I once had a cold and my classmates insisted I was ferreting those tissues away to help fill my children’s place training bra. The only curves you have—are inward. You should be a model—for the baby gap. You gained a pound? So that means you’re back to your birth weight now! My, how you’ve grown, you must be going to Middle School soon! So there you have it. I am fifteen years old and I have experienced precious few of my peers’ pubertal problems, be them of the male or monthly variety. Some of the kids I babysit assume we are having play dates, and the closest I’ve come to an intimate encounter is having my shirt ride up during a piggyback ride. With a Mormon. Don’t get me wrong. I take full advantage of the free crayons and cheaper movie tickets, but it gets old when people always assume you’re the opposite—not to mention having to fight sparkle-nail and loose-tooth against a gang of eight year olds for the last pair of those rhinestone skinny jeans, then having the cashier gush over how grown up I am to go shopping without my “mommy,” LITERALLY getting shoved in a locker—and fitting, having your science teacher tell you you’ll be more beautiful than anybody after you “blossom” and your younger, Asian friend give you clothes she outgrew in third grade. Not to mention my LOVELY alias, Auschwitz Preemie, or the fact that NO ONE takes my noble aspiration to be a Norwegian **** seriously. This bothers me most. You wanna tussle? You wanna tussle with this? Yeah, you may be laughing now—hell, I would too-- I guess it’s safe to say—I’ve got the late bloomer blues.