The Booby Trap and Other Bits and Boobs

by Dawn O'Porter

  I kept forgetting about it until one night in October when there was nothing on TV and I’d just dumped another lad from the school football team because he only spoke in grunts. I groped about under the bed and pulled out the first book from the package I could reach: Madame Bovary by some bloke called Gustave Flaubert.

  I took a deep breath, turned to the first page and began to read.

  Melon

  JULIE MAYHEW

  My name is Melon Fouraki. Let’s get that out of the way, straight off. Some kids get their parents’ jewellery or record collections as hand-me-downs. Mum gave me this name. Quite frankly, I’d rather she’d given me her dusty CDs.

  I have lost count of the number of times I’ve asked her why she gave me such a stupid, stupid name. Every time I ask, I get ‘The Story’ – her fairytale memories of being brought up on a melon farm in Crete. I get whispering at seeds, I get yellowstriped armyworms, I get laying hands on warm fruit. I don’t get answers.

  Before I get ‘The Story’, Mum will usually go: ‘Why you ask about your name today, peristera mou? They make fun of your tits at school?’

  I hate the way she says ‘tits’ – it’s so porn mag, so throw-away, as though nothing that worries me is important to her. My name is important. The size of my chest is important. The two of them work together to ruin my life.

  In the back of my Great Expectations study guide I’m keeping a list of every possible way that my name can be twisted into something else.

  MELON-CHOLY

  MELON-OMA

  SMELLY MELON

  These are names I’ve had used on me before. Some of them are names that are bound to get used sooner or later.

  MELON BELL-END

  MELON THE FELON

  BIG MELONS

  Writing them down helps. If I get to know them, I can guess what’s coming.

  MELON HEAD

  MELON ARSE

  MELON TITS

  They’ll be like advertising slogans that people repeat over and over. They won’t mean anything in the real world. The trouble is, when I look at the list, I know the most ridiculous thing I’ve written is the name at the top.

  MELON

  My real name. There is no getting away from it, I have a stupid, stupid name.

  Ian Grainger knows this. And I hate him. If me or my best mate Chick ever mention him we always say ‘God!’ afterwards. Guaranteed. He’s just so immature. When he’s acting amazed he sucks in his cheeks and makes a noise like he’s calling a cat. Idiot. And he has to keep flicking his fringe out of his eyes. He thinks the flicking thing is cool. It’s not. It just makes him look he’s got Tourettes. He also walks with a limp, all the time, even though there is nothing wrong with his leg. This is so we all think his bits are so huge that they stop him from walking properly. He wishes. Lucy Bloss reckons he’s got a massive dick but has she ever really been there? She’s gob almighty.

  I’m in the line-up outside the science block, at the front of the queue with Chick. Ian’s at the back. It’s Biology today. Reproduction. It’s hard to look any of the boys in the eye after Mr Spencer has put up that picture on the overhead projector – the one of a woman’s pelvis cut in half so you can see all of her tubes. I prefer Physics.

  Mr Spencer is late, so we’re standing there, killing time. Chick is telling me about her summer holiday, which her mum and dad have just booked. The Laceys go to Playa De Las Americas in Tenerife every year. Which is bizarre. There is a whole world out there to visit and the Laceys have no family abroad forcing them to go to the same place all the time. We still have to go to Crete every summer even though my Granbabas is dead, and Auntie Aphrodite pretends to speak less and less English each time we visit.

  Anyway, Chick tells me that they’re going to a new place on holiday this year. This is big news in the Lacey household.

  ‘It’s in Italy and it has loads of towers,’ Chick goes. ‘S’called San Jimmy … San Jimmy. I don’t know, San Jimmy something.’

  ‘Blimey,’ I go.

  It makes me think, if the Laceys can change the habit of a lifetime, maybe I could convince Mum to try somewhere new.

  ‘Mum read that it’s the place to go right now,’ Chick goes. She doesn’t realise it, but she’s boasting. Then Chick drops the bombshell: ‘But it doesn’t have a beach.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Yes way! Nightmare.’

  At least me and Mum get plenty of beach action when we go to Crete.

  Then I hear my name being yelled from the end of the line. Straightaway, I know that it’s Ian Grainger.

