Finding Stevie: A teenager in crisis. Cathy Glass

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      As soon as we were outside Stevie took his phone from his pocket, and it instantly sprang into life.

      ‘That wasn’t switched off,’ I said. ‘It was on silent.’

      ‘I’ll switch it off properly when I’m in school.’

      ‘You must. Don’t start tomorrow by breaking one of the rules,’ I said. He shrugged. ‘Anyway, it will be a nice short week. Friday tomorrow and then the weekend.’

      ‘Yes, and I can go out.’

      ‘If you want to.’

      Stevie was quiet in the car as I drove to his grandparents’. He checked his phone every so often, but otherwise just stared out of his side window. I sensed he was worrying about something, but it could have been any number of things: returning to school, facing his grandparents, wishing he was still living with them and hadn’t stormed off, or something completely different. The teenage years are difficult with all the changes in the body and mind; problems that might not affect adults can play havoc with a young person.

      ‘A penny for your thoughts,’ I said, glancing at him as I drove. He looked at me, puzzled. ‘It’s an expression my father used to use,’ I explained. ‘It means you seem deep in thought.’

      ‘Oh, right, yeah,’ he said, but that was all.

      A few moments later I said, ‘Stevie, I know I’ve told you this before, but you can talk to me if there is something bothering you. It’s not a good idea to keep worries to yourself. If you’ve got a problem, I’m sure we can sort it out.’

      He threw me a cursory nod and continued to gaze through his side window.

      Five minutes later I pulled in to the housing estate where his grandparents lived and Stevie directed me to their house. It was a 1960s semi-detached with an integral garage and small open-plan front garden similar to the other houses in the street.

      ‘I’ve forgotten my keys,’ Stevie said as we got out.

      ‘It doesn’t matter. Your gran will be in. She’s expecting us.’

      We went up to their front door and he pressed the doorbell. The door was opened by his grandfather with a rather gruff, ‘Oh, it’s you. Come in, but don’t make a noise. Your gran isn’t so good.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, hesitating on the doorstep. ‘Shall we come back another time?’

      ‘No, you’re here now. He can get his clothes.’

      Stevie went past him and disappeared upstairs as Fred closed the front door.

      ‘I’m here,’ Peggy said, appearing in the hall. ‘I’ve just got a migraine. It came on all of a sudden. I’ve taken some tablets. Come through while Steven gets his things.’

      I went with Peggy into their sitting room as Fred went upstairs. The room was at the back of the house and cosy with floral carpet and curtains, three armchairs and lots of china ornaments on display shelves. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ Peggy asked, sinking into a chair.

      ‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’ She looked pale and drawn. While I’ve never suffered from migraine headaches, I have a friend who does and I appreciated what sufferers go through. When migraines strike they are debilitating until the medication takes effect. ‘We’ve just come from seeing Carolyn,’ I said. ‘Steven’s going to school tomorrow.’

      ‘Good. What did Carolyn say?’

      I told Peggy more or less what we’d discussed with Carolyn, leaving out Stevie’s excuse of not having anywhere quiet to study as the reason he hadn’t been doing his homework. She didn’t need to know that with a headache.

      ‘I didn’t realise the bullying was that bad,’ she said wearily.

      ‘No. In my experience teenagers try to deal with it themselves first. It slipped out when he was talking to my children.’

      Peggy nodded thoughtfully and her face clouded. ‘You know, Cathy, I feel so bad about him going into care.’ Her eyes filled.

      ‘Don’t upset yourself,’ I said, touching her arm. ‘I’m sure you did the right thing. It will give you all a chance to have a breather, and you’ll be seeing him regularly.’

      She took a tissue from the sleeve of her cardigan and dabbed her eyes. My heart went out to her. She looked defeated – as if she’d tried her best and failed. ‘I would have him back now and make it work,’ she said. ‘It’s Fred. He’s told Steven he needs to sort himself out first. You know, all that stuff about if he’s a girl or a boy. I can’t stand any more arguments, not with looking after the younger two as well. I’m worn out.’

      ‘I think you’ve done a fantastic job,’ I said. ‘I really do. Three young children is a lot to cope with.’ I hope I didn’t sound patronising, but I meant it.

      ‘Fred thinks Steven is doing this on purpose to wind us up and get attention.’

      This was difficult. ‘I think Stevie is confused about his gender identity,’ I said carefully. ‘I know it’s difficult for us to understand; we’ve never been in that position. But I think he is genuinely struggling to sort out how he sees himself.’

      ‘Do you?’ she asked. ‘You never heard of that sort of thing when I was young. You were either male or female. Some people were homosexual, but they knew that. There was never any of this “I might be a girl or I might be a boy or maybe I’m both”.’ She looked sad, confused and out of her depth. ‘Is it something I’ve done wrong?’

      ‘No, Peggy, of course not. You haven’t done anything wrong. You’ve done a good job of bringing him up. He’s a nice lad. You can be proud of him.’

      ‘He should be living here with me,’ she said mournfully. ‘Not with a foster carer. I don’t mean to be rude, but that’s how I feel.’ She’d obviously been thinking about this a lot.

      ‘I understand,’ I said. ‘Try to look upon it as me helping you out for now. We all need help sometimes, don’t we?’ I was about to say more when Fred came in.

      ‘Is he wearing your knickers yet?’ he quipped, sitting in the largest armchair, which I took to be his.

      He was joking, but it was an entirely inappropriate comment. I thought it was probably his way of coping with a situation he didn’t understand and perhaps found embarrassing. Maybe he felt his masculinity was under threat, or maybe he recognised something in Stevie he didn’t want to acknowledge in himself. Who knows? But making Stevie the butt of his jokes wasn’t going to help – quite the opposite. Since I’d first been told I would be fostering Stevie, I’d researched gender online and I’d come to realise that it isn’t always clear cut, but a spectrum, with male and female either end and degrees of gender in between. Fred needed to be more aware, to stop teasing his grandson and help him if there was any chance of healing their damaged relationship. I thought Fred was a man who would appreciate straight talking.

      ‘Fred, do you ever use the internet?’ I asked him.

      ‘What would I want with that?’ he scorned.

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