uncomfortable one. I’d said I didn’t want to go to church any more. In fact, I didn’t want to go near one at all. I looked at Mum and found she too was staring at me, waiting for an answer. This must have meant a lot. But going to church?

‘Why do I have to go?’ I inquired politely.

‘Because their family is having…problems. We’d like to help them. They just came to this country.’

‘They’ll need all the friends they can get,’ Mum added.

‘I see.’ I didn’t see the point at all, really.

‘You don’t have to decide now,’ Dad interrupted. ‘But if you remember how difficult our first year was…well, they’re much worse than we were.’

‘I’ll think about it.’ I meant a firm no. My tone implied it anyway. Going to church was the deal breaker for me. I could see him anywhere but the church.

But however subtle they seemed to have understood me.

‘Anyway…the food’s getting cold!’ Mum remarked, livening up.

We picked up our chopsticks, bowls of rice, and began to eat. Filling the silence, Dad grabbed the remote and switched on the telly. What horrible noise came from the machine already, with actors shouting furiously at one another. It took me some time before I realised it was EastEnders.

A mother was shouting at her son, though for what I wasn’t sure. She was distraught, her voice trembling with anger. The young man could barely speak for himself now. A few minutes later I figured all this commotion was because he was in love with another guy. He was not supposed to love another guy. I turned to find my parents watching the scene with undivided attention. Neither of them touched their food as the Muslim woman lectured her son that being gay was wrong. That it was perverse, sick, and disgusting. I felt those words hurled towards me, from the telly into our room, and I begged it to end. Still my parents watched. No one said a word. The stasis was stifling.

Still they watched.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, wanting to leave the room or simply throw a fit and switch off the damn thing. Though they might have a word to say about that. They were so focused on it, so engaged that I felt they hadn’t seen anything this good for years. Should I ask them to change channel? Would that be too suspicious? Yes. Reacting in any visible way would only confide in the idea that I had something to hide. Tse-Ho, why are you uncomfortable watching this? I turned to my food for refuge, wishing the ordeal would end. All the while I had the tiniest hope that one of them would speak, that they approve, or disapprove. Sitting in silence and not knowing anything, when hope was mingled with fear, felt so much worse.

Twenty minutes later the programme ended. It couldn’t have ended more badly for the son. Or for me. He was cast out, humiliated. Damn it, it wasn’t real. None of this was real. It was fiction. There was no real reason to be affected by it. But that was no comfort. A lengthy silence followed, during which we were to summarise our thoughts on the programme and no one was allowed to speak. At first I thought my parents didn’t know what to make of it. I half hoped they would say the words that mean so much to me, that they weren’t disgusted or, they didn’t mind gay people or, that they would perhaps understand and accept me.

At last Dad shook his head and sighed, saying to us, ‘There are all kinds of people in this world.’

That was all he said. The verdict was cast. It was the conclusion I needed to know, the one I had been waiting for. It wasn’t so much as the words themselves that told the story, but it was how he said them. There was a certain grimness in his tone that sank my heart. That it was a terrible fact, a price we must all pay, when living in a world where people like me weren’t put to the sword anymore.

Now am I glad that I know.

* * * * *

The next day began with compulsory P.E.. There was the sweet aroma of a dozen boys rising up to my nostrils, filling my lungs in all their pleasantness like flowers in bloom as I stepped into the changing room…

Uh, no, not really.

God, do they stink sometimes! In fact, the whole place stank of sweat, deodorant, filthy kits, boots, and feet. Clothes were strewn across benches, the tiled floors appeared unclean, and there was a bizarre smell coming from the ceiling. Not that I contributed, or was in any way responsible for any part of that mess of course. This filthy room was full of echoes. Around me was a cacophony of voices, laughing and shouting. A voice inside me said this was the natural habitat of men.

What an awfully humid habitat it was too. I went with haste to one of the benches at the furthest end. It was best to be away from the crowd, where it was less likely to catch a whiff of underarm perspiration if I took a wrong turn. Fewer people also meant it was less messy out here. Most importantly, being where I was gave me a good view of the entire room. Nobody had any reason to look this way unless they were suspecting surveillance of sorts – not usually at this stage. In theory I would never be caught staring. To add to that, it was also easy to see who was coming out of the showers. That might prove useful yet, after the lesson…

People say staring is bad. But it was just looking and appreciating what I see. It wasn’t like I was planning to do anything to anyone. I wasn’t even checking them out – that term felt vaguely primitive. Like I was hunting for reproductive partners which I wasn’t. I was just browsing the catalogue, window-shopping with no intention to buy, and I do this whether I am in a changing room or not, like an ordinary single male.

Am I an ordinary single male?

‘Hey,’ said a voice behind me. I turned around, half hoping it would be David. But it wasn’t. It was none other than the camp boy, Chris.

‘Hi.’

‘How are you?’ he asked in an effeminate voice. He was already creeping me out. Maybe it was his hair, or his voice, I wasn’t sure. He took up the space beside me and began unpacking his kit. Who invited him? I discovered this cool part of the changing room and I was here first. I didn’t remember saving anyone else a seat.

