Mam said the black gym knickers’d be good for when the decorators were in. That summer I turned 11; I’d not the foggiest idea what she meant.
By 15, still in the same pair of stretch crimpoline, built to last, I knew exactly what she meant. ‘Passion Killers’ us fifth years called them, bent over our hockey sticks, our minuscule gym skirts riding a fraction too high.
We’d walk past the boys practising rugby with Mr Pringle on our way to the showers. Him running alongside, thighs wide, a line of sweat trickling into his moustache, a blend of brown and ginger hair like a sweeping brush.
I discovered we were wrong about the passion killer bit one afternoon after practice, my back pressed against the pebble-dashed exterior of the school gymnasium, Mr Pringle’s freckled hand pulling at the thick waistband.
Kate Jones is a freelance writer based in the North of England, writing mostly essays, reviews, flash and non-fiction. Her work has appeared in various places, including Spelk, The Nottingham Review, Feminartsy and The Real Story. She blogs here and tweets here.