“So look at me!” Colour rises in my cheeks. I stand up and throw off the robe. I feel naked despite the still damp swimsuit. “Look at these huge hips, these ridiculous boobs that you can see more of from the back than the front, these chubby arms!”

“What are you talking about?” Tracey puts the pizza slice down and comes to stand in front of me.

“Here, look.” She turns me towards the full-length mirror by the window. “Let me tell you what I see.” Her face is framed over my shoulder and I search it for clues as to whether she is going to tell me the truth or spin me some barely disguised lie. Be nice to the rich girl. Her hands are on the tops of my arms, her palms warm, her fingers long. “I see curves to die for, boobs that make a statement, sure, but skin that is clear, like milk, and thick wavy hair. I see beautiful eyes and a lovely, open, heart-shaped face.” Her hand reaches up and brushes my hair from my face. “I think you’re lovely.”

I feel awkward, uncomfortable. But I’m also tingling, the skin beneath her fingers alive, the nerve ends firing.

“So if you want to eat pizza, then eat the fucking pizza,” she says, then grabs her slice and shoves it into her grinning mouth.

I laugh, more to break the awkwardness I’m feeling. “Fine, I’ll eat the pizza.”

*

We change into pyjamas and I turn on the small television on my desk, flicking through the channels as we finish off the pizza. There isn’t much to watch. Tracey goes through my music collection and chooses something to listen to, but I stop her from putting it on, saying, “They’ll hear it downstairs. But we can go up to the attic. They won’t hear us up there. Wait here.”