‘Sorry, Chloe!’ Bochen gives me a big smile but I can tell she’s trying to escape. ‘You’re so talented! You’re going to beat my ass at this prize!’

‘It’s not for—’ I dribble out, but she’s gone. The heat from my cheeks spreads up my face and heads for my tear ducts.

‘Bochen is failing maths and her parents are threatening to bring her back home if her grades don’t improve.’

I turn my head away from Natalia and blink fast. ‘Why are you telling me this? No, actually, why are you still here?’

‘She doesn’t have time to help you, she’s cramming. It’s nothing personal.’

‘I’m not taking it personally!’ I say, too loudly. I stomp down the corridor. I feel foolish for not knowing the first thing about Bochen’s life, despite our friendly conversations, when apparently Natalia knows everything about her. She even tried to warn me, which only makes me feel worse.

‘Your folio is really good.’ Natalia follows me. ‘You’ve done a lot of work.’

‘Doing a lot of work doesn’t matter if your ideas are shit.’

‘Who said your ideas are shit?’

‘Shouldn’t you find your minions? Or are you coming to the tuckshop with me?’

She ignores my questions. ‘Turn to that page with the crime books.’

I hold my defiled folio tighter. ‘I know the one you mean.’

Dead Girl Walking. When She Left. The Wife You Knew.

‘They remind me of that TV show, Devil Creek? Do you know it? My minions love it.’

I’m quiet but listening. I slow down.

‘Devil Creek is totally dead girl porn. A bit like some of those covers. We should watch it together some time.’

I let that weird invitation slide. But the name, Devil Creek, sounds familiar.

‘What about me?’ says Natalia. ‘I’ll be your model if you ask nicely.’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

Too posey, I think, too obvious. I think of the dark and delicate and subtle things I want to express and Natalia is not any of them. I jangle my tuckshop money in my skirt pocket as we walk. ‘Why do you want to help me?’

We stop and I stare at her innocent angel face, which hides the personality of a demon. I try to figure out if she’s making fun of me.

‘It’s not about helping.’ Said as if it’s a dirty word. ‘You’re going to do this thing, it’s going to win the art prize, and I’ll be part of it. I’ll bask in your glory, or whatever.’

‘I’m not doing this for the prize.’

‘What? This is going to be good, I can tell already. You should go for gold.’