It hadn’t crossed my mind—not for a second—that my work would cause such a scene. I went to Twitter, and then to Instagram, to the hashtag #Iambeautiful and read through some of the comments.

It makes you see things from a different perspective, one person Tweeted.

I’ve been stepping over that hole for months, wishing it was fixed, but now I hope they never do, someone else posted.

Excitement filled me. My hair stood on end and something prickled at the base of my neck. But the excitement was short-lived, because when I stepped out of the toilet, Thembi was waiting for me.

“Thembi . . . uh . . . hi!” I stammered stupidly. She looked gorgeous, as usual. She was wearing a pristine white jumpsuit and white sneakers. The white looked even brighter against her dark skin. It seemed like an outfit that was so impossibly unattainable for a girl like me—I’m not sure jumpsuits were intended for people who weren’t svelte and slinky, and also, how do you keep something like that so clean? And yet, here it was, gleaming. As if it had been bleached. Her clothes were different from everyone else’s at school; they seemed high fashion, as if she was about to hit the catwalk.

“Hey, Lori!” she said quickly. It was the first time I’d heard her say my name; it was weird.

“What are you doing here?” I moved to the sink and washed my hands, even though I hadn’t gone to the toilet. But I wouldn’t want her thinking I was some kind of dirty nonwasher.

“I was waiting for you,” she declared matter of factly. She had a peculiar way about her. Her voice was somewhat monotone, and everything that came out of her mouth seemed to hold the same relevance, whether she was saying your name or telling you she’d seen Andy Warhols.

I turned the tap off and hung my head. “If this is about the dress, I’m sorry I didn’t hang it up, I was in a rush.”

“I gathered that,” she said. I forced myself to look at her in the mirror, desperately trying not to show any emotion, or, well, anything that would give away what I was feeling inside.

“Did you see that art on the street yesterday morning?” she asked. “It’s actually just across the road from the shop.” She walked over to the mirror and pulled a lipstick from her bag. She dragged the color across her mouth—a dark, matte mauve. She was so pretty.

“No,” I shook my head, lying.

“It’s cool.”

“Cool!” I repeated. There was an awkward lull in the conversation as she stared at my reflection in the mirror.

“I could make it, if you want?” she blurted out, turning to face me. “A dress. For your dad’s wedding.”

“Sorry?”