Simon's Friend

“So, Simon, I gather you like wearing make-up.”

Quick, Simon think! What would Ashley say? “I certainly do, Sir.” Screw it, it’s true. The whole school was determined to make him crack. Youth was a rough ride for Simon Finner. Every day was the same. Persecution, verbal missiles, kicks, punches. As always the brutal events of the firing line lead Simon to the headmaster’s office for questioning. Only this day was going to be different. Don’t cry, he urged himself, whatever you do, don’t cry.

“Why?” asked the headmaster, “why do you wear make-up?” Mr Kingsley clicked away the nib of his Parker and slid it in to his breast pocket. All in a swish of the wrist. Ashley hated the habits that teachers had. Some of them are so infected by boredom they need habits to keep them sane.

“It’s my choice, Sir,” Simon bravely replied, eyes on the ground, “there’s no rule against it.” He was aware of his timid voice and how it impugned the valiance that lurked in his internal corners. He noticed the office now too. How many times had he sat in here now? So still, so enclosed and cluttered with teachery crap; books, leaflets, stacks of papers unnecessarily reproduced and unused. They were now his audience, all piled up and frozen with anticipation.

“You’re right,” Mr Kingsley agreed, “but let’s face it, you’re just fanning the flames. You can’t expect people to leave you alone if you’re piling on the excuses for them to bully you, not to mention piling on the mascara and God-knows what.”

Don’t cry. Whatever you do, don’t cry. Simon closed his eyes. He pictured home.

“Why Ashley?” Simon enquired.

Not sure, his friend answered. In the comfort of Simon’s room Ashley wound her hair in to a scruffy French roll and secured it with a pencil. “That’s cool,” he remarked as he watched her.

My art teacher always does it, Ashley smiled, with a shake of her head she ensured it was secure and returned to Simon’s question. I’m not sure, never asked about my name. I know if I’d been a boy I would have been Simon, believe it or not.

“Ashley’s a nice name.” He said. “I was going to be Rebecca Ann if I‘d been a girl.” Ashley grinned. Shall I call you Rebecca then?

“If you like…Simon.” Simon enjoyed their banter. I actually like the name Gilda, think I’d suit that? She repeated the name. Gild-arrr. You know, like the movie? I’ve never seen it but my mum loves it.

“My Dad thinks I love the shittest films," Simon rolled his eyes, "he’s always skitting me saying that my taste in everything’s crap, that even the dog has better taste than me.” He laughed.

I love your Dad, he’s hilarious. Chuckled Ashley. Does he still do that really camp impression of you? Where he goes;’ Oooh, Tippy, let’s go and have some Pimms at the theatre.’ Ashley re-enacted it just as Simon had shown her; miming a cigarette, a sherry glass with a droopy aristocratic expression.

“Sometimes,” Simon snickered. He enjoyed his dad’s caricatures; Pimms, cigarette holders, theatre trips and flamboyant friends by the name of Tippy. “Quite accurate,” he’d remarked approvingly, “that’s the life for me.” Then from beneath his bed Simon removed the white Allsaints shoe box. He lifted the lid and rummaged through the various fragrant containers; tubes, bottles and palettes all richly designed with metallic writing and artistic opulent shapes. He extracted a square compact and lifted its mirrored lid. Inside were two brown powders into which Simon dipped a fine brush before bringing it carefully to his eye brows.

Silently Ashley watched as Simon filled in one brow to create an even, streamlined triangle. He inspected his work and broke from his concentration. “This used to be my sister’s. What do you think?” He theatrically turned his head so Ashley could admire his work.

Simon shifted in the seat. As unsettling as Mr. Kingsley’s presence was, a feeling was expanding in Simon. Way down in his gut he felt the words writhing: I’ve had enough. A feeling of pride and fortification tickled his senses. He felt sick and very strange.

“I’m more concerned about being myself, Sir. If people want to bully me for that then it’s their problem.” He told his headmaster matter-of-factly, “I like wearing make-up. That’s it.”

“Simon,” Kingsley laughed derisively, “I’m not saying you can’t wear make-up,” he chortled arrogantly, “but it’s not making my life easier is it? Or the lives of other teachers for that matter.” Clearly Kingsley hadn’t appreciated Simon’s bravery and certainly not respected it. His headmaster was annoyed and inconvenienced. Shame, poor thing will have to do some actual work now.

