Celeste Meets Charlie¶
POV-Celeste¶
When I came out of the stall in the loo, I was a bit surprised to see Amanda at the sinks, washing her hands. Amanda has this thing for blokey shirts — always has — and from behind, she could easily be mistaken for a lad. Which was something I found attractive about her: so cool, that boyishness. Her smell, too... and her warmth. But her bum, well, that was all girl. Yes, she possessed a blokish energy, but her boyishness was contradicted by her bottom.
I approached her, puzzled. Earlier, when I had suggested we go "powder our noses" she'd shrugged. Not-interested.
“Hello, girl!”
She didn’t reply, didn’t even turn. Then I caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. It wasn’t Amanda at all.
It was some bloke. A bloke with a Amanda's bum. Same height, same build as Amanda. Same exact hair. Same exact bum. But definitely not her.
For a moment, I wasn’t sure what to do. What do you say to a guy washing his hands in a girl's bathroom? I cautiously eyed him who, for his part, was now gaped at me with confusion. For some reason, he seemed awed. His full lashes flickered nervously over wide hazel eyes as he struggled for something to say. I had a delicious thought, a bit cheeky, perhaps. I couldn't help it.
He blinked at me with that look: startled—wide-eyed. Not shock, not really. More like: wonder. As if he couldn’t believe someone like me was standing there. Talking to him. I let my gaze linger, let the silence stretch just long enough to fluster him and tilting my head, I stepped closer, slowly, letting the silence wrap around us like mist. His gaze dropped.
“You... are a girl, aren't you?”
His answer clearly came from a dry mouth. “Uh, no, I’m a guy. I, uh, was...”
That was when it struck me: he thought he was in the boys' loo. Oh, this is priceless.
"Oh, sorry," I interrupted. "It's just that you look a lot like my friend from behind and, well, she's a girl. I mean, you're about the same height and have the same hair and everything." He said nothing, just swallowing hard as I moved even closer. "Plus, well, you're in the ladies’." No lights seemed to go on, so I clarified: "The girls' toilets."
He glanced quickly around as his face went white, his eyes widening with horror. Poor thing didn’t even move — he just stood there, at first. He finally found his tongue and stammered apologies. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He looked like he was going to bolt... I wasn't going to let him just run off - this was too precious. I stretched out my hand to introduce myself. He timidly placed his hand in mine - a girl's hand, impossibly soft, softer than mine. His hair fell in soft waves, framing his little face — lovely, soft hair, too long, too well cared for to be unintentional. And with his slender waist, delicate features: a lad? Really?
I was intrigued. But even more, I felt - unexpectedly - silly for teasing him. I felt like I was having a go at one of my friends for being a girl. He did not look out of place in the girls' restroom at all. Even his voice was not as much a give-away as one would have expected.
I probably held on his hand a bit too long, too tightly... I was gripping it, to be honest. I couldn’t let go of this girl-like person. He wasn’t pulling exactly, not in a way that would offend, but there was the faintest retreat — a quiet imploring in his eyes, a tentative tug, as if he thought he might be allowed to go if he asked nicely enough. I let go of his hand all at once, too quickly and he involutarily recoiled.
As I looked at him then - taking in his hesitating, wide-eyed breathlessness - something in me wobbled. I didn’t want him to be frightened of me. I wanted him to like me. Not in a ‘dreamy-eyed’ way, just... as a friend, someone safe. Someone he could trust. I gave him what I hoped was my kindest smile.
“I hope I see you again, Charlie.”
I honestly can’t even remember what I said — it was all such a blur. He turned back when he reached the door, those big eyes locking with mine for a split second, and my heart melted.
Aspirations¶
“Hey, girl!” I turned around: it was Amanda. “Hey, I saw you talking to Mrs. Kielley. What was that about?”
“Oh, she suggested I do a bit of tutoring. You know, spread the love,” I replied offhandedly. Even back in the UK, flaunting one’s academic prowess wasn’t the done thing.
Amanda sidled closer, lowering her voice. “Mate, there’s this guy in my class who could really use your help,” she whispered, glancing around conspiratorially. “He’s pretty hopeless, though. I don’t know if anyone — wait, there he is!”
She nodded toward the door just as Charlie shuffled in, eyes fixed on the ground.
“That’s him?” My heart was suddenly pounding in my ears.
“Yeah. Chuckie’s our little ‘rock star,’” Amanda smirked as he slipped into the classroom, “what with that girly hair! Mrs. Kielley is always keeping him after class. Pretty sure he’s failing her class.”
