I knew this well. So well, in fact, that on the rare occasions I was around boys and hadn’t prepared correctly, I would fight to conceal any exposed part of my body. More than once, I refused point-blank to take off my long-sleeved jumper and instead slowly boiled myself in the dry, disgusting sun of a summer afternoon after school. I wasn’t actually the object of anyone’s interest, and I didn’t actually like any of the boys either – but that wasn’t the point. I just knew that teenage boys’ opinions were supposed to matter and I was desperate to fit in. Teenage girls judged too, of course, but what girls thought of me didn’t matter in the same way. They didn’t have the power to dismiss my insecurities about my spotty, chubby teen body and validate my existence, just by asking me out.