In 2017 I was 16, went to an all-girls Catholic school in Melbourne and had zero tolerance for teenage boys and their nonsense. Instead I spent a lot of gossip time lamenting Jake, who broke my tiny heart in primary school and then moved hours away. A debutante ball was coming up.
It was an expensive tradition that was fundamentally at odds with my values but I couldn’t say no to a pretty dress and dancing – I was a teenage girl, after all. Some friends asked cousins or co-workers from our part-time jobs to be partners. I got knocked back by everyone.
When I complained to my mother, she let me know Jake had moved back to town, and did she want me to ask his mum if he would be willing? Jake accepted and we spent weeks rehearsing. My mum would pick him up on the way to the dance hall and we would sit in the back seat, catching up on the last five years and laughing at our juvenile romance.
It felt as though we just clicked again, and our giggly behaviour during dance rehearsals earned us more than one disapproving look from the teacher. I frantically asked my friends: did they think he might like me too? Should I ask him to my year 11 formal?
Should I kiss him on deb night? While everyone else hit the dancefloor, Jake and I hit the couch in the foyer and stayed there all night talking. We missed dessert and I couldn’t find the courage to kiss him but he asked me to see a movie with him the next day.
On our first date – where we were dropped off at the local cinema with a curfew – I had my first kiss. I almost chipped my tooth. The first months of our relationship were full of nonstop texting during the day and after-school visits with my bedroom door wide open.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
