I watched as the first very cute little Year One student was handed a rose by a Year Twelve student.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Dad hugging Caitlin, who was dabbing her face with a tissue. And then the little kids receiving roses from all of the dorky Year Twelve kids made me feel embarrassed. It felt so cheesy, or something. At my old school, Wattleside High, you had to really accomplish things for people to be nice to you. You weren’t handed a rose without blood, sweat and tears.

After the rose ceremony, I waved goodbye to Dad and Caitlin and Ingrid led me into the school hall, which all of the high school students began to fill. In comparison to my old school, the fifty or so kids who made up the senior students were the equivalent of a small class size. But being around that number of kids who I didn’t know was enough to make me anxious. Especially because I noticed what they were all wearing, now that everyone wasn’t sitting on the lawn. There wasn’t any style to be found between them. Some girls wore board shorts, some long skirts, others long-sleeved shirts or baggy T-shirts and not one of them wore make-up. The boys were equally unfashionable, some of them with near-afro hairdos and wearing board shorts with boots. There were lots of kids wearing Birkenstocks with socks.

The other thing that I noticed was that there didn’t seem to be any other Aboriginal kids. I scanned the room and it seemed like there was one kid of Asian heritage, and pretty much everyone else was white. I thought, how could you agree to this, Dad? At least there were a handful of us spread across Wattleside High. From what I could tell, I was the only Aboriginal kid here. It made me feel really unsafe. If some kid said something bad about my mob at Wattleside, I could speak with my other Aboriginal schoolmates about it and get some support. There wouldn’t be anything like that here.

‘Welcome to our first morning circle for the year,’ said Ingrid. ‘For those of you who may have forgotten the words to our songs or blessings over the summer, there are printed copies here.’ She pointed at a chair. Then she said, ‘Okay, let’s break into sopranos, altos and bass.’ I had no idea what was going on as students happily shifted around the room. Ingrid handed me a pamphlet. ‘Please sing,’ she told me with a smile.

‘Will screaming be okay?’ I asked, terrified.

She grinned. ‘Do what comes naturally.’

What came naturally was trying to hide behind Ingrid as I watched the other students sing.

‘The tide ebbs and flows

We dance under the shadows

The cherry flowers float with the breeze …’

Wearing a serious-singing-teacher face, Ingrid scouted the circle with a crumpled brow and made sure that everyone was singing their hearts out. She stared straight at me and gave me an I’m going to kill you if you don’t sing smile, before she turned her attention to a blonde white kid wearing an Adelaide Crows footie shirt who was singing his guts out.