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Early summer, just before our last summer holidays, we got into a discussion with a teacher at recess.
He had a topic for us. Evidence. An opinion.
One more year and we'd be done with school. We felt so mature.
His discussion? Why, young girls and body images of course.
Oh, we were so in. He started on the young girls in his class, how they dressed. How they walked. How social media was trapping them. We nodded along, thinking we were talking about the same thing.
We thought we were talking about Instagram's clutch on our young sisters. The twelve year olds with eating disorders. The sleekly styled hair of middle schoolers with baby fat and round eyes.
He pulled out a photo.
A girl. We'd seen her. It was a good pic, her at eye level with a statue in a museum they'd gone to. A class trip. She'd asked this teacher to make the picture of her, all golden curls and brown lashes.
Look at what I had to photograph, he said. Showing us the lace bra peeking through her shirt, the pose she stroke like she was twenty-five.
We said all the right things. How horrifying it was. That society shouldn't do this to girls. Satisfied, he left, pocketing his phone.
That was two months ago.
Someone realised it yesterday. That class trip to the museum was four months ago.
He had kept the picture of her on his camera roll.
Lace bra and baby round eyes.