Bram felt a hot flush crawl up his neck. He stared at the dust motes dancing in the projector beam, anywhere but the screen. Then the drawings became photographs. A boy’s face, then a girl’s, their features softening into young adulthood. A boy’s shoulder broadening. A girl’s hip curving.
Mrs. Visser considered this. “Sometimes,” she said. “But not forever.” Bram felt a hot flush crawl up his neck
The narrator spoke of menstruation. Of wet dreams. Of the word ovulation , which Bram had heard before only as a whisper in the schoolyard, a weapon to throw and run from. But here it was, clinical and gentle, as ordinary as a recipe on television. A boy’s face, then a girl’s, their features
Bram’s hand, to his own astonishment, went up. The projector whirred to life
The reel slowed. The last frame flickered, then dissolved into white light. The projector clicked off.
Silence.
The projector whirred to life, its spools clicking like nervous hearts. A strip of light pierced the dim room, landing on a portable screen that smelled faintly of dust and old vinyl. On it, the title card appeared in blocky, reassuring letters: Sexuele Voorlichting – Puberty: Sexual Education for Boys and Girls.