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“Yeah, that’s right.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve, I think. Your Adam’s apple gets bigger. See?” I guess he’s pointing to his own.
“How long does it take?” Finn asks.
“It can happen overnight. But it’s usually a gradual thing over a few weeks or months. Your voice gets a bit croaky and squeaky, and then it just goes deep.”
“And… um… you get hair, right?”
Oh God, poor Alex. He didn’t bank on this. I really should intervene.
But he continues talking as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and I’m so touched that in the end I slide down the wall and sit on the carpet, my arms around my knees, listening to this man talking to my boy, afraid to break the spell.
*
Alex
Finn is sitting up in bed, in his PJs, his back against the headboard and the duvet pulled up to his waist. I’m leaning back in the chair next to him, my feet propped on his bed. It’s a cool room, with Transformers posters, completed LEGO models on the shelves, and several big boxes of LEGO blocks against the wall. The small bookcase contains the Harry Potter series, the Alex Rider collection, and lots of other fantasy authors like Rick Riordan and Neil Gaiman. This could so easily have been my room when I was a kid.
“Yeah,” I reply to his question. “It takes a while for the chest hair to come through. But you’ll get it elsewhere pretty fast.” I make a downward gesture.
His lips twist. “I’ve already got a few. Not many though.”
“They’ll come. At least yours will be dark. Mine are going silver already.”
He giggles. “Old man.”
“Yeah, I know. Don’t mock the afflicted.”
“When did you start shaving?”
“Ah… when I was about fourteen, I guess.”
“Did your dad show you how to do it?”
“Yeah.”
He looks at where his hands are resting in his lap.
Conscious that it’s the anniversary of his father’s death, I say gently, “Mums can do it too, though. Women are used to shaving under their arms and stuff.”
He just nods.
“I know your grandfather on your mum’s side passed away,” I say. “What about your dad’s side?”
“He lives in Auckland. We don’t see him much.”
“Are you close to any other guys? Your uncle?”
He shrugs. “He’s okay.”
“What about Carly’s husband?”
“Sean’s cool. But I wouldn’t talk to him about… you know… stuff like this.”
And yet he’d talk to me. I’m quite touched by that. I feel for the kid. He’s not about to go up to a male teacher at school—if he has any—and ask questions about puberty. And although I know Missie is a great mum and she’s obviously talked to him about what happens, I can remember being that age and being excruciatingly embarrassed when my mother tried to talk to me about the facts of life.
