Primary School Confidential (8 page)

Now that I had my boyfriend, what was I supposed to do with him?

The answer, my friends, was handball. Using chalk, a huge grid was drawn up on the concrete with allocated spots for King,
Queen, Jack and Dunce. We played mixed doubles, with each square accommodating one happy couple.

I was a very good handball player and Paul proved to be a good match for me in that department. We didn't speak much. Just played handball a lot.

The relationship, perhaps due to its non-verbal nature, failed to thrive. But little did I know just how bad things had got. Shortly after acquiring my first boyfriend, I would find myself on the receiving end of my first dumping.

It all started on a school excursion. As usual, everyone raced to the back of the bus, trampling smaller ones who got in their way. I was not that concerned about sitting at the back of the bus, so took my seat about halfway down the aisle. Word travelled down to me that Paul had saved me a seat at the back of the bus.

He wanted me to sit next to him? Who was he fucking kidding? No WAY!

This act of independence proved to be my undoing. The next day, in the playground at recess, one of Paul's mates told my friend Penny that Paul wanted to break up with me. Penny delivered the bad news to me, and I fled to the girls' toilets for the rest of eternity.

Eternity lasted until the end-of-recess bell, which rang out precisely seven minutes later. I had a choice to make: I could remain sobbing in the bathroom, a victim of public humiliation, or I could straighten myself out, splash some water on my face and bravely take my place in the class line. Which is what I did.

I joined the Year 5 line while Paul stood nearby in the Year 6 line. I looked across and down at him, and when I caught his eye, I mouthed slowly and deliberately: ‘I hate you.'

And with those three little words, I was over him. Little fucker. I spent the rest of the year trying to spread rumours that Paul
Ryan had stinky breath and wet his pants, and anything else I could think of that would shame him.

As the school year went by, I became friends with boys. It was nice. It gave me the confidence to be myself in front of them—and let's face it, I was more of a tomboy than a girly girl up until that point. There was a little group of us, boys and girls, who hung out a fair bit. And then hormones came and reared their ugly head and eventually everyone had paired up with someone to ‘go with'.

My new boyfriend was a deadset spunk and a nice boy to boot. My mum knew his mum, who was one of the local swimming instructors. He proved to be a very good handball player. And I actually
did
want to sit next to him at the back of the bus, where we would hold hands. He had no warts. Nice clean hands.

We became the king and queen of handholding. Everywhere we went, we'd be swinging digits. Up the back of the hall in assembly, we would sit side by side. He would put out his hand for me to hold, and so I did.

Then we went to see
Ghostbusters
at the Richmond Regent and it was here that things heated up a bit. An actual arm went out and snaked around my shoulders. Of course I could not concentrate on the movie. A cute boy had his arm around me! It took all my concentration not to wet my pants there in the seat. During the interval, when he went to get me a treat from the the kiosk, I shared this new development with my friends, who were seated on my other side. I was so happy!

Our relationship flourished. Our friends were constantly splitting up and swapping partners in dramatic fashion, but not us! We were like the Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward of the
playground. He would shower me with gifts. Like, one time, he presented me with a plastic bag which contained a car seat for my Cabbage Patch Kid, Ramona Alvarez. He gave me a bracelet with my name engraved on the outside and his name engraved on the inside, which may have just made my heart stop.

And then, of course, came my first-ever kiss! I was such a fan of the experience that I went on to do quite a bit of kissing as a teenager. But that first kiss . . . you never forget it. Even if it happened when you were twelve. Even if it was in front of all your friends, with them egging you on.

We were at a party, which was a slumber party for both boys and girls. I KNOW! But the fun police (my parents) refused to let me attend the actual sleepover part, so I just went along for the movie section of the festivities. We did our traditional handholding, and the now customary arm around the shoulder. We were getting a
lot
of peer pressure to pucker up and so, after a lot of nagging, we eventually did, giving each other a small peck on the lips.

The crowd EXPLODED!

Looking back on it now, it was quite perverted, but I felt that we were ready to take our relationship to the next level, so along with handholding and arms around the shoulders, we added quick kisses to our repertoire of PDAs.

Then, as tended to happen in those days, the old bush telegraph kicked into gear and word got back to my parents, who promptly enrolled me in a boarding school for my high school years. I presume they were thinking that this might save me from myself. I cannot say for sure that their decision was made on the basis of a few quick, dry pecks on the lips, but I suspect said kisses didn't help my cause.

As the year drew to an end, Mum took me to the local children's wear shop, which was extraordinarily fashion forward for the time. There I chose the most perfect outfit for the Year 6 farewell. It was a pale pink dress that was teamed with a short-sleeved floral jacket. On my feet I wore a pair of white leather shoes. I had been taken to Toppings, the local hairdressers, where I was given a blow wave of brilliance. Never before had I ever been able to tempt such flicks from my fringe. My hairdo was a thing of beauty.