“Suppose not, Sir.” Simon answered as he felt the strong hands of courage massage his conscience. And for just a moment he closed his eyes, back at home again. Where was I? Oh yes. Ashley.

That’s lovely, they look really full and natural.

“Well that’s it,” Simon replied, fixated on his brows. “It’s not like an eyebrow pencil where you can see it under the hairs, you can build this up to be as impressive as you want.” Simon took pride in his understanding of make-up. He observed, each day at school, how many girls abused it. Their young smooth complexions coated, as if by a film, in oily liquids that turned their underlying pimples in to crusted peach coloured growths and their hairlines all dry and heavy with orange residue scattered in clumps like a map of the Orkney Islands. But he’d smile to himself, happily educated by his friend.

Ashley chortled ; A girl in my year wears it so thick I could write my name in it with a pin. Like wet cement. They laughed. The pair loved gossiping, the freedom of speech, the unconditional secrecy. Thanks to Ashley loneliness was merely a fleeting annoyance. His friend continued, 'that’s just a learning process, I think. Especially with make-up and everything. Ashley’s eyes became distant. I honestly believe every three years or so you look back and say to yourself; ‘what the fuck was I thinking?’ D’ya know what I mean? That’s the nature of self-improvement, you learn from yourself.

Her thoughts and outlooks appealed so much to Simon, made such perfect sense that he instantly adopted her philosophies and choice of words. He shelved them in his memory until an opportunity whereby he could quote them as his own.

Ashley sighed and unscrewed the mascara. Simon watched, agog with fascination as she tilted her head back slightly. Her mouth parted delicately and her long lashes stood to attention.

“So why are you doing it then?” Click went the Parker pen again, “why must you make yourself a target?” Kingsley snapped, deplete of sympathy.

“I’m not trying to make myself a target, Sir.” Simon was suddenly shy again. A sinking sense of shame began to overcome him eclipsing the exciting anger that had surfaced just moments ago. Now he felt afraid, fearful of the brutal frankness of his headmaster. Maybe Kingsley’s right, it’s my own fault.

“You, Simon Finner, are your own worst enemy. Anyone ever tell you that?” He had risen to his feet now and was addressing Simon from his imposing height. The boy felt like a miscreant sitting helplessly in court being sneered by strangers. Kingsley continued. He brought his face close to Simon’s, close enough for him to smell the recently consumed coffee and a thousand Benson and Hedges. “You flounder about this school like some Disney Princess, dolled up like some sort of stripper and you wonder why you’re gettin’ picked on? Don’t you ever stop, Simon, for a minute to-” His eyes closed again. He closed them tight. He pictured Ashley waiting for him at home. She cried for him causing her make-up to run. Anger scalded his insides. He heard someone shout. Who was that?

What does your mum say when she sees you wearing make-up? Asked Ashley.

"Depends really." Simon thought a moment; "Get that shit off your face."

Aaaaw, she's just looking out for you. Ashley was always so fair about things. He hated that sometimes. Could she not just take his side and understand the fact that his mum just 'didn't get him,'?

She then coloured her lips carefully with deep red lipstick. She was remarkable and Simon always enjoyed their peaceful make-up routines. He relished in the soft sensation of the brushes gliding over his cheeks, the lipsticks that slipped across his mouth, the sumptuous creams, pastes and the shocks of colour around his eyes; ivory, flamingo pink, sea green, royal blue, powders. He was real now. Full to the brim with identity.

Makes your lips look really big, Simon. Ashley cooed. You should wear lipstick all the time.

The boy wasn't listening. He looked down at his frugal cosmetic stash, most of it stolen from his sister's hoard he used to discover strewn about the bathroom. Memories beckoned.

1996. He carried his little plastic chair across the landing and set it down at the bathroom door. In perfect view of Lydia he sat and watched. Fascinated. His handsome sister stood at the mirror resplendent in a periwinkle cocktail gown with matching high heels. He knew she belonged in better worlds, like the Lampicka paintings in the study, too beautiful for the burden of reality. Her vanity case overflowed: sponges, brushes, pads. Decorative boxes, pots and tins concealed the surface from view. Potions of pulchritude. The answer to everything, the child’s hungry eyes told him. The ultimate hiding place.