I frowned. “I didn’t realise Algebra 2 was required for seniors.”
“Well, if anyone could help him, you could. You’re smart!”
I waved dismissively. “Nah, not really: it's just an act. Besides, I’d rather have a good fashion sense. Like you!”
Amanda gave me one of her sardonic grins as she tugged on her baggy, creased shirt. I followed her into the classroom. Charlie was hard to spot at first, hunched over in his seat at the back of the class. Around him, the room buzzed with chatter, but no one noticed him. My heart ached a little. He was like a shadow tucked into the corner of the room. Forgotten.
At the end of the class, he was summoned by the teacher. I caught his eye as he passed and flashed what I hoped was an encouraging smile. He blushed and looked quickly away, fixing his gaze on the floor.
He had blushed. He cared about my opinion. I mattered to him.
Notions and Ideas¶
When I was a lot younger, I had toyed with the idea of ‘going goth’. Mum had talked me out of body piercings and tattoos, but I did dye my hair black for a while. Black lace dresses with enormous petticoats, lace-up boots, the lot — I wore them all. It was certainly a phase, but I never could bring myself to part with those dresses. Anyway, one reason for the "goth" thing was that I had always loved rain, dark clouds, creeping fog... transforming ordinary into magical. Others find grey days gloomy — the magic of rainy days hint at mystery and intrigue.
That afternoon was such a day. The sky hung heavy with dark clouds. The freshly trimmed grass lining the footpath home smelled earthy and clean as I strolled toward the bay. I could smell rain on the soft wind. There was hardly a ripple on the bay.
And then I saw her. Standing by a tree, watching a seagull.
The hair, the shirt, the bum: her. But then, she walked on and that walk gave me pause: an easy amble, unselfconscious and unhurried. Not a masculine stride, certainly, but not feminine either.
I followed her. I wasn’t stalking. It just so happened that the figure ahead was taking the same route as me. What if it was Charlie?
The figure stopped, and pulled mail from a postal box. It was Charlie.
For a moment, I debated walking on as if I hadn’t seen him. No future in that, so I followed him silently to his front door.
“Hello girl!”
He spun round, his eyes wide. For a second, I wondered if I’d been too bold, but then he spoke:
“Oh, hi Celeste.” He remembered my name! Boys don’t remember names: he remembered mine! “You live around here?”
“Yeah, we’re just a couple of doors down,” I said casually, my eyes flicking to the magazine in his hand. “Is that the latest edition of Marie Claire? Good choice!”
He went a bit pale, looking at the magazine in dismay.
“Uh, yeah, it’s actually my aunt’s...”
“Oh.” I tried not to let my disappointment show. I suppose I was hoping for more — those little things girls seem to do so naturally, like remembering names or putting a bit of thought into what they wear, reading fashion magazines.
“Uh, Celeste, would you like to take a look at it?”
I blinked.
“What, just here?” I asked, my tone just cheeky enough to be playful.
Next thing I knew, we were in the kitchen. Charlie was tripping over himself trying to be the perfect host. My confidence grew.
“Hey, what do you do for fun?”
“I write music. On my computer.”
“”Show me.”
He headed off to fetch his laptop from his bedroom. As quietly as a cat, I followed him to his room. He didn’t even notice until I plopped myself cross-legged on his neatly made bed, grinning at him. To his credit, after a moment of surprise he accepted my presence as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
His room was a bit like him: a blend of contradictions. He had boy things — some books and bits and bobs - but there was something else, a quiet, unspoken girlishness. Pictures of flowers. Sheer curtains. Uncluttered, tidy... and it smelled: nice. Not perfumed, just nice.
This friendship was not going to be typical. At all.
I couldn’t help but feel for him. He was trying so hard, stumbling over his words in his awkward, yet sweet way. That’s when it hit me — where this friendship was going to go was up to me. It was mine to keep and look after, or to let go.
Most girls, I reckon, would’ve let it go. Honestly, that’s probably what I would’ve done a few years back. The girls I hang out with definitely would. They would laugh at the idea of taking someone like him seriously — smaller, quieter: definitely not the typical boy.
But I saw something else. Something rare, like a hidden gem or a flower waiting to bloom. The thought of helping it grow, of bringing out its beauty — not for everyone, maybe just for me — gave me a strange kind of excitement. There was something about the idea of shaping that delicate potential into something special, something that was mine alone.
