By 16-year-old who wants to be anonymous for now
“Hey, Alistair,” I say, giving him an awkward wave, “how are you?” I stare at his shoes like they’re about to answer for him.
“I’m okay… are you okay?” he asks, scratching the back of his head like he’s unsure if the words are right.
“Yeah,” I say, but it doesn’t stop there. “Yeah… yep… yes… I am goooood.”
He awkwardly laughs. So I awkwardly laugh.
Now it’s just the two of us, standing and laughing awkwardly.
My friend Maira’s watching us from a distance. I don’t know if she’s laughing at the situation or at me, but she is laughing. Her shoulders bounce. I can already hear her teasing voice later: You sounded like a broken alarm clock.
I turn back to Alistair. “Do you want to dance?”
The words fall out of my mouth before I can catch them.
He smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “I’d love to dance.”
Inside the barn, the music is soft and syrupy. Couples sway like slow-moving rivers. Girls lean their heads against their partners’ shoulders; boys hold them close like they know exactly what to do. I feel Alistair’s eyes on me as we reach the dance floor. When I glance his way, he quickly looks at the floor. We walk in silence to the centre of the room.
He reaches out his hand. So, naturally, I reach out mine.
Alistair is shorter than me. The top of his head meets the tip of my nose. This means that by the end of this dance, all he’s going to see is the inside of my nostrils.
God, please let there be no snot up there.
After three seconds of inner chaos, I decided to just go for it — I wrapped my hands around his neck. He wraps his arms around the lower part of my back.
Panic sets in.
What if he feels the little fat rolls? What if his arms don’t even reach all the way around me because I’m just too… too much?
I glance at the other couples.
They all look so put together.
So right.
Girls with long lashes and neat hair, some resting their heads on someone else’s chest, some looking their partners right in the eyes.
And then there’s me: big, awkward, and possibly harbouring an embarrassing nose situation.
At least I haven’t stepped on his foot yet.
“You haven’t done this before?” Alistair asks softly.
“Done what?”
“Danced.”
“Of course I have,” I lie, smiling too wide.
The song changes. Something slow and sweet again. But I don’t really hear it anymore.
My mind is too loud.
I think about how different I always feel, especially when I talk to boys. Especially when I like them. Like my body becomes a mirror, and all I can see are the parts I’ve been taught to wish away.
But right here, right now, I realise something:
Alistair hasn’t said a single mean thing.
He hasn’t flinched at my height or pulled away from my softness.
He asked if I was okay.
He smiled.
He said yes.
Maybe… the only person who keeps making me feel different is me.
I shift my weight and breathe. I let my arms relax. I lean into the music, and for once I stop comparing.
I’m here. I’m in this body. And I’m not going to apologise for it anymore.
The song ends. I step back. I smile not at Alistair, but at myself.
“Thanks,” I say.
“For the dance?” he asks.
“For… showing me I didn’t need it to feel good.”
He tilts his head, confused. But it doesn’t matter. I turn and walk away, holding something I didn’t have when the song started:
Myself.
- Masingita in Tsonga means a small or little person, something small or insignificant, it implies a sense of being underestimated or overlooked.