"What's that for?" Asked little Simon for the umpteenth time.

"This," Lydia spoke from her delectable cloud of powder and perfume," is a special powder that makes you look brown, like you've been on your holidays." She knelt down and offered him the pot. Simon gazed inside at the golden balls shimmering back at him. "Oh," he smiled, "is it a pretend brown?"

His sister nodded, "that's right, it's all pretend." Words of wisdom. "Now this,” she removed the lid of her liquid eyeliner, “is a very special pen," Simon watched, awe-struck as she painted a black sleek stripe across her eyelid. Like Japanese calligraphy an arty flick graced her temples.

"Is that hard to do?" Asked the little boy.

"It is at first. To be good at make-up you've got to practise and make mistakes, d'ya get it?" The little boy nodded, not quite sure he did get it. She quickly whipped the mascara brush through her lashes and knelt down again in front of her little brother. "OK, here's an important job for you, Simon. Which lipstick should I wear to the party? Parisian Flare or..."

"Hot Kenya.” Simon smiled, “I kept it after that night. Still smells like lipstick after all this time." He handed the lipstick to Ashley.

Aaaw, Simon, that's so cute that you used to bring your little chair and watch her. She studied the lipstick, twisting it in to sight. "My first piece of make-up," Simon grinned reminiscently, "the start of it all."

“OH SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!” Simon heard someone shout. Who? Who? Had Ashley crept in?...No. It was him. Open your eyes, Simon!

The foul outburst had repelled Kingsley’s up-close admonishment to the other side of the room. Suddenly those brave hands were back, pushing Simon, urging him, snuffing out every nervous flame inside him like candles. This was it. Finally. The warrior had awoken. Every ounce of built up anger and frustration at the world had finally come to boiling point. Pustules of acidic defensiveness burst on the cracked surface as Simon Finner; the wimp, the down-trodden fruitcake, let rip. Leaving his fears to melt he rose from the chair. His stomach raged with adrenaline, heart racing like the Sabre Dance. Kinglsey ogled - utterly staggered with wide eyes and a dangling jaw. Promptly he reverted back to teacher mode, rapidly stitching up the bulging seams of his temper. “I beg your pardon,” he stammered.

With electricity buzzing in his pores Simon’s sense of justice now refused to wilt.

“You heard me. I said shut up,” he lifted his satchel to his shoulder, ready for his grand exit. “I may be different but I’m still a human being! Did you forget that?!”

“Get out of my office, RIGHT NOW! You disgust me.”

Oh how he hated being trapped in this man's body. The trouble it caused! With only dread and resentment to look forward to as his shoulders broadened, as dark body hair claimed his youthful figure and his voice became deeper. 'Maybe I'll take the Marlene Dietrich route and vanish from public view,' Simon once considered in a moment of extravagant angst.

How lucky Ashley was to have such privileges. The option of wearing skirts and trousers, high heels or trainers, dresses and short hair. And he was back in the garden last summer. Ashley’s Jonie Mitchell summer.

I know what you mean, Simon. She'd empathised. Girls have so many more options, it's okay to be a tom-boy if you're a girl. She flipped her auburn tresses behind her shoulder, bared by her white hippie top. But for a boy to act like a girl is considered degrading, laughable. As if to say that BEING a girl is degrading.

"I know!" Simon agreed. "Like it's an offence for a guy to be feminine but if a girl wants to play football or fix a car it's not given a second thought."

In the 1700'S a man was considered attractive for being camp and wearing powdered wigs and make-up. Strange isn't it. Now it's like the more you separate yourself from the opposite sex the more respected you'll be.

“You’re the disgusting one, you ignorant pig!” Simon heard his voice, the words like he had pre- recorded them and was playing them back. Only it was real, it was live. “I may be different and yeah so I get bullied – a lot! But I have never, ever come running to you wondering why I get bullied. I know why. And I’ve never asked for your help and I have NEVER done anything to hurt or upset anybody, let alone inconvenience you."

