I need a Boob Job

3. My Heart

My heart is something that I’ve really only just began to take notice of. I had no idea of the intense physical response that emotional things can have until this year. Until my parents decided to split up. Or I should say until my mum decided she didn't love my Dad any more.

I’ve never seen my Dad cry until two months ago. He’s not the ‘sort’ to cry. Big, burly, West Ham football supporter. Cockney. It was a complete shock followed by extreme horror to see him break down into big shoulder heaving sobs as he dropped me to the bus stop to get the bus to school. Neither one of us, a song by Gladys Knight was playing. It’s a song about neither one of the people in the relationship wanting to be the first to say goodbye, this is it. It’s over. He couldn’t take it, evidently. I don’t think its actually a relevant song because I’ve probably known that Mum would've said goodbye a long time ago if she felt able. I had always thought that as a result of kids and over twenty years of marriage that people just sort of stopped liking each other. You got kind of sick of each other and started to snipe and bicker and be kind of mean. Apparently this is not normal. They actually didn't like each other and other people still do. It hurts my heart to think that us kids haven't done enough to keep them together and happy. Some of my friends parents have divorced and they're endlessly being told “It’s not you kids.” “We both love you.” This is not the case with us. Dad has launched in his apparent grief a tirade of hatred down upon our mother and it is heartbreaking.

He won’t let us see her. I don’t know if this is legal or what. I don't know anything really except I have a huge gaping hole in my heart where her gentle soul used to be. I don't even know her phone number. I miss her. I’ve got two brothers, one is at Uni so its just me and Charlie at home with Dad. In this sort of post-apocalyptic wasteland of a home. Dad doesn’t usually do the school run or the cooking. He's the business man, away, making the money (apparently we have a fair bit of money) and mum would cook, clean and ferry us to all our extra-curricular activities. Football for Charlie, Dance and Gym for me. Of course my social sadness at school has filtered in and I’ve stopped doing anything after school there, and I’ve got this weird choking anxiety about going to my outside classes even though no-one at school goes, just in case they know, you know. They must see the broken shards of me inside, I must sound different, look different now everyone hates me. Its been a knock on effect. Everything around me seems shattered, potentially as a direct reflection of my broken confidence and inner pain. Wow, don't I sound self absorbed? I suppose I am. I just don't know anyone who will listen to me. Also I wouldn't tell anyone about this stuff because its not normal right? Is it normal for your Dad to write lists of why your Mum is a bad person, or why she doesn’t love you? Why is he doing this? Maybe she doesn’t love me. Maybe it isn't him she's escaping, but me. Everyone else thinks I'm bad news so maybe she agrees with them and just thinks, PHEW! I’m FREE!

It’s time like these that the thought of the magical, all saving all awe inspiring boob job rears its powerful friendly head. Those pert bosoms will be friends to me - Boob A and Boob B or Bonnie and Clyde, or Beyonce and Rhianna. Those are great names for powerful woman’s bits. They would support me (whilst needing zero support themselves). They would empower me and save me from all this reckless heart ache. Yes. Yes. Yes. I wan’t a boob job and I’m going to get it. When I turn sixteen I’m going to get a job and start saving.

Okay, so John didn't text me that night, or all day Sunday. I repeatedly check my phone, every minute or so even though it’s on extra super old people hearing loud and I’ve sent three test messages to myself to make sure my phone is properly receiving texts. I mentioned that John wasn’t the first guy to make a comment about my body. My first real boyfriend was (my once best friend) Lily’s childhood bestie. He lived opposite her and was short, stocky but with a really cheeky grin. We used to hang out in her cul-de-sac and play running games with Greg and his mates until very recently where we decided we were too cool for that and needed instead to sort of ignore each other and ‘accidentally’ bump into each other at the park walking the dog. He’s the year above (gosh me and my older boys ay?) and half as mature as me. I know this. Sort of. Or I’m just an i***t that ruined it by not being good looking enough, I’m never quite sure.

We first kissed playing run outs - you have a base at the big tree, go off in teams of two and have to get past a couple who guard the tree. If they tag you before you get to the tree you are ‘run out’ and your team has to guard the tree base next. We always did mixed teams. A chance to flirt, be next to a boy alone was so exciting and alien. I loved those days. We were hiding behind a skip in a nearby road waiting for the home team to get bored and drop their guard when he suddenly grabbed my shirt pulled me in and kissed me, hard on the mouth. No tongue. It was magical. I remember the flush ascending like a tidal wave and the feeling like my stomach was going to drop out the bottom of me. Who knew love felt like needing to do a really urgent, awesome poo? Well, of course all night me and Lily chatted about my kiss and what it meant and how important it was. I felt amazing.

