THANKFULLY, IT’S FRIDAY. I know, I know—everyone loves Fridays. TGIF, wine o’clock, all that crap. But the thing is, Friday really is my favourite day of the week. Not only does it usher in the weekend, but I also have life drawing after school, which is the highlight of my week. The art department’s one of the only places at school where I can let my guard down. It smells comfortingly familiar, like oil paints, clay and wood shavings. The room at the end of the hall where we have our classes is small and bathed in sunlight. It’s on the fourth floor and looks out into the tops of the trees that line the oval, making you feel like you’re a bird in a nest. There’s a paint-splattered radio playing Classic FM, and the room has the sleepy contented feeling of hanging suspended in time. By the end of every week—but especially after the weird last period I’ve just had—life drawing is exactly where I need to be.

I know I’m lucky to have access to something like a weekly life-drawing class. One of the reasons Dad was so keen for me to sit the scholarship exam is that Mountford has heaps of amazing resources. The school’s so established and has so much money that it can offer basically any extra-curricular activity you can think of. I mean, there are fencing lessons, scuba-diving excursions, and a French pastry club that meets every Tuesday after school.

After waving goodbye to Edwin, I hoist my backpack a little higher and strike out for the art department. Another perk of spending Friday afternoons there is that it’s right next door to the gym. Is it really my fault that the quickest route to class is to cut through the sports corridor where I might catch a glimpse of Evie Vanhoutte, pink-cheeked and pounding up and down the basketball court?

It seems I’m out of luck today, though, because the courts are silent. Training must have been cancelled. Where there’s usually the sound of runners squeaking on polished wood, people shouting to each other and the shrill blast of whistles, there’s only the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights and the sound of my Doc Martens clomping down the hall like I’m the only person left in the world. It’s an eerie feeling and I don’t manage to shake it until I leave the gym and climb the stairs to the art department.

Ms Loh smiles at me as I come in. Her hair’s up in a twist, and she’s wearing her usual assortment of chunky silver rings. She’s setting up the easels in a circle around a raised dais. The model is sitting in her dressing-gown in the corner and drinking a cup of tea. She looks like she’s at home in her kitchen, rather than in a fancy private school about to take her kit off. She and Ms Loh are chatting about the African Women in Art exhibition at the National Gallery. Slowly, the other students trickle in. I pick an easel by the windows and unpack my pencils and charcoal. I can finally relax. This is where I get how things are supposed to go.

Once we’re all assembled, Ms Loh calls for our attention. ‘All right, gang, listen up. This is Genevieve, and she’s our model today.’ Genevieve waggles her fingers cheerfully. ‘We’re going to start with a couple of five-minute sketches, and then settle in for a longer pose. There’s extra charcoal and ink on the bench if anyone needs them.’

Genevieve removes her dressing-gown, drapes it on the back of her chair, and hops up onto the dais. She’s about forty-five, with grey-streaked ginger hair and silvery stretch marks on her thighs and belly. Her shoulders are dark with freckles. She settles into a pose with her hands behind her head and one hip cocked. Ms Loh twists the kitchen timer and sets it to five minutes. All I can hear is its soft ticking and the gentle scratch of charcoal on paper.

It doesn’t take long before I start to get that familiar feeling where the model’s body stops looking like a person and more like a warm, breathing object. My brain quietens down and my limbs loosen up. I focus on the curve of the small of Genevieve’s back, the dimples in her thighs, the angle of her shoulder blades as her arms stretch up to catch her hair.

Ms Loh moves slowly around the room, giving feedback. She stops behind me. ‘Nice work, Patch. Remember how we talked about negative space a couple of weeks ago?’

She moves on to the next easel, and then the next.

‘Hello, I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,’ she says.

And then a horribly familiar voice makes my stomach plummet into my shoes.

‘No, it’s my first time. I’ve always wanted to try life drawing, but it usually clashes with basketball. Training was cancelled today though, so I thought I’d come by. I hope that’s okay?’

‘Of course, that’s fine, honey. I’ll just pop your name on the list—Abigail, isn’t it?’

Abigail. It’s Abigail Richards. Sucking up to Ms Loh like M&Ms wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Abigail is all sweet and innocent with teachers, so of course Ms Loh isn’t to know what she’s really like. She might be able to fool Ms Loh, but I have a feeling Abigail isn’t here to learn how to depict negative space.

The timer buzzes and Genevieve shifts her pose. I flip my paper over to start a new sketch. I try in vain to see the negative space below her armpit. My relaxed mood has evaporated. Knowing that Abigail is two easels away has put me right on edge. I couldn’t focus on drawing if I tried. My fingers are clumsy, and I can’t get the proportions right on Genevieve’s torso. I don’t need Ms Loh to tell me it’s crap; when she does come around, she raises her eyebrows and says nothing.

