Fiona Linday The Pleasures of Puberty, Not

The Pleasures of Puberty, Not!

Puberty is burning, chilli-hot cheeks stung by salty tears. Senior school is agony, where fit lads overlook me and chat up my best mates. Who can blame them for dodging me when bulbous zits explode on my face, my skin shining like oily residue on a frying pan?

On a period day, skiving basketball matches is a must, due to the teachers’ dreaded sports-shower timetabling. Wendy whispers that wearing your passed-down, orange corduroy skirt is not cool. That comes as a complete shocker. I beg the ground to swallow me.

My family doesn’t help much, although they claim to care. My elder sis never misses the chance for a cheap jibe. ‘Wash your greasy mop, you look a mess!’ she says, her bedroom door slamming. Whatever!

Strong antibiotics from the skin specialist interrupt the breakout of dotto-dot spots and prevent more scarred pits in my epidermis. But I can’t stay on drugs forever, no matter how calming, and I’m not going to magically grow out of it. I give in to Mum’s insistence and try her latest healthy diet thing.

I’m at my happiest as a recluse, Mum knows this. My bedroom is a safe haven from intruders and with a tea towel covering my mirror I can escape into a wonderful ‘Rebecca’ fantasy.

Still, Mum drags me over to the fruit and veg shop. I tag along to inspect Reg’s chilled counter, hopeful of a fruity treat, no questions asked. But Mum can’t resist nit-picking my choice of lunch. She does my head in, Mrs. Know-all, squashing my 14-year-old attitude with her loony tone.

Next, she asks poor Reg, ‘Have you any low variety yoghurts, because Fiona is cutting down on her farts.’

She means fats but in her telephone voice, it comes out wrong.

In shock, I glance between the embarrassed greengrocer and his customers, then bolt from the shop and across the busy road.

I retreat to the sanctuary of my bedroom, my tea towel blotting a stream of fresh tears. Staring at my ghostly crimson reflection, I gain strength to blank the knock at my door.

Eventually, Dad coaxes me out for tea.

I wail over the dining table, ‘Can you believe what Mum said? She only went all posh to tell Reg that I was cutting down on my FARTS!’

Mum shakes her head and denies all knowledge. How rude!

Dad at least manages to keep a straight face.

I compose myself. ‘Next she’ll be telling him I’m past my sell-by date.’

Dad’s expression breaks into a grin. ‘Never mind, eh? You need a good sense of humour to survive this family.’

My sister finds my plight hilarious and is super-quick to spread the news. My family discover I’m game for a laugh, when I man-up.

Beware: revenge is sweet!