Free Golden Boy by Abigail Tarttelin Page B

about your condition a lot?’ I ask.
    He shakes his head and his light hair swings back and forth. ‘It never comes up.’
    ‘At home?’
    ‘Well, we never talk about it but . . . it’s never been an issue. It’s just a thing. I don’t know. It’s one of those things you just have to accept.’
    ‘Haven’t your doctors ever talked to you about operations or medication?’
    ‘I don’t know. Like I said, they usually talk to Mum and Dad. I did have some hormone injections and pills and stuff a few years ago.’
    ‘OK. Well, if it makes you this upset, maybe . . . we should talk to your parents about it? Do you want me to call them?’
    ‘NO!’
    ‘OK, OK, sorry.’
    ‘You won’t, will you?’
    ‘I’ll only call them if you ask me.’
    ‘OK. Well, no.’
    ‘Sorry,’ I say reassuringly, patting his arm. I open the Levonelle packet and take out a piece of paper. ‘If you can just read this for me. It lists the possible side effects of the pill, and I just need you to sign here to say you understand. Did the unprotected sex occur in the last seventy-two hours?’
    Max nods and reads the paper, holding his hands in his lap, occasionally lifting one up to wipe a stray line of moisture away from a cheek.
    ‘Can I just have the pill now?’ he mumbles. He’s so wretched, it’s upsetting even for an old-timer like me.
    He’s oddly despondent, actually. I study him carefully. Something just doesn’t quite fit in this scene: an uncaring mood, a lack of eye contact, a blankness. As I watch him avoid my eyes, shuffling in his chair uncomfortably and worriedly chewing a nail, I remember seeing him before.
    It was last summer, and I had recently read about his mother winning a landmark case in the paper. The article said that Karen Walker, if I recall her name correctly, was a barrister. The newspaper focused on Karen’s career, rather than the case, and there was a picture of her family, including Max, at a black tie affair.
    Later that day I had been at the cinema, and I recognised Max. He was holding hands with Olivia Wasikowski, another patient of mine who had come into the clinic to have an implant fitted a few weeks before. As I noticed them both, Max put his hands on Olivia’s cheeks, leaned in and kissed her.
    Looking at him now, remembering this, a thought rolls into my cerebral cortex like it belongs there, like a broken shoulder snapped back into place, and I feel so incredibly stupid I close my eyes and shake my head at myself.
    I clear my throat. ‘Max. I’m sorry to ask this so forwardly. Are you attracted to boys?’
    Max’s mouth opens. Then his hand reaches up to it and suppresses any words that were forming. He shakes his head.
    ‘What I’m asking is, did you consent to sexual intercourse?’
    Max’s hair shakes again from side to side.
    ‘That’s why you’re asking for the emergency contraceptive pill?’
    His hair gives a tiny nod. He looks up nervously.
    ‘Are you in any pain?’
    A tear falls down his cheek and he wipes it away and sniffs.
    ‘OK. Do you want to get up on the bed and let me have a look at you?’
    Max sighs, as if he has seen this coming. A thought flickers through my mind: he must be used to having doctors looking at his genitals. An intersex diagnosis is not only something that must be studied for prognosis; to many doctors it’s interesting. We see so few cases. My own curiosity is piqued, but I don’t let on. Max’s eyes slip to the side and dilate, becoming distant. He nods.
    As a doctor, I’ve discovered the answers are always between the lines, somewhere in the landscape of the body. Physical evidence speaks louder than words. Evidence is all over Max’s face. His bottom lip presses nervously against his top one. I nod, resolved.
    ‘I’ll just give you a minute to get undressed for me. Pop this sheet over yourself and sit up on the bed with your head back here, OK?’
    I pat the bed and hand him the sheet. He nods again, almost wearily, and I step