She dreds the locker room.

Girls swagger around half-dressed, followed by clouds of floral deoderant and hair-spray, arching their backs to display their bulging, lace-encased breasts, while soprano giggles roll between the lockers ("Oh my god, did you see what... but I was, like... and then he put his hand...")

Privacy? The five showers in a line are seperated by slimy off-white curtains cut about a foot smaller than the recess in which they dangle and the bathroom door has a broken lock. The only way to pee in private is to recruit a friend to stand by the door and hold it closed.

So she changes facing the row of lockers and shoved close to her own open locker door, jerking her school shirt off and pulling her baggy gym shirt quickly over her bare nipples with their delicate fatty peaks (budding breasts -- what's with the flower imagery?)