I’m twelve or thirteen; I think twelve. What I know for sure is that I’m in my seventh-grade homeroom, and each time I get up from my desk to do anything (pass in a paper, go to the bathroom, put something in my locker), there is this group of boys who sneeze.
At first, I don’t get it.
I mean, to be honest, it was just a kid sneezing.
I said, “Bless you.”
But then it was another boy, and another, and pretty soon it felt like seven to ten male classmates were allergic to me.
My thoughts went immediately to how I might have caused this.
New perfume? No, I don’t think I borrowed any from my sister.
Shampoo? Yes, it did smell like artificial apple; this was the ’90s, after all, but one’s nose had to be pretty close to my scalp to get a strong whiff, and much to my disappointment, no boy was getting that close to me.
I remember saying out loud, “I don’t get it.” And then, more and more laughing.
This was more than thirty years ago, so remembering exactly who clued me in is impossible, but I have a sense it was one of the girls the boys were more interested in talking to who finally caught me up.
That conversation went something like this:
“They think you stuff your bra.”
Me. Wide-eyed.
“I still don’t get it.”
“Apparently, yesterday you had your shirt tucked in, and it didn’t look like you had any boobs, and today your shirt is untucked, and you have boobs.”
Both days, I’d paid exactly no attention to how my shirt landed on my still-developing chest.
“I still don’t understand why they are sneezing?”
“They think you’re stuffing your bra with tissues. They are basically asking you for a tissue.”
At the time, this felt like more than enough evidence to give up my academic career and become a hermit.
My parents disagreed.
I think it was my mom who told me to put a tissue in my bra strap, and the next time they sneezed, turn around and ask if they needed one.
I remember my mom and my stepdad laughing out loud at the very thought of this coming to life. I was convinced I’d be proving exactly what the boys were teasing me about.
“That’s the point, Amanda,” I remember my mom telling me. “They think they are so smart and know something that obviously isn’t true, and it’s all so stupid, so play along. What do you think they’ll do after? What can they do?”
The next day, I went to school with a soft pack of tissues in my pocket.
Somewhere between the bus ride and taking my seat in homeroom, I found the courage to pull out a single tissue and tuck it into my bra strap, as my mom had instructed.
Then I anxiously waited for the sneezing to start.
I didn’t have to wait long.
At the second sneeze, I turned and faced the group of boys sitting behind me and, with as still a face as I could muster, reached inside my shirt and asked:
“Need a tissue?”
They gasped audibly.
One of them smacked his desk with an open palm out of surprise. Another kept looking back and forth between his buddies and me.
Our teacher took notice and asked, “What’s going on back there?”
I answered:
“They keep sneezing at me because they think I stuff my bra, so I asked if they needed a tissue.”
Another collective gasp.
Then a sharp and complete, “Knock it off,” from the teacher.
I don’t remember the rest of the day, as it must have been unremarkable.
I don’t think anyone ever got in trouble, and as middle school and high school rolled through, all those boys would apologize in their own way. And I kept looking for ways to turn what was hurting me into a story, a bit, or something I could use.
I think that’s what I’m still doing with Cancer Sharks.
Melanoma 100% has me actually stuffing my bra this go-round, with all the weight I’ve gained from lifelong steroid dependency due to treatment.
And while I am super struggling with self-image and confidence because of what cancer has taken and given, it brought me back to seventh grade, when I found a way, despite puberty and humiliation, to take it in stride and be a smartass.
I hope that smartass, despite cancer and perimenopause, is still in me somewhere.
Maybe this piece is proof she is.
