B for Bee
Notes
This piece was written in 2022 for ALL722 - Texts for Young Adults. The idea was to write a piece that distinguished itself from the stereotypical ideas of gender and sexuality that are rife in YA fiction.
B for Bee was written to challenge dominant representations of bisexuality in YA texts, and to foreground the agency of young adult characters in defiance of YA romance tropes, where characters (especially characters that identify as female) are so often depicted as self-sacrificial, or princesses to be saved. This piece is intended to challenge the heteronormative and traditionally conservative values and tropes in YA depictions of gender and sexuality, hegemonic constructions of masculinity, and discursive sexuality.
B for Bee
My name is Annabelle.
I never liked it.
No doubt my parents picked it
expecting waifish elegance, charm and wit;
a bastion of social grace.
I’m none of those things.
At 5 ft 3 and curvy,
I wear my black mascara like armour.
Tartan skirts and band shirts,
and a short black hoodie, always.
Arm warmers are too much, though.
Don’t want to be mistaken for an emo.
I like to buck the stereotypes.
Maybe that’s why
I didn’t get along with
the kids at my last school.
My best friend calls me ‘B’,
short for ‘Bee’ or ‘Belle’.
But he knows I’d kick him
in the nuts,
If he ever called me the latter.
My Favourite Kind of Dick
Richard Cuthbert.
Tall and classically handsome.
Brown hair; slightly wavy.
Slim but pleasantly toned;
a chick magnet to be sure.
Captain of the football team;
a national debating champion.
Good marks and a bit of a clown.
No wonder he’s so popular.
And yet, despite it all,
he still finds time for me.
His B.
We’ve known each other
since nursery school,
when I made fun of him
for still needing nappies,
and he graffitied my Barbie doll
in retaliation.
My favourite person in all the world.
The kind of friend who, if I said:
“You’re my favourite kind of Dick”,
would reply: “Bitch please,
I’m your only kind of dick.”
First Day
Loughborough Comprehensive.
Richard’s school,
And now mine.
An old converted factory
with modern bits attached.
Very avant garde,
in an ugly kind of way.
I walk through the front gates,
expecting stares and whispers.
I hate being the ‘new kid’.
It's such a fine line between
‘confident indifference’
and ‘please sit with me at lunch’.
But no one seems to give a damn,
too busy catching up
on gossip from the summer hols.
So I shuffle past awkwardly,
white-knuckle-wringing my bag strap.
An arm slings over my shoulder
and I swat D’s hand away
before he can give me a noogie,
but am grateful all the same,
for the instant street cred
that his attention affords me.
We walk to class amid
approving nods
and appraising once-overs.
Being a form above,
D leaves me at the door.
But assures me with a flourishing bow,
that he will never be too far away.
He’s such a goddamn goober.
And I low-key love him for it.
Lit Class
S.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
For thou art just as shiny
(Capital ‘S’).
With spun-gold hair and legs for days,
flippy cheer skirts never looked so appealing.
Oh, to behold your fair complexion,
as I sit beside you in Lit.
Your fragrance of odorous savours sweet,
intoxicates me in your wake.
I can’t keep this up much longer
for poetry is pants.
But save to say I’m besotted.
You’re “like the Barbie doll I never had.”
Too bad you have a boyfriend.
A striker for the football team,
An old-boys’ tosser through and through.
Everyone knows that P is a wank-stain.
So what do you see in him?
I guess for now I’ll just be
that creep admiring you from afar.
Radiohead got nothing
on my wallflower credentials.
Hanging
What is it to ‘hang’?
Like a decorative artifact,
prisoner,
or friend?
It seemed to me
that my relationship with S
was all of those things.
First, casual greetings became conversations
peppered with friendly innuendo.
Then came suggestive smiles and brief touches
that left me both hopeful and confused.
I thought it wouldn’t go anywhere
(her being with Mingebag P
suggests that she’s straight),
so I was well surprised, one day,
when she cornered me after Phys Ed.
