1/12/2018 Losing touch by Anita Goveas morganmaher CC
Losing touch She was the first person in school to have breasts. I was the second. The smooth skin that rubbed against our cotton shirts now heavy and puckered. We made a pact to laugh at the genitalia of the spotty boys who pinged our bra -straps. The snap of humiliation and stinging skin drowned in bubbles of laughter. She demonstrated how to give wedgies, grabbing the soft material and tugging until the squeal shivered through our fingers. There were girls who stared, whispered about our hairy arms, my dark skin. She liked to pull their thread-like hair, perfumed with soap and sweat. There were hours lounging on creaky wooden chairs listening to the deputy head, a grey-haired woman with infinite patience. The head teacher looked through us after the ‘all men have size issues’ conversation. She pinched my hip gleefully as his face reddened, at his threats of expulsion if we stepped out of line, if one more student complained. We walked backwards, arms locked, all the way to Geography. We spent time after school in her bedroom, safe from other people’s rules. Her mother at work, her father stuck in his own head. She brought out vodka, clear and potent, we both took a sip. It smelt like nail varnish, burnt like being pushed into the swimming pool. Like the splutterings of Jill Taylor falling backwards after boasting about her new house. Our first cigarette was the slide of tiny shovels into the unseen slippery parts of our bodies, turning them over, peeling off their gloss. She could almost blow smoke rings, the muscles in her jaw jumping as wispy ovals dissolved into puffs of air. We watched these arrows of weaponised breath invade Karen Hutchinson’s ordered system, a chance encounter walking to the cinema. She smirked as the smaller girl covered streaming eyes and promised not to tell. She last held my arm when Aisha Butler pressed bony shoulders into the spiky wood of the Equipment Hut, shaking, trying to escape. Aisha never laughed at me, I didn’t want to make her shake. I didn’t want to make anyone squeal or splutter or beg anymore. She jerked away from me, like a twig cracking, like a fingerbone breaking. Aisha ran off to find a teacher. She walked into the headteacher’s office alone. I still remember the softness of her hair. Bio: Anita Goveas is a speech and language therapist by day and a short story writer by night . She is British-Asian, based in London, and fueled by strong coffee and paneer jalfrezi. Her stories are published and forthcoming in the 2016 London Short Story Prize anthology, Word Factory website and Hawthorn magazine. Comments are closed.
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