The Boy in the Dress Read online

  “Hi,” Lisa said. She had a gorgeous voice, rough round the edges but soft inside.

  “Oh, hi, urn…” Dennis pretended not to remember her name.

  “Lisa. What’s your name?”

  Dennis thought for a moment about changing his name to something cooler like ‘Brad’ or ‘Dirk’ to try and impress her, but realised that would be insane.

  “Dennis.”

  “Hi, Dennis,” said Lisa. “What are you in for?”

  “I headed a ball into Hawtrey’s office.”

  “Cool!” said Lisa, laughing.

  Dennis laughed a little too. She obviously assumed that he had headed the ball into the headmaster’s office on purpose and he wasn’t about to correct her.

  “What about you?” asked Dennis.

  “I wasn’t ‘wearing the correct school uniform’. This time Hawtrey said my skirt was too short.”

  Dennis looked down at Lisa’s skirt. It was quite short.

  “I don’t care really,” she continued. “I’d rather wear what I want and get the odd detention now and again.”

  “Sorry,” interrupted Miss Windsor. “There’s not really meant to be any talking in detention.”

  Miss Windsor was one of the nice teachers who didn’t really enjoy telling pupils off. She would usually say ‘excuse me’ or ‘sorry’ before she did. She was probably in her late forties. Miss Windsor didn’t wear a wedding ring or seem to have any kids. She liked to exude a little French sophistication, throwing colourful silk scarves over her shoulder with mock nonchalance, and devouring four-packs of croissants from the Tesco Metro at breaktime.

  “Sorry, Miss Windsor,” said Lisa.

  Dennis and Lisa smiled at each other. Dennis got back to his lines.

  I must not header balls into the headmaster’s window.

  I must not header balls into the headmaster’s window.

  I must not header balls into the headmaster’s window.

  He looked over at what Lisa was doing. Instead of her lines, she was idly sketching some dress designs. A ball-gown with a plunging back looked like it wouldn’t be out of place in Vogue. She turned over the page and started sketching a strapless top and pencil skirt. Next to that she drew a long flowing white suit that went in and out in all the right places. Lisa clearly had a real flair for fashion.

  “Excuse me,” said Miss Windsor. “But you should really concentrate on your own work, Dennis.”

  “Sorry, Miss,” said Dennis. He started his lines again.

  I must not header ball into the headmaster’s window.

  I must not header vogue into the headmaster’s Window.

  I must not read voyue into the headmasters…

  Dennis sighed and rubbed out the last few lines. He was getting distracted.

  After about forty-five minutes, Miss Windsor looked at her watch anxiously and addressed the class of two.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but would either of you mind if we finished this detention fifteen minutes early? Only I would quite like to get home in time for Neighbours. Lassiter’s coffee shop is re-opening today after the dramatic fire.”

  “No problem, Miss,” said Lisa smiling. “Don’t worry, we won’t tell anyone!”

  “Thank you,” said Miss Windsor, confused for a moment that somehow the roles had been reversed, and it was Dennis and Lisa who were letting her off.

  “Do you wanna walk me home, Dennis?” asked Lisa.

  “What?” said Dennis, in a panic.

  “I said, ‘do you want to walk me home?’”

  “Um, yeah, OK,” said Dennis, trying to sound cool.

  Dennis felt like a celebrity as he walked down the road with Lisa. He walked slowly so he could be with her for as long as possible.

  “I couldn’t help noticing your drawings. Those dress designs. They’re brilliant,” said Dennis.

  “Oh thanks. They were nothing really, I was just doodling.”

  “And I love the way you look.”

  “Thank you,” replied Lisa, trying not to laugh.

  “I mean dress,” Dennis corrected himself. “Dress, I love the way you dress.”

  “Thanks,” said Lisa, smiling again. She looked so unutterably gorgeous when she smiled that Dennis could barely look at her. Instead he looked down at her shoes, noticing they were round-toed.

  “Beautiful shoes,” he offered.

  “Well, thank you for noticing.”

  “Apparently round-toed shoes are in this year. Pointy-toed are out.”

