Tacky.

Tacky is tracksuits in public, second-hand school blazers and fourth-hand textbooks, sneakers from Kmart, saying haitch like my Morrison friends do. Bringing your basic sandwiches to school, your family not having a car, living in the wrong suburb, never having the right jeans. Like filth, like smudges on white surfaces. Tacky.

‘How dare you act like you even care.’ Natalia puts her face close to Petra’s. ‘You think you’re better than everyone else, always being so good and so holy, the way you sit back and judge everyone.’

‘I don’t.’ Petra’s voice trickles out.

‘Only a suck like you could have talked Mrs Christie into this. Did you get Daddy on the phone? I guess he does donate millions to the school. Everyone knows why you’re always dux, why you get so many prizes…’

Audrey finally gets the courage to look up. ‘That’s too much, Natalia.’

Natalia doesn’t listen. She pushes herself up and away. I stand there for a moment, waiting for more words to come, but when nothing happens I follow Natalia out.

No one can see you if you sit low on the banks of the oval, in the far corner of the school grounds, close to the outer fence. The grass is lush and soft there, and a cluster of tree ferns and wattles keep the sun at bay.

No one can see you let your face finally crumble, soften around the edges and slide off into misery.

No one can see you, but you can see others: the cars driving down the side street, student specks crossing from the main building to the PE centre, from the music building to the boarding house, back and forth.

You can hear the bells for the end of lunch and the beginning of fifth period.

You can text Katie in peace, begging her to bribe Tim to come pick you up after school so you don’t have to carry this thing on the tram or endure the stares or overhear the whispered gossip.

You can see Lisbeth’s progress as she power-walks across the oval, looking around like she’s committing high treason.

‘Oh, it’s true,’ she says, when she sees Someone’s Watching lying on the grass next to me, collected from one of the impassive secretaries in the main office. Mrs Christie has managed to execute her ban without even seeing me, or even asking me to explain my artwork, or give my side of the story.

‘I’m so sorry, Chloe.’ Lisbeth drops down next to me. ‘I think it’s very unfair to make you remove your photo.’

‘Thanks.’ She’s the first person to say a simple ‘sorry’.