A sly smile on her face,
she pressed me captive against the wall.
In just my bra and pants,
I had no defence at all.
Her kiss was like fire and honey,
sugary-sweet lip-gloss and unmitigated hunger.
I returned in kind, and after that,
we took every opportunity
for a quickie make-out session.
‘Hanging’, S calls it.
And I’ll admit
most of the time I have fun.
But I still feel like a wallflower;
an illicit decoration
hidden in the shadows.
Maybe it’s for the best
Since no one at school knows I’m gay.
It seems the muppets think I’m dating D.
And S says it’s best we leave it that way.
I feel a bit uneasy
letting rumours run amok.
But I let it happen anyway,
because deep down
I’m a right weak git.
And still, selfishly, I wonder
how long can I continue living
like a dirty changing room secret?
Hols
S and I text every day
in the lead up to Christmas.
Stupid things like holiday memes
and gaudy Christmas lights.
But she never wants to meet up in person.
And holiday snaps with P the Halfwit
are all over her Insta.
I can’t help feeling abandoned.
A bit used and cast aside.
So, I spend most of my time with D,
playing video games and eating junk food.
Anything to keep my mind off S,
and the disquiet in my stomach.
Despite her rubbing P in my face,
while consigning me to secrecy,
I know that if she called, I would drop everything,
And I kinda hate myself for it.
D’s heard the rumours by now,
but he doesn’t hold them against me.
He just tells me to be careful,
because “no one hurts my B”.
His straightforward protectiveness
makes my muddled heart swell.
It’s a warm and expansive feeling;
I want to nuzzle into it.
Perhaps that why I bristle
every time a girl looks at him funny.
He’s mine after all.
And I would happily fight a bitch
to keep it that way.
It’s not that I like him…
not like that…
I’ve always been into girls,
so that would make no sense?
I’m pretty sure I’m just protective…?
Coz he’s always been
my best friend…
My favourite D.
First Time
So, S invited me
to hers on Christmas Eve.
Said her parents would be out for hours,
carolling into the early morning.
I wasn’t born yesterday;
I knew what the invite meant.
And being fifteen and a virgin,
I was well keen to cross that bridge.
I spent the week preparing,
even bought new lingerie.
To wax or not to wax?
That was the real question.
The day came at last,
and despite looking hot AF,
I was a right bloody mess.
The dark red door opened
and S quickly pulled me in.
After that nothing went to plan.
Who knew four limbs
could ever seem too many?
Dry mouth and fumbling,
And so very much apologising…
In the wee hours of the morning,
I lay staring at my phone.
No new messages.
I tapped out one last ‘sorry’,
(still not entirely sure what for)
before falling into a fitful sleep.
Heartbreak
Christmas Day was miserable,
The rest of hols a blur.
I texted S occasionally,
but got no response.
My heart was literally breaking;
my stomach flipped inside-out.
First day back, I drifted
between classes
trapped
in a bubble of torment.
After days of non-stop prodding,
I finally told D what happened.
He hugged me close and stroked my hair,
anger radiating off his skin.
It was so unlike him
that I felt compelled to apologise.
But he told me not to be silly;
that I had every right to be upset.
“S used you, B, and that’s fucked up.
Your love is not a commodity,
to be used for selfish experiments.
You’re the only thing that matters now.
So just take care of you.
If confronting S will help you heal,
I’m behind you one hundred per cent.”
My heart broke even further,
but this time, bittersweet.
And suddenly it occurred to me
that this is what ‘love’ is—
Unconditional.
Visceral.
Real.
Healing
In the end I didn’t feel
the need to speak to S.
I realise that I played a part
in how things went down;
I knew what I was getting into
and I pursued it anyway.
But that aside,
I didn’t deserve
to be made to feel like shit.
But S’ choices don’t reflect upon
who I am.
And I deserve someone
who will love me
for me.
Screw the labels.
Buck the trends.
Because in the end,
I am simply me.
Simply B.