TOM: What will make you give in? What can I say?

MEG: Nothing.

TOM: What can I do?

MEG: Nothing, nothing.

TOM: I want to do it once, just once.

MEG: You will.

TOM: You remember when I missed school this year?

MEG: Yes, you were away for months.

TOM: Where was I?

MEG: You were sick.

TOM: But where was I?

MEG:

You were in hospital for a while.

TOM: For a long while. What was wrong with me?

MEG: You had some infection.

TOM: Yeah, that’s what I had. An infection. Everyone knew I had some infection. I was sick. I was told the infection was running its course. That I had to fight. I did. One day a doctor came and sat on my bed and had a long talk with me. He told me that before I got completely well again I would get a lot worse, get really, really sick. And no matter how sick I got not to worry because it meant that soon I’d start to get well again. He was full of shit. He couldn’t look me in the face to say it. He stared at the cabinet next to the bed the whole time. And the nurses were really happy whenever they were near me, but when I stared them in the face, in the end they’d look away and bite their lips. When I was able to go home the doctor took me into his office and we had another talk. I had to look after myself. No strain, no dangerous activity. Keep my spirits up. Then he went very quiet, leant over the desk, practically whispering how if I knew a girl it’d be good for me to do it, to try it. ‘It’, he kept calling it. It, it. I put him on the spot. What? Name it. Give it a name. He cleared his throat. ‘Sexual intercourse.’ But if I was worried about going all the way I could experiment with mutual masturbation. Know what that is?

MEG: I think it’s pretty clear.

TOM: I nearly spat in his face. You shocked?

MEG: I don’t know.

TOM: So how about it? Help me. I’m going to get sick again. And I won’t get better. Your parents won’t find out.

MEG: Will yours?

TOM: They don’t know. That I know. They want me to think I’m going to be as right as rain. They mustn’t find out I know. They mustn’t even suspect, the poor bastards. And you won’t fill them in.

MEG: Okay.

TOM: Will you?

MEG: Okay.

TOM: No, come on.

MEG: I give you my word.

TOM: Do you?

MEG: You have my word.

TOM: Now… what do you say?

MEG: I can’t.

Silence.

I’m sorry.

TOM: I’m a real creep, aren’t I?

MEG: It’s just that… well… you’re a bit skinny for me.