Lovely
A strong-legged girl with height and Monroe’s hourglass when waif was the moment’s fancy; middle child – gawky among wispy sisters who stuffed their bras with bog roll and condemned her C-cups udderly gross; giggled prettily when boys yelled Oi! Melons! She learned to slump her shoulders, curl back into her grey blazer – bought carefully too big. Her mum let her do her own lunch, unimaginable freedom I’d’ve killed for. She’d bring a single white slice gummed triangular by a scrape-on-scrape-off of spread. Wolf it at first break, or sometimes in the corridor us scuffing our feed before assembly; unnaturally white teeth – like the teenagers on Neighbours – making dirty putty of the bread. Later she’d eye my cheese and Marmite, my Granny Smith and Blue Riband, but Nah, not hungry. A twig next to me of course. Better to be called melons than tree trunks. I hope it helped. Her first proper boyfriend told her not to wear low tops, tight tops, her favourite River Island jeans –
Doesn’t want blokes gawping, me making a show of him. She glowed – at last she was something lovely enough to keep hidden. Holly Magill
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