  Ian Grainger has called my name.

  There’s a little explosion in my chest. A bit of me thinks, maybe Ian Grainger really wants to talk to me about something. That would be okay. I admit, that would be quite a bonus. The other bit of me thinks – not likely.

  I look back along the line and Ian’s head is sticking out. He’s waiting for me to answer. The explosion in my chest spreads. I feel it between my legs. I don’t know why. It’s a sensation so strong that everyone else must be able to see what’s happening. I’m blushing too, my cheeks are burning, and I haven’t even said anything yet. I am officially pathetic.

  ‘Yeah?’ I go at last, and it’s a good ‘yeah’, really bored and not interested.

  ‘Not you!’ Ian slams back.

  The warm explosion turns into a knife stab. I duck back behind Chick.

  Ian is doing one of those dumb boy laughs. He’s yelling again, ‘Why d’ya fink everyone’s always talking aboutcha, Melon?’

  Ian’s mates start spewing laughter. The whole class are looking at me now, most of them doing that face that says, it’s really bad to laugh. They are doing that face while pissing themselves laughing.

  Ian isn’t letting me off yet. ‘We were just, like, you know, yelling out names of food and stuff. Bananas! Cake! Maccie Ds!’

  The laughing cranks up.

  ‘Chicken fucking vindaloo!’

  This is Dylan who is puny and spotty and should thank his lucky stars he gets to hang around with Ian otherwise his head would be forever down a flushing toilet. The laughing dies down when he opens his mouth. He hasn’t got the same influence.

  The explosion inside me has gone. I’m cold. The only bits of me left on fire are my ears. Both of them. Mum says if your left ear burns, someone is talking lovingly about you. If it’s right, it’s spite. So that means Ian loves me and hates me at the same time. He doesn’t. He totally hates me.

  I turn back to face the glass double doors of the science block. I catch a glance at my reflection, make sure I don’t look like I’m crying. I tip my head forward. Long, bushy hair is good for hiding behind. I keep threatening Mum that I’m going to hack it all off but I only say that to upset her. Really I want to grow my hair long enough to sit on.

  I can see Chick’s face out of the corner of my eye, looking almost as shamed as me.

  ‘Prick,’ I mutter, quiet so no one else can hear. I don’t want a fight.

  I pray Chick will start blabbering on about San Jimmy-wherever again and its rubbish lack of a beach, but she’s gone dumb. The whole line has gone whispery quiet. Me and Chick stand there, hunched over, waiting for the firing squad.

  Then it comes again, like I knew it would. ‘Meh-lon!’ Chirpy like a doorbell. Ding-dong.

  I focus on the white scuffs around the toes of my black ballet pumps. I concentrate on not crying. Crying would not be cool.

  ‘Oi, Melon! It’s rude to ignore someone when they’re talking to ya.’

  The shoes are really interesting, I tell myself, the shoes are really interesting.

  ‘Melon! I’m fucking talking to ya. Where’s ya fucking manners, man?’

  ‘Turn round, Mel,’ Chick hisses. I can’t look at her.

  ‘Melllll-ohhhhhn!’ Ian is squealing it now, like an opera singer.

  I obey. I turn my body. Last thing I do is let my gaze meet his. His eyes are brown, too brown. They’re black and sticky.

  �
��Yes? Can we help you?’ Ian does his posh voice.

  I try and stare him out.

  He pouts at me, pretending to be a girl.

  Nothing about this is even slightly funny yet Lucy Bloss goes solo and bursts into shrieky laughter. Everyone looks at her for a minute, which is exactly what she wanted, so she milks it. She clamps a fingerless-gloved hand over her mouth and rolls her eyes at Emily Winters and Dionne Agu. Then she forces out a few giggly hiccups for extra effect. She is so fake. I mean, who wears fingerless gloves in the middle of March?

  Ian smiles at Lucy. This means they are probably going out together again. They make up and break up the whole time so it’s hard to keep up. And anyway, who can be bothered to waste their time trying to keep up?

  Ian is mouthing my name, feeling his chest, pretending he has boobs. Mehhhh-lllonnn, his lips go. His tongue makes a meal of it. Mehhhh-lllonnn.