‘I’m fine.’ I meant fine until he showed up. I started changing, turning away. I refused to be distracted. I didn’t want to miss the show. Oh wow, some guy in the far right had the most amazing abs I’d ever seen. I blinked. This was real. Oh my God. Where’s David? I want to see his abs now…

‘How are you finding English?’ Chris tried again, blatantly ignoring my attempt to end the conversation.

‘It’s good.’

He panicked. ‘Oh God, did she say she’s going to give us essays this week?’

‘Probably.’

‘Have you seen David?’

‘No.’ How dared you mention David, I thought. You and I are competitors – enemies – as far as I was concerned. Put your hands off him, thank you very much.

‘What’s that smell from the ceiling?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh my God, I think I stood on poo –’

‘Look, why are you talking to me? Why are you being all camp and everything?’ I exploded. Two rhetorical questions there – he should get it now. I stared at him angrily, hands on hips. It might have been needless and cruel, but I couldn’t care less.

He frowned and gave me a look I could not fathom. It might have been one of those I thought we were friends look. Was he hurt? Was he surprised? Was he amused? There was no way of telling. I wished I knew.

‘Fine.’ He shrugged and turned away. All warmth seemed to have left his face in an instant. It might have been too much. He did irritate me, though he wouldn’t know that. I wanted to clarify that I wasn’t a homophobe, but he looked as if he didn’t want to hear another word from me, at least not right now. We changed for a minute in silence.

‘Hey, what’s up, guys?’ David asked as he came up to us. ‘Mind if I change here?’

He arrived! Already I had a warm glow inside. He was amazing – he didn’t even need to take off anything to arrest my eyes. Why was he here? I half expected him to change right there in the middle with the other guys so I could have a good view, and certainly not next to me, or Chris, or both.

‘If you want,’ I replied.

Well, at least he had the decency of asking if I actually minded. Unlike somebody. By then I’d finished putting on my kit and so I sat and watched David instead. My heart pounded. He pulled his shirt over his gorgeous blond head. There was no sense of hurry in his movements, so it appeared he wasn’t put off by Chris or the possibility of Chris staring. I caught glimpses of his four packs and forced myself to look away from his white boxers. But still the images lingered in my mind. His skin was silky smooth. Stop this, Dan. Stop these thoughts coming in. Control yourself. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and purged myself of all the unpleasant thoughts in my head. All the time I felt Chris’s angry gaze burning me – even though when I checked he wasn’t looking this way.

Mr Williams came out of the office, before standing on a bench at the other end to do the register. Most of the class were ready. He gave us two choices on which we must vote. Cricket or football. Though a better alternative still was to hit the library and revise en masse – revision is a kind of mind sport. But the majority voted football which sucked. That I was abysmal at the sport did not help my enthusiasm. I first started kicking a ball because if you were in UK you were expected to be able to kick one. Got picked on because I was terrible at it. Then one day I realised it was simply better to drop the subject: if you’re not good at it, just quit. That had been my not-so-wise philosophy, because now I have a man to impress.

Well, not impress exactly, but I didn’t want to be a complete disaster on pitch either.

We went to the fields. All around me were boys waving their arms like the little monsters that they were. God, this was torture. We did some warm-up for ten minutes, jogging around the pitch and some stretching before splitting into two teams of ten. Chris and I were put on the same team and David on the other. Our team was given stinky, green bibs. Then our captain, Jake, gave us roles, assigned himself a striker, me a defender, and Chris the goalkeeper. That was the extent of our briefing. No tactics then, because he thought it unnecessary. But at least I had been promoted to defender at long last – they usually put the worst player in goal to make them stand and look pretty, not that Chris was pretty in any way.

The teams seemed imbalanced already, if the players’ physiques were any indication. Maybe Mr Williams wanted to see us thrashed. Other than me, who was a dedicated but skill-wise terrible defender, and Chris who had to stay in net, everybody on our team wanted to score goals so everybody went to the front. It was a total disaster, because they weren’t particularly good at scoring anyway. As soon as they lost possession I was facing five strikers running towards me. I stood my ground as the last defender. And David seemed to have way too much fun getting past me – I couldn’t get the ball off him. He had an arsenal of tricks and moves, and he was a show off. And he took football way too seriously. He made unhappy noises if he didn’t score. Still, I hated being so useless.

Since when did I start caring about P.E. anyway? At the start of this lesson? Because David was in it, I wanted to be seen trying and involved. Just step up a little, you know? So, when he flipped the ball over his head from behind (another flippant fancy trick) and got past me for what must have been the eighth time, he instantly earned himself a slide-tackle from behind. He fell hard on dirt – to my surprise this felt good and strangely satisfying.

‘That’s a red card!’ he protested rather enthusiastically. Then to me, ‘What the hell?’

Of course, this is a P.E. lesson, not a proper match. I had the probabilities all worked out. I might get a yellow at most, but not a red. And even if I did it again, intentionally or not, the second yellow would never come. Do you know why? Mr Williams wasn’t really going to send off a poor boy who looked as though he’d never played the sport before.

