The New Boy

Wednesday mornings we girls had Double Games with a nearby boys' school. We travelled there by bus, wearing our blazers awkwardly on top of our gym kit. Canvas skirts flapping against our half-bare butts felt funny after spending the rest of the week in petticoats and stockings. We felt exposed, riding a public bus dressed like that, and we knew there was a danger we’d end up more so. It was a bit scary, but exciting too.

There we'd sit, our T-shirts imitating the up-and-down bumping motion of the wheels, most of us wishing we'd worn a sports bra instead of keeping to our plush pink silk. That said, if it was an annoyance now, it was only going to be way more of one when we actually started to play.

I was a hopeless case at gym anyway, determined to get it right, but always wondering how other girls managed to make it look so easy. Half the time I toppled over, and you couldn’t put your hands on the court to stop yourself if you were holding a netball in both. There'd be a decided bump, and there my evasion strategy would end with my toes poking up in the air. How everyone giggled when I did that in a game.

Panties with lace and flowers on made your butt look cute, but I don't think we were meant to show them quite as much as I did mine. None of us ever went near the plain matching ones we were supposed to wear under our gym skirts though, and it was twice as important for me that my knickers should be pretty and meant to be seen.

When the bus stopped outside the boys' school I’d get up and join the line of girls queueing in the aisle. There we’d stand in our PE kit, butts pushed out and flicked a little up and to the side, as if asking the world in general what it was looking at even though we knew full well any interest in us had to do with what was half-hidden under our school blazers. Once I’d gone up there with my skirt tucked in, and I’d never lived that down!

Then came the day of The New Boy.

We'd all made our way to the netball courts as usual, and there he was. At the sight of him I skidded to a halt, all but tripping over my feet - which before the start of the game was a first even for me.

Slim legs, arms bare from the shoulders, touselled fair hair and big blue eyes half-lowered in mock-laziness. One foot in white sneaker and sports sock on the ground, the other touching it with just the toes. In one hand he slowly bounced the ball, and as I gazed at all this with pummelling heart, he completed the look by blowing out a full pink bubble-gum bubble. Not that he was even allowed to be chewing in the middle of a games lesson, but he made it look just like he didn't care. Every single thing about him in that moment asked one question: “Am I cute or what?”

He was playing another boy, acting like he didn’t need to do anything to win, while the other was the embodiment of fluster and flurry. In endless motion he darted and dashed, making grab after grab at the ball, always to end in being thwarted. His face was burning from this, but I barely even noticed him. My eyes were glued to The New Boy, and how every time he easily blocked the other he finished with a little flick of his butt.

He flicked his fair hair too, looking cuter still. Even the freckles on his little upturned nose were perfect. His gym kit was in the dark blues and greys of his school uniform, though this made me wonder about the colour of his underwear, and what might be fun ways of finding out.

That sort of boy was only ever going to be trouble.