I sit on the front ledge of the pizza shop next door, finally get my backpack off my shoulders, and watch cars and bikes and trams slide by. Why would Natalia act so desperate to see me all holidays and then not look out for me at all?

My annoyance grows.

Vulva artist was a tool.

Smoke from a nearby group hits me in the face so I move even further up the ledge, closer to where a girl sits with a can of lemonade.

She glances at me. ‘Intense in there, right?’

I nod.

‘Way too intense,’ she repeats.

We fall quiet. Metres away from us, in front of a backdrop of passing cars, a soap opera plays out.

A skinny girl in platform boots starts berating this guy, poking him in the chest. A friend of the upset girl grabs her around the waist and tries to haul her away, but she’s only half her size.

The girl sitting next to me gives me such an exaggerated and comical look that I laugh. She holds out a packet of gum and I take a piece. The taste of cheap beer lingers in my mouth.

‘I’ve got to warn you, this flavour’s not for everyone. It’s cinnamon.’ She holds out her hand for me to shake. ‘I’m Adut.’

‘Chloe.’ Then realisation hits me. ‘Wait. Is that you up there? Are those your photos?’

She confirms it.

‘I don’t believe it. I love your photos. They’re the only thing I really liked.’ With some effort I force my mouth shut, before I truly embarrass myself.

‘Shhh, the other artists might hear you.’

Adut looks pleased. When I look closer, I do recognise her from the photos, but her hair is shaved in an undercut now, with two tight bleached braids on top.

‘It’s hell standing around listening to people talk about your art,’ she says. ‘That’s why I’m out here.’

‘I’d be so nervous,’ I say. ‘I noticed you didn’t put up an artist statement like the others did.’

She smiles. ‘I have to describe my work so much at art school. I get tired of it. I want my work to speak for itself.’

‘What do you say though, when people ask you what your art is about?’

Adut thinks for only a moment. ‘I say it’s about decolonisation and identity and migration and recognising the traditional owners of this land.’

‘That’s amazing,’ I say foolishly, but how does a person get to the point where they can say so succinctly and without apology what they are doing? ‘Do you go to VCA?’

‘That place? Full of private school wankers. I’m at RMIT, doing my masters. There’s a better range of students, different sorts of people, and the lecturers are good. Working artists, you know?’

I don’t know, but I nod.

‘How about you, Chloe?’