  “Where did you read that?”

  “Vogue. I mean…”

  “You read Vogue?”

  Dennis caught his breath. What had he said? In all the excitement of being with Lisa his tongue was running away with itself.

  “Um…no…erm…well, yeah, once.”

  “I think that’s cool.”

  “You do?” asked Dennis, incredulous.

  “Yeah. Not nearly enough boys are into fashion.”

  “I suppose not…” Dennis said. He wasn’t sure if he was into fashion, or just liked looking at pictures of pretty dresses, but he chose not to mention it.

  “Do you have a favourite designer?” Lisa asked.

  Dennis wasn’t sure if he did, but he remembered really liking one of the dresses in the magazine, a cream floor-length ball-gown, designed by John Gaily something.

  “John Gaily something,” he said.

  “John Galliano? Yeah, he’s amazing. A legend. He designs all the pieces for Dior too.”

  Dennis loved that she said ‘pieces’. That was the word they’d used in Vogue for items of clothes.

  “Well, this is my house. Thanks, Dennis. Bye,” said Lisa. Dennis’s heart sank a little that their walk was already over. She went to go towards the front door, then stopped for a moment. “You could come over at the weekend if you like,” she said. “I’ve got loads of great fashion magazines I could show you. I really want to be a designer or a stylist or something when I’m older.”

  “Well, you are very stylish,” said Dennis. He meant it sincerely, but somehow it sounded cheesy.

  “Thank you,” said Lisa.

  She knew she was.

  Everyone knew she was.

  “It’s Saturday tomorrow. Is eleven o’clock any good for you?”

  “Er…I think so,” said Dennis. As if any event in his past or future could prevent him from being at her house at eleven.

  “See you then,” she said, as she gave him a smile and passed out of view.

  And just like that, Dennis’s world went back to normal again, like when the lights go on in the cinema at the end of a film.

  ∨ The Boy in the Dress ∧

  6

  Forever and a Moment

  At 10:59 am Dennis was waiting outside Lisa’s house. She had said eleven o’clock, but he didn’t want to seem too keen. So he waited for his watch to count the seconds until eleven.

  54.

  55.

  56.

  57.

  58.

  59.

  00.

  He pressed the bell. The faint sound of Lisa’s voice floated down the stairs, and the blurry vision of her through the glass of the door was enough to make his heart beat faster.

  “Hey,” she said, smiling.

  “Hey,” he said back. Not that he’d ever said ‘hey’ to anyone before, but he wanted to be like Lisa.

  “Come in,” she said, and he followed her into the house. It was very similar to the one Dennis lived in, but where his was gloomy, Lisa’s was full of light and colour. There were paintings and family pictures haphazardly arranged on the walls. A sweet smell of freshly baked cake lingered in the hall. “Do you want a drink?”

  “A glass of white wine, perhaps?” said Dennis, trying to act three times his age.

  Lisa looked bemused for a moment. “I don’t have any wine. What else do you like?”

  “Um Bongo.”

  Lisa raised her eyebrows. “I think we’ve got some Um Bongo.”


  She found a carton and poured a couple of glasses, then they went upstairs to her room.

  Dennis instantly adored it. In truth it was how he would like his room to be. She had pictures from fashion magazines all over the walls, stylish shots of beautiful women, in glamorous locations. On the shelves were books about fashion or famous film stars like Audrey Hepburn or Marilyn Monroe. A sewing machine sat in the corner of the room and she had a big pile of Vogues by the bed.

  “I’m collecting them,” she said. “I’ve got an Italian one too. It’s hard to get here, but it’s amazing. The best Vogue is Italian. Heavy though! Would you like to see it?”

  “I’d love to,” said Dennis. He’d had no idea there were different Vogues around the world.

  They sat on her bed together, slowly turning the pages. The first shoot was in colour, but featured dresses that were only black or white, or a combination of the two.

  “Wow, that dress is gorgeous,” said Dennis. “Chanel. It’s probably madly expensive, but it is beautiful.”

  “I love the sequins.”

