My hands are crab claws around the surprised ‘o’ of my belly button.

I give the wobbly brown flesh a smack.

Clap!

I roll up my Hollister shorts and whack my thighs together.

Wob

I try it four times, like the bass beat at a house party.

Wob wob wob wob

Yep, I feel like a fool.  

The bed creaks as I collapse onto it.

Art may be humanity’s saving grace, but this Music assignment is a joke.

Record a song using just your body – excluding your mouth.

I need a video to show in class tomorrow, or lose my ‘A’ in music – and kiss my college scholarship goodbye.  

According to Mrs Khan, ‘my body is my instrument’. Well, my instrument is broken. My thighs wob and my tummy claps and my arm slaps – and they shouldn’t. Charlotte Buyer’s wouldn’t, Lauren Hadley’s either. Their thighs probably tap and their tummies boom and their arms don’t make a sound at all.

I can see them now, giggling into a phone camera.

Charlotte taps her tummy, tight as a drumskin and glowing like the moon. Ha ha, how funny!

Lauren slaps her toned thighs. I know, right? Ew, I hope that Anya girl doesn’t make a video. Nobody needs to see that jiggling around.

They collapse into laughter.

Sometimes, when my tummy’s sucked in, when my left cheek faces the mirror, when the setting sun just manages to hide the coarse black hair on my legs… I actually like my body. It feels like the tap kind of body. The boom kind.

Then, my breath whistles out, and all the wobbles sigh back into position.

It’s exhausting, focusing on that tap and boom image of myself. If I let it slip, I’ll collapse into a tear-streaked mess because I will never look like Charlotte or Lauren.

I don’t need reminders of my wobbing, clapping, slapping let-down of a body, okay?

I curl up in a ball, wiping hot liquid off my chin.

“I’m done with you!”

I slap my right thigh. It’s a silly thing to do; scolding it won’t fix it. A tiny earthquake shoots through the flesh.

However, I notice something else: the sound makes me smile.

Ta

I do it again, in a pop song rhythm.

Ta ta-ta ta. Ta ta.

I sit on my bottom and add four thigh hits.

Ta ta-ta ta. Ta ta.

Wob wob wob wob

Yes, the wobbles and stretch marks itch at my eyes. But when I shut them… all I can hear is catchy new music. 

The Music project, the English homework, Lauren Hadley’s latest Instagram post… they all vanish. My mind softens like warm coconut oil.

Ten minutes later, I have a complicated rhythm going. My thighs, tummy, hands, feet… each has their own sound to add. My giggles rocket through the quiet house.

I’m interrupted by a throat clearing.

It’s Mom, leaning in the doorway like she’s been there forever.

I yank the bedcover over my body.

“Hey mom! I was just…”

I expect her to snort, or make some weird joke. She does the opposite.

“Is that a song? I like it!”

“I was just messing around.”

“You should let me record you…”

Afterwards, we watch the video on my cracked iPhone. A part of me only notices the three chins, the stretchmarks, the blotchy crying face. But a new part of me is amazed I could make music without any instruments.

Mom sounds surprised. “You look… happy.”

***

I read the comment in red Bic for a fifth time, not believing.

Best assignment in the class! V. original 

A

Mrs Khan liked my video. She actually, un-ironically liked it. I’m not failing music, I’m the top of the class!

I reach under my baggy shirt, pat my stomach, and whisper,

“I’m proud of you.” 

Maybe I am stuck with a wobbing, slapping, clapping kind of body.

For the first time ever, I don’t mind so much.