Later that night, I danced with my boy. But not in an inappropriate way. We danced to ‘Nutbush City Limits' and we danced to the amazing song by Ray Parker Jr that had been the soundtrack to our first cinematic experience just a few months before. And as the evening drew to an end, he took me into the canteen to plant one last dry, quick peck on my lips.

And then it was over.

At the end of the summer holidays I left my little town, my little boyfriend and my little sheltered life. But I left with a wised-up heart, having felt both the joys and heartbreak that comes with falling in love—with someone who is not from the equine family.

7

PUBERTY BLUES IN A FLESH-COLOURED BRA

I never really thought too much about boobs as a kid. I mean, sure, I had seen them here and there, especially my mum's. But I was a skinny, lanky lass with a chest you could use as a spirit level—until I hit Year 5. And then something happened; something so mortifying, so humiliating, that even to this day I have been unable to erase it from my cerebral cortex.

I had been crook. Indeed, I must have been near death, because my mother actually presented me to our family doctor, Dr McIntosh, whose surgery was in a group of shops in the suburb of Hobartville. This is important to note, as there was a superior bakery nearby that sold the best doughnuts with thick pink icing, which was the only upside to a visit to the quack.

I sat on the table in Dr McIntosh's surgery, with my mum watching on as the doctor told me to remove my top and then applied a cold stethoscope to my back. He asked me to cough. Preoccupied by the prospect of pink doughnuts, I did as I was told, and the doctor listened intently. When I was done coughing and he was done listening, I turned to face him—and then he said something so embarrassing I wanted to die.

‘You're getting a boob there,' he remarked casually, pointing to my left nipple with a pen.

‘Oh, yes,' Mum chimed in. ‘So she is!'

The conversation went on as if I were not in the room. I looked down at the offensive nipple and realised that it did look a little different. But was it normal to discuss it as if one was trading observations about the weather?

If I had known the phrase ‘And let us never speak of this again', I would have uttered it. Though as it happened it would have been unnecessary, as we didn't speak of it again—at least, not for a long time.

Eventually my right nipple cottoned on to the surging hormones and made itself known. Then together they began to be backed by actual boob until it was fairly obvious what lay in store for me next.

When it comes to growing up and puberty, it seems to me there are two camps. I was in the first of these: the one that believes ignorance is bliss. I was not at all interested in turning into a woman and walked about with my shoulders hunched forward, trying to hide my growing chest. In the other camp were the girls who were positively delighted with their blooming bodies and wore their bras with pride.

So you can just imagine my delight when, one Saturday morning, Mum told me that we were going shopping to buy my
first bra. I insisted that it was not yet required, but she was equally adamant that it was.

The bra shop was in a local mall frequented by people we knew. It had the butcher, the greengrocer and the bakery, and on a Saturday morning the joint was jumping.

Mum, seemingly oblivious to my cringing, stopped to chat with every friend and acquaintance she encountered, and to each one she stated the purpose of our mission.

‘We're off to get her first bra!' she announced proudly, to admiring murmurs and covert glances at my chest.

Once she had ensured the entire town knew that I had boobs on the move, we headed for the Blue Bayou Boutique, where the true nightmare was about to unfold.

‘Christine!' cried the saleswoman. ‘How can I help you today?'

Mum explained that I needed my first bra, and they both practically shat themselves with excitement at the prospect.

The saleswoman—whom we shall henceforth refer to as Delvene, because she was a Delvene if ever I saw one—had a massive bust. I'm fairly certain that she was made of 100 per cent bosom, because it was impossible to see beyond her ample and heaving chest. At least I would be dealing with an expert, I consoled myself.

‘Come on then,' Delvene barked at me. ‘Give us a look.'

Did she seriously expect me to disrobe so she could gawk at my buds? I looked for some reassurance from my mother, but she was busy making sure everyone else in the shop knew why we were there.

Up until this point, I'd suffered a few humiliating experiences in my life. Getting stuck up a tree in front of a group of boys was pretty bad. Wetting my pants in the car while it was parked in the
hot sun was not up there with my favourite recollections. Neither was performing ‘Memories' from the musical
Cats
during the school talent quest. But this—this unfolding scenario—was the deadset winner.

Resigned to my fate, I removed my top and stood rigid as Delvene inspected my chest from all angles.

After several excruciatingly long minutes, she delivered her verdict. ‘I think she's a 10A, Christine,' she pronounced.

Delvene bustled off, thankfully remembering to pull the curtain back across the changing room. I continued to stand there, looking at posters of ample-busted ladies draped over yachts and office desks wearing only matching bras and panties. Was this what I was supposed to do? Who were these women? Why were they so happy with their boobs?