  The last time I asked Mum about my name, I was trying on bras. I have prayed every night since I was eleven that my boobs would stop growing. I’ve had to buy a larger bra every year since then. I thought if I asked Mum at the exact moment I was trying on some new, ridiculous cup-size she would realise what she’d done. She would immediately say sorry for naming me ‘Melon’ and our next stop would be Deed Poll. Some hope.

  We were in the changing rooms. I was staring at my big woman’s figure in the mirror. Mum was sitting, all small-framed and reasonably-chested, on the leather stool in the corner of the cubicle searching for cigarettes and a lighter in her massive shoulder bag. When I asked, she ignored me. Instead she went, ‘Smells in here, hey? Cheesy, no?’

  ‘You can’t smoke in here, Mum,’ I told her.

  She ignored that too, went back and answered the original question.

  ‘I want you to be different,’ she goes, still ransacking her bag.

  ‘I want to be like the other girls,’ I said back.

  I really wanted her to hear that. I really wanted her to see me, standing there, the thick, white elastic crisscrossing my boobs. A sturdy bra, a boring bra. I’m not allowed anything pretty. With my chest, it makes me look too grown-up, Mum says. Makes me look like a stripper, she means.

  ‘When you older, you be grateful to be different.’ That’s what she told me. I wasn’t going to get my sorry. I took off the bra.

  ‘Maria?’ she goes, poofing air through her lips, ‘Everyone in Crete has my name!’

  And then she was off. ‘On an island far, far from here, where the sea is woven from strings of sapphire blue … ’ Whispering at seeds, yellowstriped armyworms, warm fruit … Blah, blah, blah. By the time she’d finished, she was halfway through a cigarette and I was back in my jumper.

  ‘What, you are not liking it?’ She poked a finger at the bra on its hanger.

  ‘It’s fine, Mum,’ I said, ‘let’s just go.’

  Mum stubbed out her cigarette in the lid of her fag packet.

  Outside the cubicle, a shop assistant was squirting air freshener and giving Mum a dirty look. Mum breezed away from the changing rooms, refusing to notice.

  Ian is still mouthing my name. He licks the nipple of one of his huge, invisible breasts. Everyone is creased up. Especially Lucy. Everyone in the line is waiting for me to say something. Or, even better, to run to the nearest toilet for a cry. If I bolt, Lucy will send Dionne Agu to follow me and report back.

  I have no razor-sharp reply, no witty answer, I have … Nothing.

  So I laugh.

  It’s a horrible sound, really phony, but it does the job. Ian stops feeling himself up. He tosses out a chuckle. The laugh shows that I’ve got a better sense of humour than Lucy Bloss. After all, I’m the one getting picked on, not her. The laugh has let Ian off the hook. He turns away.

  The ripples of giggling along the line die down. They’re disappointed, I know it. They wanted me to crumble. That would have been something to talk about.

  Ian has forgotten me already. He’s kicking Dylan’s rucksack, pretending to start a fight. They’re shouting about something else now.

  ‘Phew-ee!’ goes Chick, mouse-like.

  I feel sick. I hate myself for making it easy on Ian. I hate everyone in that queue for laughing. But more than that, I hate Mum for giving me my stupid, stupid name.

  But I shrug and smile at Chick, as if it’s nothing. It’s no big deal.

  Inside, of course, I am still searching – for that killer line. For something to plunge right down into Ian’s soul. Something that will stop him dead, wound him, make him choke.

  Something to make him … like me.

  DAVINA MCCALL

  I have always had a real love of breasts. Mammalian protuberances, lills, jugs, tits, funbags, boobs … so many words for two lovely mounds.

  I am conscious of the fact that there may be some people reading this with eyebrows raised, a bit worried about what’s happened to me. I must be long overdue for some sort of hugely public breakdown. Could this be it? Well, I’m afraid the answer is emphatically NO. I have a perfectly sane reason for my enormous respect and love for breasts, and here it is.

  A long long time ago, when Showaddywaddy were a band and tinned ravioli was a luxury, I went on holiday with my mum. This in itself is a story. But I’ll save that for the autobiography that I will never write.

  Going on holiday with my mum was rare. I would often visit her in Paris but going on holiday WITH her … very rare. Primarily because I really cramped her style and was a hindrance to her partying. No judgement – she was very young and beautiful and drank a lot and wanted to party.

