14 and in Love

By Hanna Landahl

A novel about intense emotions, friendship, family bonds, and the very first love.

Wow! What a reading experience! The blog Barnboksprat (Children's Books Talk)

I have a hard time expressing in words how good the book is, and how much it means to many of our students. Katarina, middle school teacher

A cozy YA book with a feel-good atmosphere that doesn't shy away from serious topics. BTJ (Swedish Library Service)

Every morning, Kimmie stands in front of the mirror, desperate to see any evidence that she's actually going to turn into a woman one day. But she's still as flat as a board. And that's not her biggest problem.

There is a new guy at the athletics practice, Love. He's cute, Kimmie thinks. But it turns out her best friend, Elina, does too.

Like that wasn't enough, one day Kimmie receives a message from a family member who has been gone for a long time. This becomes the starting point for a series of events that make her entire world shake.

Hanna Landahl is a Swedish fiction author. She has published eleven books for children, young adults, and adults in Swedish. 14 and in Love is the first of her books to be translated into English.

• Language: English
• Publisher: San Buono Books
• Release date: Mar 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9789198911015

Book preview

Chapter 1

The afternoon of Thursday, April 23

I find it seriously hard to believe what I’m seeing. The wrinkled, reddish-purple pieces of meat pressed in between the tops of my thighs look like something you would find in the refrigerator section at Walmart. Marinated labia. Delicious on the BBQ!

I swallow and wonder what kind of person I really am. How have I been able to walk around looking like this all my life without knowing it?

I’m squatting over a mirror on the floor. My panties tighten around my ankles, and I start to sway, overcome by dizziness.

I hear a creak on the other side of the door, and suddenly it flies open.

Kimmie, have you taken my– Meja stands in the middle of the doorway, frozen to the spot. She stares at me with eyes that look like they will pop out of their sockets at any moment. I stare back, feeling strangely empty inside, as if my body has been emptied of its innards and I am now just air.

Then there is a sharp, high-pitched sound, and it takes a second for me to realize that it’s my sister laughing. Only then do I feel myself jerk back to life.

Get out! I shout. I try to get up, but trip on the underwear around my ankles and fall sideways onto the floor.

What on earth are you doing? she shrieks, doubling over with laughter.

"I said, get lost! Idiot! Get out of my room!"

Then I’m on my feet, pulling up my panties and slamming the door, hoping with all my heart that it hits her on the nose. The raucous laughter continues in the living room though, and I realize I wasn’t that lucky.

My cheeks burn, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the shame that’s spreading quickly through my body. Still, I try to tell myself that really, I was lucky – because for once she didn’t have her phone in her hand. Otherwise, she would have had the perfect blackmail material. For the rest of my life.

If you don’t let me borrow your cool, new hoodie, you know where to find your genitals.

Or something like that.

My big sister’s name is Meja, and she’s in the ninth grade. And yes, she is perhaps the most annoying thing to ever have worn a pair of sneakers.

But back to my genitals – I actually have to ask a very important question. Something I’ve been wondering about ever since I started seventh grade or so. The question is: Why couldn’t whoever invented us (God or Darwin or whoever) have considered gender equality when it comes to genitalia?

Firstly, guys never have to get into completely ridiculous positions, squatting over mirrors with their heads bent at completely unnatural angles down between their legs, just to get an idea of what they look like down there. All they need to do is stand up straight, glance down at themselves and see exactly how they are made. Unless their bellies are too big, of course. Like my dad’s. He might find it a bit difficult. But he doesn’t need to eat quite so many bags of barbecue chips every weekend, so he only has himself to blame, the way I see it. For any male with a normal build, getting a good look down there shouldn’t be much of a problem.

Secondly, guys have been given lots of appropriate words for that little appendage they happen to be born with. If you google synonyms for penis (which I don’t do very often, by the way) you’ll get over twenty useful suggestions. Twenty! If you search for vagina, you get four.

If that’s not unfair, I don’t know what is! What’s more, one of the words that comes up when you search for the female genitalia is flower. Like, hello?! Who the hell would use a word like that? And vulva? It just sounds so… medical. Vagina is actually quite cute, but isn’t that actually a name? Hi, I’m Vagina Andersson. Nice to meet you! Well, you know what I mean. Besides, I would sound like an old lady if I used that word.

I remember that my dad sometimes said front butt when I was little. But… seriously? As if what you have at the front and what you have at the back have anything in common, apart from the fact that they are both holes. By that logic, we should call our mouths something similar. Top ass, perhaps?

