Different for Boys


 
 
 
 
 
 
 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. All statements, activities, stunts, descriptions, information and material of any other kind contained herein are included for entertainment purposes only and should not be relied on for accuracy or replicated as they may result in injury.
 This edition first published 2023 by Walker Books Ltd 87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ
 Text © 2010, 2023 Patrick Ness
 Illustrations © 2020 Tea Bendix
 The right of Patrick Ness and Tea Bendix to be identified as author and illustrator respectively of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, taping and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data: a catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
 978-1-5295-1463-6 (epub)
 www.walker.co.uk
 
 
 
 
 CONTENTS
 The List
 Where It Starts
 Charlie
 The List Again
 Last Boxing Day
 Charlie
 Mark Ruffalo
 Walking Home
 Questions
 One More Question
 What Kind of Story This Is
 Sex Talk
 Jack
 The Final Weekend
 Parents
 A Message
 The Day The World Ends
 The Truth
 The Afterlife
 And Then
 The Evening After the End of the World
 Different for Boys
 THE LIST
 All right then, if we’re starting out honest, here’s pretty much everything I’ve done (it’s not as bad as it sounds):
 
 1. I’ve , of course. Everyone . They’re lying if they say they don’t, but doesn’t count, obviously. You can’t lose your virginity to yourself.
 2. And leading on from that, I’ve been by someone else, but who’s been to a Year 10 party and not gone home without doing that in the coat pile? It’s only someone’s hands.
 3. Getting a bit heavier, I’ve and . Still not really a shocker.
 4. A bit more strangely, I’ve . (Okay, I’m not allowed to even hint at the strange stuff. Not that kind of story. Fine.)
 5. And of course we wouldn’t be talking about this if I hadn’t actually . You know, actually which is pretty much the definition of losing your virginity if you’re a boy.
 
 And just so we’re clear, it’s not like I’ve done #5 once or twice either. I’m not one of those chess club virgins who goes into a closet and wonders if the real thing’s happened. It has. Trust me. Although it doesn’t really matter how many times you do it: you think it’s going to make your life less lonely, but it never does.
 I suppose my question, though, is where exactly on that list did I stop being a virgin?
 Is it obviously #5? Or can it happen sooner, like on #3? Or even #2?
 
 Are there degrees of virginity? Is there a points system? A league table?
 And who gets to say?
 Because maybe it’s not as clear as all that, maybe there’s more to it. Maybe there are people who’d still say I’m a virgin, even after doing numbers 1 through 5.
 In fact, I might be one of those people.
 WHERE IT STARTS
 There are lots of places this story could start, but it might as well start on the first day of Year 11, when Charlie and me are sitting in geography, waiting for Mr Bacon to get his seating plan in order.
 “Well, this is taking for ever,” Charlie says, then he blinks, surprised. “What the just happened? What are these black boxes?”
 I shrug. “It’s that kind of story. Certain words are necessary because this is real life, but you can’t actually show ’em because we’re too young to read about the stuff we actually do, yeah?”
 “Teens swear in stories these days.”
 “Not anything like we do in reality,” I say. “It’s the difference between shooting a bullet and throwing it.”
 Charlie nods solemnly at the truth of this. Then he gets a smirk.
 “ ,” he says. His smile gets bigger. “ .” He nods again. “Cool.”
 And just as he says, “Cool,” that’s when Freddie Smith walks in, which is where this all really starts.
 “No way,” Charlie says.
 We watch Freddie check in with Mr Bacon, who finds his name on the list and points him over to me and Charlie. Mr Bacon’s great new idea for this year has us sitting in “quads” rather than just boring rows. Four desks pushed together in little islands around the room. Says it’s meant to make learning “collaborative”, but any fool could see he won’t be able to control us like this.
 The quads are alphabetical, so I – being Ant Stevenson – am sitting with Charlie Shepton, who I’ve sat by alphabetically since primary school. And now here’s Freddie Smith, who Charlie and I were also alphabetical friends with from way back, too, before he left after Year 4 to move to Southampton with his dad.
 “Charlie Shepton and Ant Stevenson,” Freddie Smith says, coming over to us, grinning.
 
 “Freddie Smith!” Charlie says, standing up and punching Freddie on the shoulder, even though Freddie’s now twice his size. Freddie, in fact, is even bigger than me, not in any fat way, but like he just stepped off the Six Nations coach to buy a packet of cigarettes. “Where the have you been keeping yourself?” Charlie asks. “It’s been ages.”
 “Mind your language, Charlie,” says Mr Bacon from the front. “That’s your first warning. Now, sit.”
 “But it’s blacked out, sir,” Charlie says. “It’s like I’m not swearing at all. . See?”
 “Sit,” Mr Bacon says.
 “Mum and Dad got back together,” Freddie explains as we all sit down. “After seven years, if you can believe it.” His eyes stray across the crowded classroom. “Hey,