  “And that slit up the side,” said Lisa. She traced her fingers longingly along the page.

  What seemed like forever and a moment went by, as they studied every page, discussing each detail of every dress. When they reached the end they felt like they’d been friends forever.

  Lisa pulled out another magazine to show him one of her favourite shoots, or ‘stories’ as she called them. It was from an old British Vogue, and featured lots of models in wigs and metallic dresses. It looked like a scene from an old science-fiction film. Dennis loved the extravagance of these fantasies, so different form the grey cold reality of his own life.

  “You’d look stunning in that gold dress,” said Dennis, pointing to a girl with similar hair colouring to Lisa.

  “Anyone would. It’s an amazing dress. I could never afford any of these, but I like to look at these pictures and get ideas for my own designs. Do you want to see?”

  “Oh yeah!” replied Dennis excitedly.

  Lisa pulled a large scrapbook from her shelf. It was full of brilliant illustrations she had drawn of skirts and blouses and dresses and hats. Next to these Lisa had stuck lots of things onto the page: strips of glittering fabric, cut-out photographs of film costumes, even buttons.

  Dennis stopped Lisa turning the page at an especially gorgeous drawing she had done of an orange sequined dress.

  “That one is beautiful,” he said.

  “Thanks, Dennis! I’m really pleased with it. I’m making it right now.”

  “Really? Can I see?”

  “Of course.”

  She reached into her cupboard and pulled out the half-finished dress.

  “I got this material really cheap. It was just from down the market,” she said. “But I think it’s going to look really good. It’s a little bit 1970s, I think. Very glamorous.”

  She held up the dress by its hanger. Although it was still cut a little roughly around the edges, and had a few loose threads, it was covered in hundreds of little round sequins and twinkled effortlessly in the morning sunlight.

  “It’s amazing,” said Dennis.

  “It would look good on you!” said Lisa. She laughed and held the dress next to Dennis. He laughed too, and then looked down at it, allowing himself to imagine for a moment what he would look like wearing it, but then told himself to stop being silly.

  “It’s really beautiful,” he said. “It’s not fair though, is it? I mean boy’s clothes are so boring.”

  “Well, I think all those rules are boring. About what people can and can’t wear. Surely everyone should be able to wear whatever they like?”

  “Yes, I suppose they should,” said Dennis. He had never really been encouraged to think like this before. She was right. What was wrong with wearing the things you liked?

  “Why don’t you put it on?” Lisa asked with a cheeky smile.

  There was silence for a moment.

  “Maybe that’s a crazy idea,” Lisa said, back-tracking as she sensed Dennis’s awkwardness. “But dresses can be beautiful, and dressing up is fun. I love putting on pretty dresses. I bet some boys would like it too. It’s no big deal.”

  Dennis’s heart was beating really fast – he wanted to say ‘yes’, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. This was all a bit much…

  “I’ve got to go,” he snapped.

  “Really?” asked Lisa, disappointed.

  “Yes, I’m sorry, Lisa.”

  “Well, will you come and visit me again? Today has been really fun. The next issue of Vogue is out next week. Why don’t you come over next Saturday?”

  “I don’t know…” said Dennis, as he rushed out of the house. “But thanks again for the Um Bongo.”

  ∨ The Boy in the Dress ∧

  7

  Watching the Curtain Edges Grow Light

  “Happy Birthday, Dad!” exclaimed Dennis and John excitedly.

  “I don’t like birthdays,” said Dad.

  Dennis’s face fell. Sunday was always a miserable day for him. He knew that loads of families were sitting down together for a roast dinner, and that only made him think about Mum. When Dad did try and cook a Sunday roast for his sons, it only made their loss more painful. It was as if there was a place laid in all their minds for someone they loved who wasn’t there.

  And anyway, Dad was not a good cook.

  But this Sunday was even worse than usual – it was Dad’s birthday and he was determined not to celebrate it.

  Dennis and John had waited all afternoon to wish him a happy birthday. He had left for work very early that day – now it was seven o’clock at night and Dad had just got in. The boys had crept downstairs to the kitchen to surprise him, where he was sitting alone wearing the same red-checked jacket he always did. He had a can of cheap lager and a bag of chips.