Kinglsey watched with a look of vulnerability, lost for words. He had to reclaim authority. Simon Finner had cracked and there was no stopping the flow of truth spurting from his punctured veneer, a fat vein appeared at side of his reddened neck. He was sweating. He continued:

“And how dare you speak to me like a piece of dirt. I may be a raving gay-boy and everyone may hate me. But one thing I am NOT ashamed of is who I am. That’s why I get bullied. And the next time you drag me in to your vile office you just remember that I happen to love being me. And that, compared to your opinion means fuck all!”

Simon inhaled deeply. He felt the hot tears stream down his cheeks. His heart rumbled like a drum beating in his rib cage.

With his back pressed against a bookshelf the stunned Mr. Kingsley spoke:

“You’re – you’re expelled. I‘m calling your parents.” He flew to his desk and began to rummage clumsily through a drawer. A final drop of anger fell like a wet towel being wrung out. “Good. Call them,” Simon opened the door, “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Gone.

"She had this thing about lipsticks, my sister." Simon recalled, a whisper of a smile at his mouth, "she always bought lipsticks that had the name of a place in its title. I noticed it years ago. She had: Hot Kenya, Parisian Flare, New York Whisper, Florida Fruits and... Bangkok Flush."

Makes sense, Ashley replied dabbing a little of the Hot Kenya on her cheeks, she loves travelling, doesn't she.

Simon nodded with admiration as he pictured Lydia now grown up and married, strolling through Cape Town, that periwinkle dress long gone.

He picked up the translucent powder.

Not yet. Ashley prompted him. Mascara first.

"Why?"

If you smudge your mascara you'll have to wipe off the powder and do it all over again.

"That makes sense." He did as he was told. "Ashley," he began as he combed his lashes until they curled and smouldered. "What film character would you love to be?"

She plopped down the mascara brush and replaced it automatically with the pot of Bohemian eye shadow. She checked her facial progress and gazed up in thought. I'd have to say Bette Davis in Whatever happened to baby Jane.

"Interesting answer." She loved Bette Davis, but why hadn't she selected Scarlett O'Hara or even a Julie Christie role? "Why Baby Jane?" She'd been ready to answer this question for ages. He could tell by her enthusiastic expression.

There's just something about that character. She's very post-apocalyptic, like she's in ruins. And the way she's clinging to her youth, there's something weirdly glamorous about it. Like she's a crumbling landmark, d'ya get it? You can still see traces of beauty but her dark side replaces what's lost. Ashley had charisma, like an artist being interviewed, her observations were unbeatable. Everything Ashley did was so much better than seeing a man do it. Even when she'd worn her dad's oversized, oh-so masculine work suit one Saturday night. Especially now with her one eye painted Bohemian green. She simply made everything work. Even life itself. Her Jonie Mitchell summer was the best, Simon recalled, back in the garden again. Endless fun. Ashley with her long centre parted hair and floppy rimmed sun hats with no shoes. Why couldn't there be a male equivalent?

Men can be hippies as well. Hell, anyone can be who or what they want. Gender isn't a drawback unless you allow it to be. Absent-mindedly she plaited small wefts of hair at her temple in the orange light of August.

"Yeah but...girls just make it look natural and unpretentious." Simon smiled, loved up by her style and dizzy from the gin and tonic, the sun in his eyes and her perfume in his nose. His friend lay down next to him.

So, what. Forget about what’s outside, it means nothing. Ashley spoke with pride and tipsy theatricality. You have the heart of a woman, Simon and that’s better than any amount of make-up and all the wishes in the world to be different. How Simon loved his friend. Together they lay, long legs spread across the picnic blanket and the late sunlight warm and pink on them. Ashley was tall. The same height as Simon. Most girls would have hated being that height, especially at the age of sixteen and at the height of vanity. But this girl was proud of her height. I could be a model. She said adjusting her big hat. Elle McPherson's about six foot. Followed with another sip of the icy gin and tonic, My poison, Ashley whispered with gusto. Simon’s friend was mature and relished the taste of the grown-up life. School is more demanding than full time work hours, I deserve a secretive reward. They'd scrunch up their eyes as they swallowed the concoction. Ashley's gins were strong and packed with ice and wedges of lime. Their sunny weekends were spent in the garden and the long nights in Simon's room where they would beautify and discuss every subject possible until the sun appeared.

