At my house, we crept past the second floor, where we hoped The Wolf was taking his afternoon nap. If he chanced upon us, we were sure he would know, with all the instinct of a perennially victorious General, that we were a fraction of an inch away from toeing the line. Up on the third floor, I flung down my incongruous Nike backpack and jammed the intercom to bellow for lunch. Then I fought to get in a few bites of the biryani between Polo and Button, who attacked the steaming serving bowl like marauders, forgoing cutlery, plates and civility.

‘You’re done. We’re getting late.’ I grabbed the panting Button’s arm as she started to dive into the bowl again and dragged her into my room.

Polo followed us in, yelping and looking away as we changed into our good bras and got one of the grinning maids to iron the creases out of our uniforms.

‘The boys will see you today, yes?’ she said, smoothing my skirt with a hot flick of her hand.

‘Na go.’ Not a chance.

Upon instruction, she slathered a clear layer of glitter polish on to my nails. Button jammed on her favourite headband. Not sure how much perfume to spray on, we drenched ourselves in a dark green bottle of Dior I’d stolen from my mother’s heavily laden dressing table.

I glared at the fried dumpling in the mirror. ‘I look like shit, Button.’

‘You both look like shit.’

‘Polo, get the fuck out of my room or I’ll tell Mom you were looking at porn on my computer.’

‘I wasn’t!’

‘So?’

‘You’re a fucking bitch.’

‘And you’re an annoying little dick, but we all have our cross to bear. Now get out.’

Button locked the door behind him. ‘You’re so mean to him.’

‘I think he has a crush on you.’

‘DO NOT!’

I yanked the door open and kicked him somewhere in the region of his balls. Howling retribution, he hobbled away.

‘Dude!’

‘What?’

‘You’re going to break his—you know—’ she gestured in the general direction of her legs, ‘his reproductive thingies!’

‘Please, he’s a kid. He doesn’t need reproductive thingies. Tell me what to do about this!’ I jabbed at the ugly mirror.

Button stared at both of us in it and sighed.

The problem was that sometimes, like now, we felt like the real girls, but we never got to look like them.

The grounds of St Jude’s were electric with the expectation of debutante hormones. People constantly moved in and around the main orange-and-blue shamiana and there was a smorgasbord of uniforms milling all over the grounds, sometimes disappearing in pairs and fours; make-outs for the pretty, while the pimpled and pudgy stood guard as lookouts.