Look, to put it in perspective, my new drama partner’s nails are never ragged, never chipped, and are freshly painted with a subtle flesh colour, so she doesn’t get bust for wearing nail polish. Weekends I see her in skinny jeans, size thirty, must be, and strapless tops with good quality bras to keep her safe, if you know what I mean.

Me, I wear my auntie’s tracksuits to cover what happened to my body just before I turned sixteen. I’m like a cross between a young girl and a sofa. A pillow on my bum and one in front. My mother’s boyfriend teased me about my new shape, not perverted or creepy, just nasty, as if he was trying to kick my confidence.

But never mind him. I’ve got my crazy, compulsive-talking auntie who wants to try and build me up. “Why don’t you wear a nice skirt and a pretty top?” she says. “I promise you Phumza, you will look like a model.”

I study Nomhle surreptitiously, as she’s gracefully wilting on the stage while Teach Mahlangu keeps reading out his list, dropping his bombs. I forgot to mention that she is the school’s record holder for high jump. And she gets the maths and Xhosa and English prize every time. The only thing I’ve ever got is a creative writing certificate in the first term, back when I was still trying.

I hate her. I love her. I want so badly to be Nomhle.

The drama teacher finishes his list. He smiles evilly. “Right! Find your new partner and share your ideas!”

Nomhle and I sidle towards each other reluctantly. I lean against the brick wall, act nonchalant, but I would rather be diving out of the door, skidding down the corridor. Nomhle bends her knees a little to be level with me.

“Any ideas?” There is a something hopeless in the way she looks at me. I know what she’s thinking: How on earth is this possible?

I know from a creative writing book in the library that the first thing you should refine is character. It says you need to see the person in their ordinary life before you can go and put them in a crisis.

But I’m not exactly going to suggest this to Nomhle. Tell her how I sleep in my dead cousin’s bed, I keep my things in his wardrobe. How every waking minute my Auntie Sesethu chats as if to cover up the fact that I am a sixteen-year-old girl with a big bum, big boobs and star-shaped earrings – not a skeleton son who got so bad at the end that he was begging at the entrance to the township.

I shake my head stupidly. “Uh uh.” For once I have nothing to say, and that’s saying a lot for someone who has lost a whole family for giving lip. Nomhle and I avoid each other’s eyes, suffer the awkward silence.

One pair of drama students are huddled uncomfortably on the stairs. Another mismatched pair sits against the wall with their knees up, both of them protecting their hearts and their stomachs. Nomhle turns back to me, her dismay perfectly obvious on her face.

“Should we just split up and think about it?”

I can’t help laughing. “Well that’s a good way to start sharing, isn’t it?”

Nomhle doesn’t see the funny side. She shrugs. “Can we meet later at your place?”

***

Tell us what you think: Does Phumza have a realistic view of her own body?