My Private Pectus by Shane Thamm Read Free Book Online Page A

See you tomorrow,’ he says again and walks off.
    Once inside the car, I look out the window. A group of boys stands under the shelter of the loos, looking hopefully at the car park for their lift. Gez runs up to Cuppas and joins him at the bus stop on the street.
    â€˜I can't believe that man!’ Dad fumes and crunches the car into reverse. ‘The nerve of him!’ He thumps the steering wheel and looks at Maloney by the sports shed. Then he turns to me. ‘And you!’ he bellows.
    I look out at the rain. The wipers flick. I want to melt away. I want to be like the water on the window and just run away and soak into the ground.
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    When we get home, I go to the bathroom and take off my jersey. I run my fingers over the indent in the middle of my chest, turn side-on and look in the mirror. My ribs stick out on either side like a malnourished child. With straight fingers I touch the centre of the indent as a way of measurement. Is it still getting bigger? They disappear to the second joint. I have pectus excavatum , a deformity of the chest. It's caused by the inward growth of cartilage in the sternum. It's genetic, apparently, but I don't know any relatives who have it. When I was young, it was barely noticeable. My parents weren't worried enough to take me to the specialist for a diagnosis. No one cared about it, I didn't care about it—that's until I hit thirteen. I sprouted upwards, my chest went inwards.
    I diagnosed myself by reading stuff on the internet, seeing pictures, comparing them to me. When Dad saw it, he hauled me off to the doctor and sure enough I was right. Pectus excavatum , but it's not severe—at least it wasn't then. I didn't feel it. It didn't push on my heart or restrict my lungs. It just looked weird. But after thirteen it started to freak me out. It seemed to grow deeper by the day. That's when I started hiding myself, even from Dad. The year between fifteen and sixteen was the worst but then it slowed and now I think it might have stopped, but I keep checking just in case.
    After my shower, I go to my room and turn on the computer. There's a blog I sometimes go to: Pectus Boyz. I scroll through and read a bunch of posts, even though I've read them all before. The thing I like about Pectus Boyz is that I'm not alone. Every blogger has a depression like mine, or used to before they got it surgically fixed with a metal bar. One in five hundred has it, at least that's what they say. That means there're over three thousand people with it in Brisbane alone. But what difference does it make? Three thousand and I've not met one of them. I think about Cuppas and wonder if it's worse for him being obese. I doubt it. We're all born fat.
    I read a new post:
    hi, i'm 15 and have a depressed chest. i went on a school camp last week. there was swimming at the beach. when i took my shirt off one of the girls laughed at me, others had weird looks like i'm some freak show. we've got swimming for PE at school next wk. seeking advice—J .
    There's a reply from Lionel, a regular contributor:
    Hi ya J. I've got PE too —pectus excavatum, not phys. ed! Anyway, I'm 19 now and I had those experiences too. But let me tell ya, man, when you get in a situation with a girl that counts, she won't give a damn about your chest. It's not the size of your chest that counts, but the size of your manhood. Lionel
    ps. Keep in contact, bro.
    I stop thinking about my chest and look at my crotch. What hope have I got? I turn off the computer and lie on my bed. The image of Cuppas screaming and crying as I hit him is on high-rotation. I can see the welts, his tits; see the look on his face, pleading with me to stop. I can't believe what I did. I had a chance to walk away, but then The P put that towel in my hand. What else could I do?
    I feel the crevice in my chest and think, but if I was fat, I'd do something about it. Anything. There's nothing I can do about what I've got. I think of Cuppas’