A Girlfriend¶
I stepped into the kitchen with a happy heart. The smell of fresh-baked bread greeted me, warm and comforting. Mum must have just put it in the oven. It’s one of my favorite scents — though perhaps not quite as lovely as the perfume she gave me for my eighteenth birthday. That one really suits me, which is rare for perfumes. Most don’t.
Mum wrapped me in a big hug, then pulled back, raising her eyebrows.
“Right-o, who did you meet? What’s his name? Where does he li —”
“Mum!” I cut her off, shaking my head in mock exasperation. She could always see straight through me. “Believe it or not, he lives a few doors down. His name is Charlie. He’s the sweetest boy I’ve ever met!”
Mum frowned slightly. “I only ever see a girl on this street with her mum, occasionally.”
I snickered. “Are you talking about the house with the big wooden door?”
“Yes,” she said, still puzzled.
“The... girl... has long blond hair?”
“Yes, that’s her. Must be a tomboy... I never see her in a frock.”
I burst out laughing. “That’s because she’s a... lad. A boy. A bloke. Sort of,” I finished lamely, still grinning.
Mum stared at me. “He appears, well... pretty small. Not really your type, is he?”
“Mum, he’s a friend! I’m not dating him.”
She snorted, folding her arms. “Oh, I don’t know. I think you like him a bit more than you’re letting on.”
Like I said — she sees right through me. Still, I held my ground.
“Mum, Charlie’s like a girlfriend to me.”
The moment I said it, I froze. It was like a lightbulb went off in my head, and I just sat there, staring into space, trying to make sense of it. When I finally snapped out of it, Mum was looking at me with this amused, curious sort of smile.
“Girlfriend, hmm?” she teased. “What is he, gay or something?”
“Mum!” I exclaimed, my cheeks burning.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that!”
I shook my head. “He’s not gay. He’s just... not your typical lad, that’s all. He's respectful, timid, even. I want you to meet him — you’ll see what I mean.”
Mum’s smile softened as she pulled me into a hug. “I’m very much looking forward to meeting your new ‘girlfriend’.”
Her smile turned into a grin, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
So Fragile¶
That night, as I lay in bed, my thoughts circled around Charlie. He was so... fragile. Not weak, exactly, but delicate in a way the world doesn’t know how to handle. Especially not the world of men. I couldn’t shake the image of him fumbling, apologizing, trying so hard to navigate something he wasn’t built for.
It wasn’t his fault, of course. The traits that made him stand out, for me at least — the gentleness, the quiet sensitivity — didn’t fit the mould of what society expects men to be like. Society would trip him up, laugh, leave him stranded.
The thought made my chest tighten. He didn’t deserve that. He needed someone to help him, someone to guide him. But how?
I rolled onto my side, staring at the faint glow of the streetlight outside my window. There had to be a way, some way to show him the strength in those qualities he was so shy about. To help him find a place where he wouldn’t just survive, but thrive.
It was such a maddening puzzle, and the more I thought about the conundrum, the more I felt its weight. I wanted to protect him. I had to protect him. But protection wasn’t enough. He deserved more than just safety. He needed a way to stand tall, to do his thing on his own terms.
I closed my eyes, my thoughts still racing. Somewhere, in all that swirling chaos, an idea was starting to take shape. I couldn’t quite grasp it yet, but it was there.
The Only Solution¶
The next day, that idea gelled into one word: ‘girl’.
“Mind if I walk home with you?”
I love surprising Charlie. That instant flash of surprise on his face, followed by a fleeting worshipful gaze — one he then tries desperately to cover up. It’s adorable, really. And then, of course, he starts yapping. Until I step in to help him pull himself together.
But just as he regains his footing, I trip him again.
Like that afternoon by the bay.
“You know,” I said casually, watching his expression carefully, “at the embryonic stage, we all resemble females. It’s not until about seven weeks before guys develop into guys. This is, it’s meant to happen.”
He blinked, his mind visibly racing to process this.
“What? No.” He stared at the pond, his brow furrowing in confusion.
“Look it up: it’s true. That’s what my science teacher told me,” I said with a shrug, watching him carefully. “I was doing a bit of extra reading on genetics, and Mr. Laudin explained that, essentially, we’re all female at conception. Sort of.”
He turned to gape at me, his expression a mix of disbelief and bewilderment.
“Here’s the thing,” I continued, keeping my tone light but deliberate. “There are all sorts of reasons — like a faulty Y chromosome, or if the body doesn’t do androgens — why someone who’s genetically male might develop as female. The point is, ‘girl’ is the default human.”
He was drowning — his gaze drifted and his feet stumbled on the gravel path.
Without thinking, I slipped my arm around his waist.