At the end of the class, Michael said, ‘We’ll learn more about Aboriginal history soon. And Phoebe, maybe think about whether there’s anything in particular that you’d like me to teach the class.’

No teacher had ever given me an opportunity like that before. I sat there, nodding – impressed, even. And then I felt really confused. On the one hand, I wanted Dad to send me back to my old school, but telling Dad about Matilda’s Wild West attitude would only make life hard for me. I knew he’d be marching up to the school in no time.

Michael continued, ‘In addition to looking at Aboriginal histories, we’ll endeavour to look at the histories of the broadest range of people who came to this country. I’m interested in learning the histories of your own families …’

At recess, I decided not to play basketball with the others. Instead, I sat beside the court and ate the fruit and muffin that Caitlin had packed. All I wanted was to be invisible for a little while and chill. It was weird because Matilda asked me if I wanted to join the game, as if nothing had even happened. And that made me feel worse, knowing that she was oblivious to the impact her comments had on me. As I munched on my food, watching the others play, I’d never felt so rejected.

It was at that moment that I wished I was really back at Wattleside High. If I were there, I could go to the Aboriginal Student Room and talk things through with some of the older Aboriginal students at my school or the Aboriginal support teacher. And if no one was there, I’d at least not feel so alone, surrounded by Aboriginal art and posters of successful Aboriginal people from sportspeople to politicians, lawyers and doctors. There was even a framed article about my dad in that room. If there were other Aboriginal kids at my school, or an Aboriginal Student Room, I could ask other students how they felt and how things turned out for them in their Year Eleven history class. Right now, I felt like a lamb thrown to a pack of wolves.

After recess, I followed the others, dragging myself into the music room. Ingrid was playing violin as we walked into the class and took our seats. She was amazing, really professional, like something you’d see on television. People chatted among themselves but when she held her violin bow above her head, everyone fell silent.

‘Welcome to the beginning of our music practice,’ she said. ‘I’m very excited to see how you’ve developed over the summer holidays,’ and then, looking at me, ‘and I look forward to discovering your talents and helping to highlight them.’

There are no talents, there’s nothing to highlight, I thought to myself, wanting to hide beneath my desk.

Ingrid didn’t waste any time in torturing me. ‘As you’re all aware, the music performance night is on 20th June. It is the major assessment for the year, and of course you’ll be graded on your individual practice, and performance in Christmas celebrations. For today, to help you to ease back into things, you’re free to use a rehearsal space, to play by yourself or with others. Towards the end of the class you can choose to perform to the class or not.’