Member-only story
First Kiss
My very first kiss
with someone other than grandma,
mummy, daddy, my niece
or the cat,
was with the other “poor kid”
on a scholarship to our posh school —
a nice boy who also felt he had something to prove.
It came in the form of a dare
roared on by rugby boys he needed to like him,
and netball girls I needed to like me,
on a coach returning from skiing in France —
one of two school trips
my parents made themselves afford
in the seven years I was there.
I knew none of them liked me.
They would switch seats,
laugh at my glasses, call me boffin, nerd,
because I answered questions in class,
which I thought you were meant to do
at a posh school where everyone else’s parents
were bankers, doctors, lawyers.
When I said ok,
lied that it wasn’t my first time,
my heart scuttled up my throat,
sapping my lips dry —
but there were cheers and baited breath,
so we looked at each other,
silently agreed this would be good for both of us,
and tried to remember what we had seen on TV.
After, we went back to our seats,
fizzing with elation and disappointment,
astounded at our bravery,
wishing we’d done it better,
wondering why tongues were so big,
proud and happy and shocked.
The rest of the coach lost interest quickly,
went back to listening to music, chatting, throwing things,
while I sat feeling 10 years older,
and like I had just won a war.
