Nothing between Joel and me has changed.
Ever since New Year, we’ve been rolling along pretty much as before, if you add in the fact that we see each other even more evenings a week now than ever, both of us aware that next year might look very different and wanting to make the most of the time we can spend together. Every free evening I have at the moment when I’m not doing schoolwork I’m with him or we’re on a video call for hours at a time. He still kisses me on the nose every time he says goodbye, we still laugh like lunatics at stupid videos online, and we still end up naked with each other most evenings when we’ve got the house to ourselves. Operation Penetration hasn’t been mentioned again, and instead we’re back to exploring each other’s bodies and making each other feel good. Well, these days it’s more about me making him feel good. I let him touch me back, but I don’t enjoy it like I used to. I’m sick of being poked down there and knowing there’s more to come. But for some reason the fact nothing’s changed feels like we’ve stalled somehow. Things should have changed, so we’re sort of … stuck.
The one thing that feels like it’s moving forward is my UCAS application, which I have managed to send off, just four days before the 31st January deadline. With Miss Starmann’s help on my personal statement – which is now a Frankenstein mash-up between Biology and Psychology – I’ve applied for Biological Science at the University of Hertfordshire, Biology at the University of Bath, Psychology at Winchester and both Biomed and Psychology at Sunderland. It’s a win-win. I have choices in both Psychology and Biology, and the option to be with Joel or not with Joel. Boom, that’s how you totally boss UCAS.
Back on the subject of my vagina, the referral letter for the gynae specialist arrived this morning. I’ve been checking the post obsessively for the last few weeks because I didn’t trust Mum and Sammy not to intercept it, the nosy cows. My appointment is in two weeks’ time, which feels ages away and too soon at the same time.
I debated getting the bus or a taxi to the appointment but, knowing my family, if they find out I’m not in school or at Lena’s/Demi’s/Joel’s, the police will be called before I’m even able to get my vag out. This means I need to tell Mum ASAP as I’ll need to leave school early that day and she’ll have to come with me so will need to book the afternoon off work.
I’ve put off telling her for obvious reasons. Firstly it will confirm to her I’m – the dreaded term – sexually active, and secondly I thought this issue would resolve on its own. I also don’t want to say the words “vagina”, “penis” or “sex” out loud to her, so I’ve decided to text her. It will be like the time I got my first period and messaged her about how I was “now a woman” because I didn’t want to say the word “period”.
Mum has left for work this morning so now’s a good time to send her a message so she can’t sidle into my room awkwardly before I’m able to mentally prepare for the discussion. Despite this, I’m lying on my bed, scrolling Instagram instead of composing the grand essay.
I groan, heave myself up into a sitting position and click on the notes app on my phone. It’s an excellent place to write out a risky text because there’s no way you’ll accidentally press “send” too soon. I bet there are some right crackers hidden in here – if anyone stole my phone, I’d rather they saw photos of my boobs than read some of them. The last entry says five chicken wings and medium peri chips x 2 and I’m now wistfully thinking how I’d rather be typing out the entirety of the Nando’s menu than writing to my mum about sex.
I sigh and start tapping.
I type.
I edit.
I delete.
I type.
I edit.
I delete.
I mull over every word until I’m satisfied. Well, I’m not sure if “satisfied” is the right word, but it will do. It has to do.
Hi Mum. Wanted to drop you a message because I have something to tell you. No, I’m not pregnant before you start to panic. That would truly be a divine miracle. I have an appointment with a consultant and I need someone to take me and give me moral support. Things aren’t working down there if you catch my drift and it hurts a lot. Please don’t ask too many questions. It’s too cringey and I don’t wanna talk about it. Love you x
I’ve managed to successfully avoid the words “sex”, “vagina” and “penis”, but I’m hoping my jokes about pregnancy and the Virgin Mary will give her enough context to know what I’m talking about.
I copy the message into WhatsApp and check multiple times I’m sending it to just Mum. The thought of sending this message to the family group or anyone else fills me with the sort of horror that says I’d be better off dead. I also attach a photo of the referral letter for further detail so I don’t have to give it, and press “send” before I can change my mind.
I knew Mum would be home by the time I got back from school, so I’m now at the front door, palms sweaty, sick halfway up my oesophagus, rehearsing the many outcomes of this inevitably awkward conversation.
I open the door and shuffle in. After closing the door in slow motion, I slide my shoes off without so much of a breath and tiptoe down the hall. I’m almost at the stairs; if I can make it to the bathroom, I’ll have five more blissful minutes of not having to face this.
“Hey, love, I’ve made you a cup of tea,” Mum calls from the kitchen. She must have been waiting for me and I’ve clearly inherited Dad’s inability to do anything quietly. I wonder if Mum’s been watching the clock as anxiously as I have.
I close my eyes and steel myself before crossing the threshold to the kitchen.
“Thanks,” I say, trying to channel as much of my normal self as possible. I attempt a grin, but my mouth is so dry my top lip gets caught on my teeth. I catch sight of myself in the mirror and cringe.
I sit opposite Mum at the breakfast bar and lose myself in the mug of tea she hands me. She sips hers slowly, as if she’s working out how to say something.
“School OK?”
“Yeah, same old. Demi fell head first out of the Music cupboard after getting her foot caught on a violin case.” I force a laugh that sounds like a dying goose and it hangs in the air like a bad fart.
“I got your message.”
Cool, so we’re skipping the small talk.
“That’s good.” I sip my tea, not looking at her.
Mum shuffles in her chair. “We can talk about it now if you like? I—”
“There’s nothing to say, really. I just wanted you to know.”
Mum closes her eyes and does a nod so small it might have been a twitch. It’s clearly taking all her strength not to press me further.
“Well, you know where I am if you want to talk. I’ve booked the day of your appointment off work and told school.”
“Ta,” I say, downing as much of my tea as possible and blinking back the hot sensation that pricks my eyes. This may be excruciatingly awkward, but I’m so blessed to have a mum who gets shit sorted. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
“Love you.” I give Mum a tight smile and march out of the room before she can see my face crumple.