‘What’s your name? Dan, is it? Do you know slide-tackling from behind is not allowed?’ Mr Williams looked at me, his face serious. He wanted to make sure I understood the rule.

‘No sir,’ I lied, putting on an innocent face. Wiping imaginary beads of sweat with the back of my hand, I added, ‘I am trying hard, sir.’

‘Good lad,’ he said. But the protests on the other team were mounting. They wanted to see punishment, any punishment, so a penalty was negotiated even though we were way outside the box when this happened. Chris simply crossed his arms, unimpressed by the decision, or me, or both. David was going to take the penalty. He placed the ball, took up his position and got ready to shoot. Chris’s arms were still crossed.

He missed.

The ball simply flew over the bar. Yes! Relief was on my mind for a second. Then it was followed by a pleasing thought that I’d ploughed David into the dirt for basically nothing. This was my greatest contribution to the team.

But even this tiny victory couldn’t conceal the fact that our final score was awful. We lost 6 – 2, and it might have been seven had the penalty gone in. Chris got most of the blame though because throughout the match he didn’t seem to want to get his hands dirty. He wasn’t the sort that cared about sports anyway.

We began making our way back to the changing room. A couple of boys were told to stay behind to pick up cones and markers. All was well: Chris got the blame for our defeat, David got to win his match and I had my scrumptious revenge.

David came up to me. ‘Dan, do you hate me or something?’

Hate him? Me? Really? I certainly hope I didn’t come across this way. ‘No?’

‘Why did you do that, then?’ David frowned.

‘You were bullying me.’

‘I wasn’t bullying you.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Yeah, right.’

‘Well, I wasn’t…’ he trailed off. ‘Man, this is gonna take a while to wash…’

My heart sank. ‘Sorry…’

Then I saw a change in him like something menacing had clicked into place.

‘You will be.’ He flashed me a wicked grin. Before I realised it, his arms were around my waist and I was driven off balance. A rugby tackle. In fear, I grabbed at his arms before landing on the dirt, back first, then the back of my head. I was dizzy from the impact but that wasn’t the worst of it. Half a second later, the full weight of David dropped casually onto me, his head crushing my ribs. I groaned in agony. He was much heavier than I thought.

‘Aargh! Get off!’

‘Hahaha, make me!’

I tried to push him away but without success. He wouldn’t move. He seemed to enjoy crushing me, and he was laughing at my efforts to get free. It was intolerable.

‘I…can’t…breathe…’

He stood up then, offering his hand. ‘Now we’re even.’

I took his hand and got to my feet. He seemed so unguarded now. Maybe I could still ambush him with a headlock. But something in the air warned me against it. Maybe it was the way he walked, the maleness coming from his movements that was slightly intimidating. It was a warning, like he would be ruthless and not hold back if I dared to try anything again. Because of his intimidating aura and the fact I’d never put anyone in a headlock before, I let the idea drop to the back of my mind.

We walked in silence. We returned to the changing room and despite the dirt on my hair and legs, I gave the showers a pass. I wasn’t supposed to get this dirty in P.E.. I had no towels to dry myself either. I changed quickly for my next lesson. When I was done I said goodbye to David, and thanked him for the dirt.

‘You’re welcome.’ He smiled.

I left the room and made a turn. What was next? Chemistry. It was all the way on the other side of college. Great. I was on my way to the lab when an ominous voice stopped me in my tracks.

‘You’re gay, aren’t you?’

My eyes widened in horror at the word – at the use of the word. At me. He challenged me. I turned around, desperate to see if anyone might have overheard. To my relief there wasn’t. No one could have heard this. I turned back to Chris, feeling my irritation for this individual grow.

‘Or at least Bi,’ he added helpfully. His eyes gleamed dangerously at me. Shut up, you, I wanted to say. You have no evidence.

I retorted, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ he insisted, raising his eyebrows. His silky voice made me feel sick. ‘You are attracted to guys.’

‘What if you’re wrong?’

‘Actually,’ he said, pinching his chin before pointing a finger at me, ‘I tend to be wrong about other things, but I’m quite sure about you.’

‘Well…you’re wrong.’

‘Deny all you want. I got to go,’ he told me. Did he just shrug? He was unbelievable. I hate this guy. ‘Anyway, we’ll talk more later.’

Anyway, we’ll talk more later. What a jerk. Who the hell did he think he was? I was about to say that we’d never speak again, but as soon as he’d finished he turned and walked away, seeming completely satisfied with the outcome. There I was, standing, too angry to react. What a moron. What evidence could he possibly have against me? How could he be so damned sure when he hadn’t even disproved the hypothesis that I might not be gay, and jumped straight to the conclusion?

What gave me away?

I resumed walking to my next lesson, each step powered by the anxiety which seemed to compound and take over the anger I’d felt earlier. Someone knew. It was out there now. I’d given it away, somehow. Chris couldn’t be convinced otherwise. At least, not easily. It would be impossible to silence him. My heart sank at the possibilities and consequences of each and every solution. He was right. We would have to speak again. I had to get back to him. If there was one thing I needed to make sure, it was that he would never tell anyone about me. He mustn’t tell anyone.

He mustn’t tell David.