  So I loved/loathed these trips. I would have way more free rein than at home, could eat whatever I wanted, stay up mega late and wander off and she never really noticed … but all I really wanted was for her to notice, and be a mummy … a cuddly mummy that would hold a towel up for me when I got out of the pool.

  This is not a sob story by the way … just how it was, and relevant to my boob love.

  So there I was, seven or eight years old, in the sea, tippy-toe depth, no one watching, swimming non-stop underwater – my nickname was shark. I was an awesome swimmer and I could stay under for an eternity. I took a dive down, swimming along, left it till the very last moment and came up for air just as a Hobie Cat sailboat came by and hit me on the head.

  It knocked the stuffing out of me. I swallowed an ocean of water and got thrown around. The next thing I know two hands are lifting me up, head above water.

  I gasp, coughing and crying all at the same time, and this lovely cuddly lady holds me so tight I go limp. I feel safe. My head in her chest, resting on her lovely safe boobs.

  She felt like a mummy. A really, really lovely mummy. I didn’t want to let go but as we got into shallower water she couldn’t lift me any more. I said thank you and ran to find Mummy.

  After much searching there she was, but by the time I’d found her I’d calmed down. I knew if I told her it wouldn’t achieve anything, so I didn’t bother.

  I will never forget that kind lady, and ever since then I have had a great love of breasts and the comfort they can bring, in so many different ways.

  And I always hold the towel up for my kids.

  Twenty Things I Love About My Boobs

  SARAH MILLICAN

  1. They didn’t turn up until I left school so no boys ever got to snap my bra strap. It’s very hard to twang a vest.

  2. They catch cake crumbs. Like nature’s bib.

  3. I keep my pencils under there.

  4. They stop men calling me ‘mate’ on the bus. (I used to get called ‘son’ a lot as a kid but that might have been the hair).

  5. They help you learn the alphabet. I know up to H.

  6. Mine make a good warm pillow for kittens and boyfriends.

  7. I once cheered up a sad friend by flashing my boobs and she laughed (from the surprise, I like to think).

  8. They are the bridge between ‘just kissing’ and ‘thank God I’ve shaved me legs cos we’re doing it!”

  9. They sav
e me from suffocation. (I sleep on my stomach and they stop me from lying too flat.)

  10. They’re like a built-in bumper. It would be hard to crack a rib with these babies on duty.

  11. My boyfriend says they make lovely hand warmers.

  12. They are the reason I don’t really want to lose weight. (I’ll be left with just a gut rather than curves.)

  13. The best time of any day is when I take my bra off. Whether I’m at home, on a train, in a cinema or driving (always pull in to release the beasts. Safety first. Comfort second).

  14. Motorboating, where someone you know (preferably) puts their face betwixt your knockers and makes the noise of a small engine, can be used as self defence (depending on the size of the boobs and assailant).

  15. In a good bra, they make me feel like a 1950s Hollywood starlet.

  16. In a certain nightie, I look like Bubbles DeVere. But, wow, is that nightie comfy.

  17. In bed, they keep my underarms warm.

  18. They can accidentally click a link on my laptop.

  19. Their size means I can’t see my belly. Therefore it mustn’t exist.

  20. Underneath them is the first place I get sweaty. A sign to turn the heating down. Like a woozy canary in a mine.

  The Ticking Clock

  LEE MONROE

  ‘Now, just pop your blouse off, and let’s examine your breasts.’

  Phoebe stiffened. ‘It’s OK,’ she began. ‘I know … ’

  The nurse smiled and Phoebe’s eyes dropped to the woman’s chest. One buttonhole stretching slightly in her shirt. A glimpse of off-white lace. The nurse’s breasts were big. A couple of small melons, equally sized, if drooping a little under their weight.

  ‘You know how to examine your own breasts?’

  Phoebe nodded. The truth was she had only a vague idea of self-examination. It freaked her out to touch herself like that. Her breasts freaked her out. Small and not as firm as they should be, like two old golf balls past their best. Considering she was only seventeen, this seemed to Phoebe odd and cruel. If they were this dismal now, what would they be like when she was thirty?