“Crap,” I whispered when her eyes came back up to mine. I could see what she was thinking. She made no attempt to hide it. Great, day one and I’d already pissed off a girl like her.

4

On a scale of worst first days ever, I would say that my first day at BWH was right up there with the best of them. After the fire alarm, the day had kind of deteriorated. The fire alarm had actually been a false alarm. Don’t get me wrong, I was ever so grateful it had gone off when it had, but what followed was almost equally awful. The entire school was made to stand in the blazing sun at the bottom of the field, while Tasandra (yes, that was her name—with a T) and other members of the evacuation squad ran around clearing each room, one by one. For most students, this didn’t seem to be a problem. In fact, they seemed to be having the time of their lives. A few now-shirtless guys were playing an impromptu game of rugby. Some of the girls, Amber and her gang, were lying in the sun, skirts hiked up catching a tan. Me? I was wearing black and sweating like a pig. I could feel the moisture gathering in all my folds: stomach folds, neck fold, and worst of all, big underboob fold. I was hot, and wet, and uncomfortable, and I wished I’d put on more deodorant.

After being finally allowed back into school, the next unpleasant thing happened. And it happened in isiZulu class. I’d quickly discovered that the only available seat in class was in front of Tasandra, Teagan, and Thembi (now known as the Three Ts in my head), and behind water polo Jake and his two friends. And this, I soon learned, was a special kind of hell. Because every five minutes I was tapped on the shoulder and given a note to pass. This went on for the entire class, and by the end of it, I was sure I had whiplash and seriously wished that Mrs. Ndlovo hadn’t forced us to put our phones in a box at the start of class. Old-school messaging was hard work; a carrier pigeon would have been preferable.