But nothing I owned seemed right. And you need to wear the right thing on your first day. Something that gives off the vibe that you didn’t try too hard, but that you tried just hard enough.

“Hurry.” My mother’s voice raced up the stairs and burst into my room like an unwanted guest. I’d already told her she didn’t need to take me to school—I had my own car—but she was insistent. “I’m going to be late for my meeting!” She sounded rushed and angry, which had been her general vibe for a while now, certainly since that fateful day four years ago—the day the doves cried, as I’ve come to call it in my head.

“Late, late, late,” my brother echoed. Zac often repeats words. I try not to swear in front of him, not since the unfortunate crap, crap, crap incident.

I forced myself to face the mirror again. On some days, I can look at myself for longer than a few seconds; today was not one of those days. My pale, flabby thighs that touched, my stomach that oozed over the top of my very unsexy panties, and worse, my “hellos and good-byes”—those flappy bits of fat on your arms that jiggle when you wave at people. I try not to wave.

“Aaargh.” I covered my face and turned away from the evil thing again. I’ve long suspected that mirrors were invented by some gorgeous, stick-thin, yet completely sinister, creature for the sole purpose of tormenting girls like me.

I reached for the nearest outfit I could find: my most comfortable pair of worn jeans and a cute, vintage, button-up blouse I’d found at a little secondhand shop with the boys—my BFFs—Andile and Guy. At art school there were four distinct groups: art kids, drama kids, music kids, and dance kids. For some reason, I’d made friends with the ballet guys pretty early on. We’d just found each other, like attracting magnets, and since then we’d moved around school like a little impenetrable team. I missed them so much . . . and we’d been separated for only seven days.

I tugged my jeans on. They felt a little tighter than usual, probably from all the stress eating I’d been doing lately: carbs really are from the devil (perhaps also invented by the same person who gave us mirrors?). I pulled them up, trying to cover the muffin top, but not pulling them so high that I was now sporting a gigantic camel toe. The black, collared blouse also felt like it was straining across my bust. I adjusted my bra, trying to flatten the ladies, but clearly they were also protesting today, because they weren’t going anywhere.

And then there was my hair, the massive mop of curls that I’d long given up on trying to wrangle with a straightener.