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Magic Mountains- A dramatic story about breasts - Anna Rosenblum Palmer
They arrive on a Saturday. A regular leisurely morning. As you pull off your PJ top to change into your rainbow tank top and start your day you see them slightly swollen. When you poke them they feel really strange. So despite the 90 degree heat you add a t shirt and sweatshirt over your tank and keep your chin down on the stairs, rounding your shoulders, you still see them poking through. That afternoon sitting on the rocking chair on your father’s lap, you realize you are too old for this as he hugs you into him and his arm crosses you just so and you know it will never be quite the same. It is fifth grade and most snuggling is instantly over, you will balk at hugs for a while, almost for ever more, and squiggle out of offered embraces. You hate them. Later that school year, planning for the school dance the cutest boy in the class is looking at your chest not into your eyes when he declares that you will dance together. Your belly tingles, he will hold you a lot closer than arms length and you will have a strange power over him for the next year. One that makes you uncomfortable but a little proud, and you try to twist it into a real connection rather than a physical appreciation and it is impossible because this is fifth grade anyways. You almost like them in Junior High. They have been around for 30% of your life, and it seems imprudent not to acknowledge their advantage. You can attract the attention of the eighth graders and the girls hold their books to their chests and walk the halls in tight knots and you carry them under one arm, swinging freely, steps apart. In French the boy behinds you starts calling you Bobes. At least thats how you tell yourself it is spelled. Your one friend reassures you, but you can tell from her hooded eyes that you both know what the nickname is. You become quiet in that class, for the first time ever. And you hide your quarterly report card with its first A-. In high school they are twin assets. Mostly. They earn you a boyfriend at the new school. A photographer with brown hair and blue eyes. He and a few other guys are looking through the window into the dance studio as you and the girls you do not yet know stretch on the floor in your dance clothes. They cannot be judging you for your brain. They can’t see it through the glass. After class they invite you to walk on the frozen pond and you fall, hitting your tail bone which will hurt for the next four years. Helping you up you realize how blue those eyes are and in that way you match his shallowness. For the next 6 months you are even more outspoken, forcibly witty, a joiner. Showing him that he is dating a ...