  “Why don’t you go and play, boys? I just want to be on my own.”

  The card and cake Dennis and John were holding seemed to fade away in their hands at Dad’s words.

  “I’m sorry, boys,” he said, catching their hurt. “It’s just there’s not much to celebrate is there?”

  “We got you a card, Dad, and a cake,” offered John.

  “Thanks.” He opened the card. It was from Raj’s shop and featured a big smiling cartoon bear inexplicably wearing sunglasses and Bermuda shorts. Dennis had chosen it from Raj’s shop because it had ‘Happy Birthday to the Best Dad in the World’ written on it.

  “Thanks, boys,” said Dad as he looked at it. “I don’t deserve it though. I’m not the best dad in the world.”

  “Yes you are, Dad,” said Dennis.

  “We think you are,” added John tentatively.

  Dad stared at the card again. Dennis and John had thought it would make him happy, but it seemed to be having the opposite effect.

  “I’m sorry, boys, it’s just I find birthdays hard, you know, since your mum left.”

  “I know, Dad,” said Dennis. John nodded and tried to smile.

  “Dennis scored a goal today. For the school,” said John, trying to change the subject to something happy.

  “Did you, son?”

  “Yes, Dad,” said Dennis. “It was the semi-final today, and we won 2-1. I got one goal and Darvesh scored the other. We’re through to the final.”

  “Well that’s good,” said Dad, staring into the distance. He took another gulp from his can. “Sorry. I just need to be alone for a bit.”

  “OK, Dad,” said John, nodding to Dennis that they should leave. Dennis touched his dad’s shoulder for a moment, before they retreated from the room. They had tried. But birthdays, Christmas, going on holiday, and even day trips to the sea – slowly all those things had disappeared. Mum had always organised them, and now they seemed a lifetime away. Home was becoming a very cold, grey place.

  “I need a hug,” said Dennis.

  “I ain’t hugging you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m your bro
ther. I ain’t hugging you. It’s weird. I’ve gotta go anyway. I told the boys I was gonna hang around on the wall outside the offy with them for a bit.”

  Dennis needed to get out of the house too. “I’m going to Darvesh’s then. See you later.”

  As he walked across the park, he felt bad for leaving his dad on his own in the kitchen. He wished he could make Dad happy.

  “What’s up?” asked Darvesh, as they were looking at videos on YouTube in his bedroom.

  “Nothing,” said Dennis unconvincingly. He wasn’t a good liar, but then lying is not a thing that it’s good to be good at.

  I, myself, have never ever lied.

  Apart from just then.

  “You seem, like, really distracted.”

  Dennis was distracted. Not only was he thinking about his dad, he couldn’t stop thinking about that orange sequined dress.

  “I’m sorry. Darvesh, you’d be my friend whatever wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Darvesh! Dennis! Would you boys like some refreshing Lucozade drink?” shouted Darvesh’s mum from the next room.

  “No thanks, Mum!” Darvesh shouted back, before sighing loudly. Dennis just smiled.

  “It’s a high energy beverage! It’ll get your strength up for the final!” came the insistent reply.

  “All right, Mum, maybe later!”

  “Good boys! You’ll make me very proud if you win. But you know I’ll still be proud if you don’t.”

  “Yes, yes…” said Darvesh. “She’s so embarrassing.”

  “It’s only because she loves you,” said Dennis.

  Darvesh went silent for a moment so Dennis changed the subject.

  “Can I try on your hat thing?” he asked.

  “My patka?”

  “Yes your patka.”

  “Sure, if you really want. I’ve got a spare one here I think,” said Darvesh as he rummaged in his drawer before pulling out another hat. He passed it to Dennis, and Dennis carefully put it on.

  “How do I look?” asked Dennis.

  “Like a bit of a prat!”

  They both laughed loudly. Then Darvesh thought for a moment. “I mean, it doesn’t make you Sikh, does it? On you it’s just a hat. It’s just dressing up, innit?”

  ♦