Seventeen-year old first year college student Josie Clarke would prefer not to blush the colour crimson at every little thing, but Idiopathic Craniofacial Erythema, a chronic facial condition doesn't play fair.
In fact, it's as uncontrollable...
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If there's one thing more embarrassing than permanently looking embarrassed - even when your not, it's the feeling you get when your mum tells you that she's posted a letter to your tutor. A really long, handwritten might-as-well-be-an-essay letter, for the sole purpose of discussing your 'condition' and if any special measures or treatment can be issued in your favour.
Though the odds are clearly slim. I'd bet that it just gets shoved in the bin.
"Mum, you can't do that!" I'd tried to protest when she told me but it was no use.
It never is.
She believes she's doing the right thing, and often she does so before I can stop her.
"Why not?"
"Because it's embarrassing and unnecessary, that's why. I'm already a laughing stock without you making it worse."
"Oh Josephine, it'll be fine. Anyway, I've already fired off a follow up email, you know in case he doesn't receive the letter before your next lesson."
I gave up then. And I give up now, again when Mum notices that I'm not in the mood for small post-dinner talk.
She accuses me of looking down in the dumps and she gives my dad the elbow when I don't respond. He asks me how college has been for the past couple of days, since you know - 'the incident'.
I'm not sure when we started calling it that but I go along with it nonetheless. If only not to cause any further fussing or letter writing.
"Fine."
"It's always just 'fine' with you Josephine. You can talk to us darling. Me and your dad, we're here to listen," Mum says, sorting through piles of new build information packs, to dish out to prospective home buyers at our local estate agents where she works.
Dad clears his throat and stops washing the dishes. "She's right, you can. About anything."
A shrug wards them off for now but I start to think about Monday. And Maddie. And then Max, who I haven't seen since he swooped in and took me to the safety of the sunken garden, to tell me that he knows how I feel and that he somehow understands.
And though a part of me really hopes he's telling the truth and not leading me on for some as-yet-to-be-determined personal gain, I'm more inclined to believe he's not. Not that I've had the chance to ask him. Max has so far been absent from all my precarious college corridor walks to and from lessons, and the canteen this week.