I continued to see Greg every weekend for months, I had in fact done this for five years - I’d known him since year 7 when I met Lily and she first invited me to hers to hang out at the weekend. Her big spacious house in a nice part of town, nestled in a quiet cul-de-sac made her a super pleasing friend prospect to my parents. What they don't know is her parents had an unguarded fully stocked liquor cabinet that we regularly raided and mixed into giant bottles of Fanta to swig and pass around at the park after dark. I wont mention this to them ever. We kissed loads, like all the time. Eating each others faces as if they were full of the vital vitamins and minerals we needed to survive. He didn't text me that much but it was ok because I knew I would see him every weekend and it was awesome. He never actually called me his girlfriend but I knew I was. I was special. He always came straight over to me when we arrived at the park after dinner and we would kiss and kiss and kiss. Then one day we were walking a bit away from everyone and whilst we kissed he put his hands up and grabbed my boobs - or should I say the super padded, empty of breast bra. And he laughed. Laughed. Through his nose, so that a bit of snot came out and landed, wet on the top of my lip and he pulled away. “What are those?” He said through ever louder laughter. I froze. I red flushed and didn't say anything. “Wow.” He said, “No boobs, ay? You’re what fifteen? You should get a boob job darling.”

That was the end of me. Of my confidence, of everything. He walked away, still laughing. I know on route to share with the world the fakeness of my femininity, to tell all the boys I was a flat chested child imitating a girl. I was heart broken. He suddenly didn't text at all and every time we went to the park his group were miraculously not there. They had grown up, turned seventeen, were heading to the local pubs to try their luck at getting served. Lily tried to be nice and I shared with her what had happened but because he was her oldest friend she wouldn’t be mean about him and say how out of order he was. Lily didn't have to worry about being flat chested though. She had a full rack of bouncing boobs from twelve. Stick thin and well endowed she had it all. b***h.

So from that point I had decided to take affirmative action. I am going to get a boob job. I will show the world that when I get this final missing piece to my arsenal I will be whole. And important and awesome.

So back to John. To distract myself from his lack of correspondence I spend the next few hours researching breast augmentation (I’m thinking I don't need augmenting I need breast creation!), locations and costs. I need £2500, which seems unsurmountable as right now I have £13 in my bank account and rely on shoplifting and £20 handouts from my Dad to get me to the cinema and shopping. Of course now I don't have any friends (or possibly a boyfriend) it means I could take the money, pretend to go out. Go round the corner and read my book in the park for a couple of hours and go home with money saved. Sorted. It would only take me 125 weeks at £20 a week, thats thirty months or two and half years. Ish. Jesus. I need a job. Right now. There's no way I’m waiting for two and half years for salvation. I need to get this show on the road.

Still no text. No phone call. Shaking, nervous, flushing as if he were right in front of me I write, edit, delete and rewrite a text to him. Keep it casual I think. “Hey. How are you? I’m bored at home.” No. He’s ignoring you, he doesn't care that you’re bored. I try “Hey. Sorry about yesterday. Are we ok? xxx” No. Again. If we were ok he would've text by now. “Hey John. Sorry I upset you. Can I make it up to you? xx” This seems ok. But it does imply some sort of replay of the cinema where I don't freeze and mess it up. But I still haven't grown any boobs (I stop to pull my t-shirt forward and check). Nope. Not since yesterday. How do I do this? How can I make him stay? I hit send impulsively and instantly regret it. I rock back hugging my knees to my chest. Panicking. Freaking out. s**t.

Then bing bing and the buzz of the phone vibrating, almost instantly. I grab for it so quickly I knock it off the bed and it skids on the wood floor to the other side of the room. Ah! I check the screen. Not broken, or scratched. Thank God. The last thing I need is another 30 minute lecture from my Dad about how times are ‘hard’ and I mustn't ‘waste things’ and the importance of ‘looking after things’. Strong words coming from a guy who doesn’t know how to wash or iron his own clothes and has barely eaten in two months. But hey. I'm just a stupid teenager. The text reads. “Yeah. Come round mine?” No kisses. Damn. He's still mad. But come round his? I hate his but I love him. I have to see him. s**t, he doesn't have the same parental controls I do. We’ll be up alone in his room. Damn. With me ‘making it up to him’.

Oh no. What have I done?

I’m definitely going though.