From Even Weirder Than Before. Published by Breakwater Books in 2019.

Mum discourages me from wearing my watch to school in case I lose or break it.

“What’s the point of having it if I can never wear it?” I ask her.

“I suppose it’s up to you,” she says. She’s been getting up all week and hovering in the kitchen as I get ready in the morning. It’s a relief to see her standing up. Mostly she silently drinks tea as I cram in toast. Today she actually takes the time to cast her eye over what I’m wearing and notices the watch. I thought she’d be pleased I’d started wearing it.

Everyone else has a Swatch. Candice has five, Cathy has two, even Wanda has one, she has written G N’R on the rubbery strap with a black magic marker. The morning of my last birthday, when Mum handed me the wrapped box, it was the wrong shape. Instead of a Swatch I got a plain watch with a silver face and a black strap. I don’t know why I expected anything different. In grade six everyone had a Cabbage Patch. Mum went to the bazaar at church and came home with a “Crochet Kid.” A hideous doll with a head made of old nylons that smelt like old lady. It wore a green crocheted jumper that you couldn’t take off. Its nylon legs flopped back and forth where they had been sewn to its permanent clothing.

I wear the watch despite Mum’s concern. The black watch strap looks punk rock against my wrist. Miss Blake makes us put our heads on our desks and gives as a lecture about the importance of personal hygiene before we head out to change for gym. “At the age you are at, your bodies are changing. Pheromones start developing.” I like the way the leather smells salty, and I give it an experimental lick as Miss Blake talks.

The change room is actually just the girls’ washroom closest to the gym. It always smells like wet paint, even though the concrete walls haven’t been painted in years. When the bathroom door opens, it swings directly into the main hallway and gives a clear view into the room. The only space sheltered from view is the big communal shower room in the far corner. Candice, Darlene, Tiffany, and Jenny change there. The rest of us find a space against one of the short walls and hope we are out of sight from the doorway.

I can hear Candice and her friends proudly showing off stubbled armpits and comparing sticks of deodorant. They are laughing and snapping each other’s bra straps. Wanda strips off fast and doesn’t seem that bothered standing around in her bra. But then her bra is black, with a T-strap back. Cathy has a white cotton bra with lace trim. It’s clean and athletic looking. Her mom just went out and bought it for her, so she didn’t have to suffer the indignity of trying it on under the fluorescent lights of the Sears change room. Peony goes into a cubicle with a toilet to change. I’d like to do the same, but it makes it seem like you’re hiding some physical defect, hair growing down your back or a third nipple.

I have bigger boobs than most of the other girls and an embarrassing patch of black pubic hair. My bra is a hand-me-down from Elizabeth; it is elastic and beige and smells of old deodorant. It looks like it came from the lost and found at an orphanage. I’m wearing a long shirt, so I can slip off my jeans and pull on my shorts without anyone seeing any of the black hairs that sometimes curl through the cotton of my underwear. I take off my T-shirt really quick and pull on the one I’ve brought for gym in practically one motion. I only have to expose my yellowing bra for a few seconds. I try and time this move when everyone else is busy tying up shoes or taking off their own shirts. I think about putting my watch in my jeans pocket, but we all leave our clothes hanging on hooks in the bathroom and anyone could come in and go through my stuff. All the other girls leave their Swatches on for gym class, and I decide to keep my watch on too.

Miss Blake lines us up for skills drills. Cathy serves the ball at me, and I duck when it comes hurtling down. I manage to return the ball to her a few times. I can’t stand the way the volleyball feels when it slams against the insides of my wrists. My wrists are red, and my veins are sticking out disgustingly. A ball from Darlene and Jenny comes bounding over and hits me in the side of the head. “Heads up, Daisy!” Miss Blake shouts afterwards.

Rachel and Everett do the best at spiking, so they get to be team captains. They call out names, and soon there are only four of us left. Everett picks Cathy, Rachel picks Peony, Everett picks Murray, and I shuffle over, unchosen, to Rachel’s team.

“Something smells like poo,” says Derek Fletcher, as I join the group of kids on my team, and everyone laughs, even nice Kevin Taylor. The ball is coming towards me, and I start to run in its direction. I see Tiffany in my peripheral vision. I stumble over Tiffany’s foot, and she pushes me away from her, so she can get to the ball. I fall sideways; the back of my arm and hand slam against the ground. Candice laughs. I can’t tell if Tiffany tripped me on purpose. She says sorry, but doesn’t offer her hand to help me up. When I stand up I can see cracks running through the face of my watch. During the rest of the game, I just try and stay away from the net and move out of the way if the ball comes towards me.

At home I put the watch back in its box and shove it far into the back of my underwear drawer. All through dinner my wrist feels naked, and I dread Mum asking about it. I can’t fall asleep, worrying I should have confessed to Mum about it. The phone rings late, and I can hear Mum speaking into it. I put my ear against the heating vent in my room; this way I can hear her down in the kitchen. She keeps saying, “I understand, Donald.” When she hangs up and comes upstairs to bed, I put on my headphones so I don’t have to listen to her crying.