There is, of course, another word. I probably don’t even need to say it, but it starts with a c. Actually, that’s probably my favorite one to use, because it sounds a bit cheeky, and I like that.

Cunt, I say as I hang the mirror back on the nail. "Cunt." I give myself a defiant look.

It’s just a shame that it’s so misused. People only really say it when they mean something completely different to what we girls have between our legs.

I pull my cell phone out of my pocket. Shit! Running late for training again. I rummage through the workout clothes on my closet shelf and decide on the red tank top and a new pair of black leggings.

I study my reflection in the mirror while I change. Standing side-on to the mirror, I stretch, and then cup my hands around my breasts and squeeze.

Or rather, I put my hands where my breasts should be, but where there are currently only two small, hard pea-like nipples.

I sigh. After fixing my ponytail, I take my water bottle from the desk and put it in my backpack, then press my ear to the door, listening for Meja. No sound from the living room. Carefully, I push the handle down and peek out. The large, gray sofa in the middle of the room looks pretty much abandoned. Quickly and quietly, I set off down the stairs.

Chapter 2

Later in the afternoon, Thursday, April 23

So, who’s that? Elina whispers, fluttering her thick, dark fake eyelashes. She points to the lanky guy walking through the gate behind Mohammed.

I don’t know, I reply, rubbing my legs a bit to warm them up. The wind picks up, and I feel the skin on my upper arms contracting, trying to protect me from the cold. I really should have worn a sweater over my tank top. Seriously though, Elina. Why are you wearing those to training? You didn’t have them on at school.

Wearing what? asks Elina, still staring at the lanky boy.

You know, those, I say, pointing. When she still doesn’t look at me, I stand in front of her and make my eyes as big as saucers. Pouting, I flutter my own wispy eyelashes excessively. She grins.

I just wanted to try them out.

At training?

Her smile widens.

Let’s go, girls, says Palle, and I’m sure I see him wink at Elina.

I shake my head. I really don’t know if it’s just Elina being vain, or if it’s actually all for our coach. But that would be pretty disgusting, right? She’s just turned fourteen, and Palle is what – like twenty? I get it though, I think as we start off down the athletic track. Glancing at Elina jogging next to me, my eyes are drawn to her chest. I am so horribly fascinated by her boobs and the way they are pushed upwards so perfectly along the curve of her top. I would do anything to look like that.

Three laps as a warm-up. Then we’ll stretch together at the finish line, Palle shouts, as he picks up the rake lying next to the long jump.

I coast past the three guys in front of me. My legs feel light, and I step up the pace even though it’s only a warm-up.

Hey Kimmie, wait for me! Elina shouts behind me. Are you trying to kill me, or what?

I’m going for it! I shout back. We’ll talk later.

Whatever! she replies, sharply, but I don’t care.

Instead, I lengthen my strides, while the wind whips my face, making my eyes water. The soles of my sneakers barely touch the rough rubber surface of the track before they are lifted back into the air again.

Right now, Elina is obsessed with Palle’s biceps. But last week, it was Mohammed’s butt. That’s why she’s here: for the guys. That’s her, though. For me, the whole point of running around and around, back and forth, is to get my legs working, to feel the crisp breeze claw at my cheeks – and to hammer the competition on the race tracks this summer. Because I know I have it in me. I’ve known since I was six or seven years old and started running laps here. This is my thing. This is what I know.

After three circuits, we all gather in front of the grandstand.

I’m happy to announce that we have a new guy here with us today. Welcome, Love, says Palle, exposing his crooked front teeth as he smiles.

Love, I think, looking at the newcomer. I don’t recognize him at all. He must go to another school. His arms are unusually long, making the outline of his body look strangely lopsided. His bangs hang down over his eyes, and when he shakes his head slightly to flick them aside, I get a good look at his face.

Thank you, he says, lifting his gaze.

Then he smiles, and that’s when I see it. He has a little dimple in the middle of his left cheek. It’s so small that someone else might say it’s nothing, just a slight indentation. But I can see what it is. A tiny, little dimple.

Chapter 3

Lunch break, Monday, April 27

I feel like absolute shit, Elina whines, holding her head dramatically in her hands. I poke around at the peas on my plate, before biting into a large piece of cod. I chew, but it’s so dry it could probably give me blisters in my mouth.

I need to ask you something, I say.

What, babe?

I swallow. I’m dreading asking the question, but what I saw