Simon wiped his cheeks with the heal of his hand as he strode through the school gates. The adrenaline that had soared through him was now curdling to a sickening sense of foreboding. But it was there, that feeling of elation, the biggest ingredient of this emotional medley and the boy was too shaken to acknowledge it.

All the way home Simon cried and played his crazed script over and over in his head. Cringing with worry he pictured Kingsley’s phone call. Endless possibilities. He moved through the high street, submerged so deeply in thought he barely heard the insults being hurled by his peers. Their virulent taunts flew at him now like polystyrene arrows carried away on the breeze. Completely insignificant. He walked with purpose and ease yet his panic kept him from thoughtfully sauntering. It was a long walk home. Just what was needed after such a surreal experience but as home drew nearer Simon couldn’t help but think; maybe it didn’t actually happen. It suddenly felt so long ago. No. He looked down at his black stained fingers, marked from wiping his teary eyes. Smoky receipts of his crazed outburst and he strode on, bolstered by anxiety and a seemingly endless list of What if's unravelling in his mind like toilet paper.

Ashley! Oh just wait til’ Ashley hears about this. And no excitement stirred, no relief cradled him at the thought of seeing her. Ashley. Ashley, his only friend with undying care for him and his life of fabulously secret habits, ugly challenges and enchanting desires. His safety net. He walked the scenic route. Anything to delay his arrival and facing his seething parents. Promptly another wave of dismay pulled him under. Mum will be pacing up and down leaving her earl grey to go cold. Dad will either be deep in thought, silent with rage or calming his nerves with a brandy. His mind whirled with dread. He yearned for a tall handsome man who’s shoulder he could cry in to like in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

I bet Julie Christie never had a situation like this on her hands. Simon pictured her at school. Julie. Long blonde hair, probably too normal and attractive to be spat on or have fire thrown at her. His catastrophic train of thought turned another corner, what if I end up in a borstal because of what I've done? The dreadful image slowed him down. Don’t be stupid, Simon, you’ve stood up for yourself at last! That’s not a crime! But it was too late for self consolation. His mind was now wandering, as it often did, to it's dark side. The intrusive thoughts slithered in like serpents unleashed with pernicious delight. The same scenario as always:

Putting the finishing touches to his facial ‘magnum opus,' an elaborate art piece of blushes, glitter and intricate eye-liner, Simon turned to see them all. The predators of the school corridors. Every misfit's nightmare. There they stood, in his bedroom, astounded at the spectacle before them. Simon Finner, indulging in his privacy, his soul desires displayed clear as crystal. A cruel appetite for pain and humiliation made them salivate through their razor sharp little teeth. "What the fuck is all this?" the leader menaced. Simon looked on at them helplessly. Terrified.

While two boys pinned him to the carpet two others urinated on him and spat at his immaculate face. A fist was brought down to his stomach snatching all air and mobility out of him. With two boys still holding him down he was kicked, punched. Blood and bruises mixed to a horrid hue with the make-up on his extirpated face. Then his arms were freed. Instinctively he curled to a ball. Breathless and damp with piss he listened as his only space was destroyed. Sometimes Simon would hear his mother shouting for help from downstairs. He pictured his bullies sitting on her, burning her with cigarettes. They were like demons. All of them made up of black tracksuits and pale faces to form this monster consuming all that was good, anything beyond their nasty wits. How he hated them. The school bullies and people of the world with their thirst for violence, ravenous for devastation.

"Given the chance," he asked Ashley, "do you think they would really do something like that?" Having explained to her the scene of his nightmare Ashley was rendered quiet and thoughtful. Disturbed.

No, Simon, she answered and picked up his lip liner. I'm not denying that there are people like that - there are. But bullies are cowards. They're not these big powerful Gods. They're powerless. That's why they set out to hurt others, to disguise how pathetic and inadequate they are.

With emotions rising, Simon asked, eyes down; "Why do they tell me I'm evil? Why do they need to get into my head as well? Can't they just beat me up and be done with it?" His voice jarred. His throat thickened. Tears came.

Because, Simon, he cried in to his knees tucked up against him, Simon could hear the reassuring smile his friend was wearing for him. Because they're weak minded. They're threatened by how brave you are. They want you to be hopeless and tragic just like them. Look at me, Simon. He looked at her. They have nothing, you hear me? Nothing.

