Dancing

I nearly skipped dance class after school this afternoon. I hate the whole concept of standing around waiting for a boy from a nearby Catholic college to ask me to dance. I hate their hot, sticky hands on my hand and back. I know most of the dance moves but we’re supposed to practise for the end of year ball at a nearby town hall. I’m not too sure what I’m wearing but my Mum is making it and it’s an apricot colour. I hope it doesn’t show off my breasts as I really hate them. And I hope I won’t have my period.

I would like to see what it’s like dancing with a girl, like one of my friends. They don’t give me a hard time like the teachers do, criticising my writing, my deportment and my speech. I would love to go to a lesbian dance but you probably have to be 18 or over to get in, especially at a pub. Imagine going to a dance where there were only lesbians! I just can’t. I would love a girl to kiss me and show me a good time. But that’s probably not allowed by the Church. Maybe I should stop going to Church though my Mum makes sure I do go every Sunday. When I was younger, our class would go to the local Church for confession. I would have a hard time thinking up some sins. I reckoned I must be very good as I didn’t think ill of people or call them names. I know this is paranoid but I’m sure my classmates gossip about me. Especially today as my hair is greasy as I put some of my stepfather’s hair gel in it. I’ve got into trouble before with my hair. I was given detention for not wearing a hat as I’d had a perm. The principal, a nun, let me go early. Go figure. I think I’ll skip dancing next week and hang out with my neighbourly friends.

 

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