The day sort of tumbled on from there. I went from one class to another in a silent daze. Moving through the crowds of people, down the passages, and up the flights of stairs . . . alone. This was nothing like art school. Firstly, there was no art here, other than some after-school club, and secondly, everything was so formal, despite the lack of school uniforms. Desks and chairs and lines and neat rows. Also, the kids here were completely different from the ones I was used to. Everyone here seemed so made up—perfect, polished, pretty. I felt so uncomfortable here; every step I took felt like I was wading through a swamp of quicksand that was trying to suck me under. And then it was lunchtime.

I hate eating in front of people. I’m scared that like my mom, they might also be taking an inventory of everything I put into my mouth. Watching the fat girl eat with curiosity, like an animal in the zoo. So I walked straight out of the cafeteria and strolled around school, and without Teagan by my side, I noticed things I hadn’t seen the day before, like all the #motivational posters on the walls.

I find this kind of thing so distasteful. Like those motivational speakers who ooze fake humility in that totally pseudo, sincere manner. Big smiles, power suits, gelled hair, telling you how they used to get bullied when they were young and understand what you’re going through—And for only R999.99 you can be like them if you buy their Ten Steps to Success program, guaranteed to give you brighter, whiter, bigger smiles, thicker wallets, and thinner thighs, but wait, there’s more. I stopped and read a poster.

“‘Good, better, best. Never let it rest.’” Ugh.

“‘Today’s struggle is tomorrow’s strength.’” Double ugh. But the next one made me stop dead in my tracks.

“‘When you start seeing your worth, you’ll find it harder to stay around people who don’t.’”

My worth. The word punched me in the gut. Most of my worth had been tied up in the fact I was an artist. People knew that, they respected that, I was even semicool because of it. But any semblance of cool I’d once possessed, had been left behind in Joburg, with my old life. I walked all the way down to the field at the far end of the school. There was a really nice tree there that provided just the right amount of dappled shade. In the distance, some guys—the jocky ones—were tossing a rugby ball around. And because I didn’t want them to think that I was there to watch—that would be mortifying—I turned my back to the field and sat down.