Where do bullies come from? He pondered. The boy had seated himself upon a tree stump, calmer now but still determined to never go home. Do they have normal relatives like other people? They must do. A nice grandma or aunties and uncles who are good, respectful people. What is it that poisons them? But he snapped shut Pandora’s box and walked on. No hurricane to carry him away to happier lands. Life had to be faced. It really had to. Things were only going to deteriorate if he avoided facing the music. Ashley wouldn’t approve of him avoiding reality either. Do it for Ashley. The familiar house came into view. Apprehension writhed within him. Here we go. The front door closed quietly behind him. Silence in the house. Then;

“That you, Simon?” His mother’s voice pierced the hush. Without warning his eyes stung. He cried again. “Yep...” he choked. His mother appeared in front of him. Readily informed. “C’mon, love, don’t be upset. We’re not angry at you.” And she hugged him. Relief!

His heart nearly stopped. “Thank God. Been crapping myself all the way home.” His voice was marred with tears and snot. “G and T?” His mother proposed. Simon looked at his mum in disbelief. “Well it is Friday, and you’ve been very brave, darling.” She smiled and gripped her baby’s hand. Her son mirrored her. He sprung up the stairs, replete with relief and gratitude. He entered his bedroom. He found Ashley had already arrived. I know all about it, my sweet. Proudly the girl smiled. Simon sat before his friend. Something was amiss with her. He removed his jumper and school tie and reached for his eyeliner. Ashley was different. “Ashley, what’s wrong?” Simon asked his friend. His weightless mind became heavy again. With a deep breath she said it. I’m leaving, Simon. He dropped the kohl pencil and stared. “What do you mean? Where are you going?” He didn’t believe her at first. Simon smirked and waited for his friend to crack and confess to winding him up. She didn’t. Anxiously his stomach fluttered. “Ashley, why are you leaving?” I can’t stay, Simon. Not anymore. You don’t need me. The smile was reassuring but still made no sense. “Ashley, you’re my best friend, you can’t just leave. Where the hell are you going?”

I’m going away, Simon. Somewhere else. I have to.

“Says who?” The boy’s anger had been too fresh to vanish completely and now resurfaced.

Says you, Simon. You don’t need me anymore. You proved that today. She studied his face then continued. You know who you are now. You’re happy. Simon, you’ve made it.

It made sense, Simon knew she was right. But still, why did his happiness have to come at the cost of his only friend?! This wasn’t fair, this wasn’t right!

“OK, yeah. You’re right. I am happy, I suddenly feel great to be who I am and everything makes sense. But why does it mean that you have to leave?! Why, Ashley? What’s going on?!” He trembled slightly. Because that’s the way it works, Simon.

“But why?!” Tears crept nearer.

Because I’m not real. I’m a phase. I’m your phase and you’re over it! Stunned silence. This is a wonderful thing, Simon. You should be happy.

“Well I’m not. You’re my friend, not the flu!” Simon looked away, unable to face the little mirror from which she spoke.

Simon, phases come and go. You’re going to experience loads of them. It’s normal. It’s OK.

“Please, Ashley, don’t go.” The boy pleaded, though not very convincingly. The girl in the mirror laughed at his lack of sincerity. “Where will you go?”

Her gaze shifted thoughtfully, Somewhere over the rainbow. They laughed.

“That was cheesy, Ashley.” Simon teased, Ashley shrugged her shoulders. Nothing wrong with a bit of cheese, you know that. They were serious again. Simon was glowing. His newfound courage radiated from him. And yet, “I don’t have anyone else, Ashley.”

Still Simon’s friend beamed. You’ve got you, Simon. The rest will come by itself. You just watch. As always her words and wisdom touched him filling him with agreement. She was right. He was right. There’s nothing easier in life...

“...than being yourself.”

Now I really have to go. The girl in the mirror took a deep breath. Be good, Simon Finner. And with a wink of her smoky eye Simon reached up and lifted the auburn wig from his head. With a tilt of the mirror the girl was gone.

“Thanks, Ashley.”

Simon Finner returned downstairs. He glistened, a picture of carefree self assurance, he sat before his mother still in his school trousers, white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Simon was alive. Mrs Finner placed a gin and tonic before her beautiful son. “Who were you talking to up there?” She enquired.

“Just myself. Cheers.”