Pumping Up Napoleon Read Free Page B

ladders and ventilation grilles and tiny spy-cameras.
    I took to using bubble bath. One day, not long after, I found my first pubic hairs. I was doomed to be hairy and flat chested.
    Reason told me I was better off than Carole now and in the long run: boys couldn’t see past her tits; teachers treated her as if she couldn’t possibly think and have bosoms that size (surely there was no blood supply left for her brain); other girls our age avoided her. They didn’t want to be compared with Carole and found wanting. It made me sick to see the way boys ogled Carole and then sniggered behind her back. It was pathetic. They all wanted her but they had to make comments, as if they could get over their feelings of inadequacy by making her seem less worth having. The only boy who didn’t act that way was Daniel.
    I was avoiding him in person even though he was hardly ever out of my mind. I couldn’t breathe when he was around. How would I ever be able to speak to him with no air in my lungs? And then something happened: he had his hair cut – ridiculously short. Younger boys started calling him Big Ears. He went all red, his ears reddest of all. I thought: no. And, just like that, he lost all his power over me.
    Turns out I was glad. I really was. I didn’t need to care any more whether I saw him or not. I even began to feel sorry for him because he had become so unattractive and unlovable. He was still a genuinely nice person. Just not someone you could imagine kissing. I would never let him touch me now that I knew what he really looked like.
    One day, feeling sorry for him, I said, ‘All right?’ when our paths crossed. Amazing how easy it was.
    If only his hair had not grown back.
    By the time we did our mock GCSEs Carole had progressed to a 36 double D and tried out three boyfriends. They had all proved disappointing. Their interest was entirely focused on her anatomy. They had nothing to say and neither did she. Each encounter was made up of long, awkward silences followed by a pounce, which found her in no mood to surrender. For a time she embraced the idea of being single and independent. I was pretty good at that myself.
    Daniel and I were on nodding terms. We rarely spoke but saw each other often. Tired of our long-distance nearly-romance (glances meeting across the crowded playground, or sliding together from opposite sides of the classroom) I worked out his timetable of movements and knew exactly when I might bump into him. On Mondays I’d be walking up the science wing corridor to my locker, with Carole in tow, before lunch, and he’d go by in the opposite direction towards the canteen, with a group of his mates. I could see them walking towards us through the glass panels of the swing doors which sectioned off the science wing. One day we all arrived there at the same time and Daniel, like a perfect gentleman, held the door open for us; only his mates barged through and we had to move out of the way. I knew their tricks. ‘Bouncing off Carole’ was a recognised and hilarious team sport among the boys that year. She stuck out her elbows like I had taught her, while I ‘accidentally’ did a bit of shoving back. Daniel just stood there, holding the door open until we were ready to go through. He smiled at me. He didn’t look at Carole. He didn’t stare at her tits. I smiled back at him.
    Carole and I walked on a bit.
    â€˜He’s nice, isn’t he?’ said Carole.
    â€˜That Daniel’s a snob,’ said Carole a week later. We were in my bedroom; my mum and hers were drinking coffee downstairs. My cousin had burst in on me and caught me looking at a website dedicated to cosmetic surgery. I was thinking of asking my mum for a boob job for Christmas, but figured she’d probably make me wait until I was at least sixteen.
    I clicked on the link for ‘breast reduction’ and said, ‘Hey, Carole. Maybe this is what you