Thoughts Going Through A Young Girls Mind

She felt exasperated, she really did. Just at the end of her tether.
The school's Christmas dance was in one week. She had nothing to
wear.

She had gone through her wardrobe, considering each garment. Her skirts
were the school uniform variety, not at all dressy enough. She didn't
want to wear jeans, and anyway, the pairs she had weren't the best
labels. Her tops, jumpers and t-shirts were functional, adequate for
normal wear, not for anything special. Not a school party - to be her
first, even though she was in her fourth and probably final year. Her
friends had talked her into it. And her shoes: her school pair as
everyone would realise, and trainers. She sighed heavily, and sat on
the bed.

Asking her mother for clothes would be next. The result of this would
be an apologetic refusal, a refusal absolute despite its tone. It was
to be expected really, her mother being a single parent with two girls
to raise. Money was tight and had been since the divorce. Her mother
was a cleaner for some well-off family: a doctor, his teacher wife and
their three children. Aged nine, seven and two. How glad she'd been
when her mother told her their ages: imagine if they had been at the
High School! Or in the same year! The thought of it had made her flush
when she was in bed, before she knew.

Perhaps, she mused, some clothes could be borrowed from her friends?
Further humiliations that way, saying she had no clothes. It was
possible, though - Jenny was about her size, and dressed quite well,
too.

There was an idea, she thought, even if it wasn't particularly
appetising. That decided, she felt a cynicism that such measures were
necessary. She looked around her room, surveying, casting an unusually
critical eye.
The pink, plastic lampshade. The Take That posters on one wall only.
The dresser, with cans of the least expensive deodorant, a teddy bear,
hairbrushes, some make-up - nothing expensive - and The Ticket. Five
pounds, it had cost, meaning she hadn't been able to buy "Love Lives":
'real-life picture stories', the front cover asserted in bright pink.
She'd been reading it for four years, since she was eleven and
tentatively entering The Big School. It was full of black and white
picture stories - how they warmed her heart! - and some columns, such
as horoscopes, articles explaining why your sweetheart had "such GROSS
mates!" and in the middle a poster of This Fortnights Hunk. Usually
they were older than they ones in the other magazines; she preferred
this.

Oh, the ache to be loved she felt after reading it! Oh, to have a
sensitive, good-looking boy Take her Out, ignoring his immature friends
so they could Be Alone. Oh, to reveal her true loving self to him!
"No-one knows the real me": that phrase had crossed her mind so often.
"Love Lives" had taught her so much, shown her what she needed to know.
It had even taught her about the menstrual cycle, for example,
something her mother had neglected. Imagine if she hadn't known!

But she had, so in her underwear drawer she kept a packet of sanitary
towels, hidden away like a dirty secret. She didn't use tampons,
neither liking the idea of them, nor the risk of Toxic Shock Syndrome,
of which she had also read. The day after she'd first bled, she'd asked
her mother to buy them, lacking the money to do so herself. It had been
so anguished: it was the way she got so worked up about things, and
because she found it difficult to talk properly with her mother. It had
of course meant that she was Becoming A Woman. She had been one of the
first in her class to develop breasts too. This had made her feel so
self-conscious, that everyone was looking at her: the girls cattily
unpleasant, the boys simply dumbstruck. They had smaned and smirked
amongst themselves whenever she had passed.

Yet she had kept her resolve, aided by "Love Lives" as she ascended
through the years. The boys and, mostly, men she read of were the real
thing, not the wide-eyed nudging colts she had endured. She had hoped
time would improve them. In time, she had thought, she cold be picked
by one, one especially mature, his grin now a caring smile, his
tracksuit and trainers long since discarded, his spots a distant
memory. She could take him into her house to sit; he would say "How do
you do, Mrs Reid?"; he would be approved of. Hw would naturally take no
notice of his less adult friends, of their grins, their winks, their
insinuations. They would take star-lit walk; he would recite poetry at
especially tender moments. He would kiss her goodnight outside her
house. It would be so perfect. She would love him so. The person she
really was could bloom. It would be so perfect.

But a feeling of dissatisfaction ran through her just now. She knew her
looks: mousy hair, a gawky mouth of clumsy teeth. In the mirror she
thought her eyes looked compassionate. They didn't, really. They
indicated her uncertainty, that she entertained her little fears. How
then, could she be found by some special boy? The school dance would
have to be something special, magical. How she hoped it would!
This mood was making her unhappy. She went to her tinny stereo and put
on the second Take That album, one of the dozen or so she owned. All
were by boy bands, such as Take That, 911, and her first affection,
Bros. She loved Mark from TT, as she called them in her diary. The ache
she had so often felt! He was so lovely: his eyes, his mouth, his
voice?

The music cheered her up. The third album - she felt a little sad
listening to it, even now, as it was the final one. She hadn't cried
when they'd split up, unlike some she'd seen crying on the telly, but
her soul had ached and her eyes had moistened. So many years of love,
forever gone.

Glancing at her Winnie-The-Pooh clock, she saw it was 8.19pm. She could
ask Jenny about the clothes at school, whenever they were alone, to
minimise the embarrassment. She wasn't in any of Jenny's classes, being
mostly in the lower stream of pupils. Jenny did well, though. She was
bright, which she always played down, and her parents were neither
unemployed nor divorced. It was quite unusual to her to see what she
called "a proper family". She was glad for Jenny. It was good that her
family unit was stable. After the divorce, she realised it held an
importance and developed this rare, acute insight into a vocation. She
wanted to care for children, to work in a nursery, or a cr?che, even a
primary school, as she felt she understood children, and believed she
could look after them well. For within her lay a deep well of love,
love to give, and the need to hold tightly and protect.

This party, though. It would be fine, manageable, just as long as the
pass-the-parcel game didn't involve her with any outrageous forfeits.
Once a boy had had to perform press-ups over a girl of his choosing!
Another she felt apprehensive about was having to pick a boy and have A
Proper Kiss with him - tongues and everything! And yet, she reflected,
if the boy was nice enough, He would have noticed her. They would begin
to talk, during and after the dance. Then they would meet about the
town. They would accompany each other, talking, and as they departed
would exchange phone-numbers. He would phone a few days later and ask
if she would like to go ice-skating or shopping for his mother's
birthday present with him. And then they would be really
together.

But having to ask Him in the first place! What if He said 'No'? - they
never did in the magazines. If He was mature enough, he would say
'Yes'. If the insecure glare of attention wasn't upon them, He would
say 'Yes'.

She felt hopeful that He would.

She really did.