She was the prettiest girl in the school, possibly in the whole world. Straight, perfectly spaced white teeth, no overcrowding, no fangs. Lips with built-in lip liner that peaked in a cupid’s bow that matched the cuteness of her little bump-free, small-nostrilled nose. Brown eyes, olive skin, natural caramel highlights in her never frizzy hair. She was perfect. Her life was perfect.

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Her class had just learned all about menstruation. She and a friend had come to lord it over our circle of grade fivers on the oval. Tucking her heels under her bum, she’d sat herself down on the grass, uprooting us, as we shuffled to make room. I noticed—as her school dress rode up just enough for everyone to see—that her legs remained utterly symmetrical in this pose, right up to her knickers. No bulges. I looked down at what my white chicken legs did in this configuration and to my dismay my pointy knees peaked at an inverted ‘V’ with muscle bulging on the inside of both legs. Gross. How had I never noticed this deformity before? And as if this wasn’t bad enough I then learned graphically that I was going to have to insert a tampon, whatever that was, into my vagina four or five times a day, five or six times a month, at any tick of the clock, until I was very old—at least fifty.

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Some weeks later, I had inadvertently put myself in her good graces, although I have no recollection how. Now that I’ve parented teenagers much cooler than I ever was, I can speculate that I may have been ‘plus-one’d’ by one of my actual friends. Regardless of why, to my astonishment, I was invited to a party at her house on the main street of our town, along with her boyfriend and his sisters and their friends. And anyone that mattered. 

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All the cool kids lived on the main street, with their business owning parents. They sauntered about as though they owned the town—and it turns out they did. I, however, never sauntered. I was well and truly out of my comfort zone in the main street—and with her friends. I could not contain my jubilation at scoring an invitation to surely the most amazing party ever. It was beyond my wildest dreams. Sadly, I suspect I did not remain cool. I fear I carried on like a pork chop—I can only imagine the spring in my step, the ridiculous grin, the effusive gratitude—because some few hours later, I was unceremoniously uninvited. Walking along the disused railway line on our way home from school, dodging puddles, daring to be happy, watching her flirt with her boyfriend and watching his sisters flirt with her, their friends basking in the confidence that comes from being part of the popular group—basking in my own moment of glory—I was dealt the most embarrassing blow possible for a pre-teenage girl.

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‘You’re not invited’ she said loud enough for all to hear. My party phobia commenced that very moment.

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A few years later I had a teeny little win. Stepping off the school bus as she was stepping on, lowering my gaze, I had the oddly advantageous vantage point for an unintended glimpse of the inner sanctum of what I had assumed would be perfect ears. Ostensibly they were. Of course, she also had pretty little ears. But low and behold if they weren’t lined with brown gooey almost green wax. Yuck. I’d put money on my astonishment making an appearance on my face in that split second—and then my delight.

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I had perfect ears. Very proud of them I was. And I one hundred percent could guarantee that they were always clean. Every night I cleaned my ears. I’d wet one corner of a face washer, twiddle it to a point, then swivel it around inside one ear at a time. It felt damn good. 

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My whole world view shifted. She wasn’t perfect. That realisation let me explore the possibility of other imperfections. Her legs stayed symmetrical in a squat because they were symmetrically shapeless. She had no discernible muscle. Mine were sporty legs. I loved my nimble, speedy, fair but undoubtedly toned legs. As for the boyfriend, he didn’t want that role for much longer, and thus the sisterly adoration dried up too. And the fan club. It turned out that even the prettiest girl in the school wasn’t perfect—and neither was her life. What an invaluable lesson for a blue-eyed freckle-faced red-head teen in need of braces. All these many years later my ears are still so darn cute. I love them. I treasure them. I keep them in pristine condition—in case of the unlikely event of someone peering down into them as we pass each other on the steps of a bus.