By the time the buzzer signals the end of the second sketch, I’m running at a low, steady hum of anxiety. I try to tell myself that it doesn’t matter if Abigail Richards is here, but the anxiety persists.

There’s still another forty-five minutes left of the class. I briefly consider skipping out early, but this is my territory. I can’t let Abigail scare me off. I jam my earbuds in, blast Ngaiire, and try to breathe in time with the music. Her voice soars from ‘Count to Ten’ into ‘Fireflies’. It doesn’t help much, but it does help.

I pick up my charcoal and start sketching. Genevieve is now perched on a stool. I still have a knot in my stomach, but at least it’s only medium-sized. I keep breathing deeply. I’m focusing so hard on Genevieve’s breast that I barely notice Ms Loh leaving the room.

Ngaiire is singing ‘Novacaine’. Something moves in my peripheral vision. I jump and whip around, ripping out my earbuds. Abigail is standing right behind me, holding a pot of ink. She’s smiling, which I know from experience is not a good sign.

‘What do you want?’ I say.

‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ she says, waving one hand airily. ‘Just getting a refill.’ She raises the pot of ink in my direction like she’s toasting me with champagne.

‘Great, well, looks like you’re all stocked. You can go back to your easel now.’

‘Hey there, no need to be rude. I’m just having a look.’ She takes a step closer, inspecting my drawing. ‘Wow, Patch, this is really good. Do you mind if I—’

Abigail leans in over my shoulder and, as she tilts, so does her ink pot. It’s full to the brim, and then it isn’t. It’s splattered all over me and my sketch. My school dress, cold and wet, clings to my legs. Ink trickles down into my socks, blooming black through the white cotton. She did it on purpose. I know she did. There’s no way this could be unintentional. I feel goosebumps rising, whether from the cold or the humiliation, I’m not sure. Once again, Abigail has made me feel like a hot mess, only this time I look like one, too.

‘Oh my god! Patch, I’m so sorry! Here, let me help you!’

She waves a stack of paper towels in my direction. I can feel a lump rising in my throat. I will myself not to cry, but my vision’s blurring and all I can see is a flurry of rustling white and the ruins of my drawing, and somewhere among it all is Abigail’s symmetrical, pretty face, made ugly by the hard look in her eyes. She reaches over to me to mop up the ink, but I slap her hand away.

‘Don’t fucking touch me!’ I hiss. I shove past her and stumble towards the door. As I’m leaving, I hear Abigail say, ‘Wow, touchy much? It was just an accident!’

I pelt down the deserted corridor, flecks of black ink spraying onto the lino with every step. I just make it to the toilets before I start to cry, big heaving sobs of fury and humiliation. What the fuck is that bitch’s problem?

I inspect the damage in the mirror. My uniform is completely ruined. A huge black stain spreads from my right shoulder all the way down to the hem. I fumble with the buttons, but my fingers are shaking, so I just yank the whole thing over my head. I shove it into the sink, blast the cold tap, and start scrubbing the stain with hand soap. I’m in my underwear, shoes and ink-stained socks, bent over my uniform and sobbing loudly when I hear a toilet flush.

Oh my god.

I freeze. My dress is floating in a grey soapy soup in the sink. I’m completely exposed. Whoever’s in the cubicle is unlocking the door. They’re coming out. I see long dark hair and legs for days.

It’s Evie.

My stomach drops past my shoes, past the basement, down to the core of the earth, where it’s surrounded by hot lava and dinosaur bones. Evie stops and stares at me. I wish she wouldn’t. There’s no situation I can conceive of that could be worse than standing in front of Evie Vanhoutte, ink-smeared, tear-stained and in mismatched underwear from Kmart. This was not the charmingly irresistible introduction I’d hoped for. I wait for the bowels of hell to swallow me whole, but sadly, they’re not forthcoming.

Instead, Evie steps forward.

‘Shit, are you okay?’ she asks. I nod, struck dumb. She washes her hands at a free sink, watching me in the mirror all the while.

‘You don’t look okay. I mean, you seem pretty upset.’

I shrug, and then nod again. This Marcel Marceau act is sure to win her over. Maybe I should mime peeling a banana.

‘You’re Patch, right? I’m Evie.’

‘I know.’

Two-word answers. I’m making progress.

‘Right.’ Evie smiles. ‘We’re in the same homeroom, yeah?’

Sure, we’re in the same homeroom. Of course, if by ‘homeroom’ she means ‘Patch’s daily personal unrequited love hell’.

She’s smiling blithely at me, waiting for confirmation. I try to speak, but my voice is thick from crying. I can feel my face going red. I clear my throat and try again. ‘Yeah, I’ve seen you around.’

‘I wasn’t sure. I sit opposite you sometimes, I think.’

‘Yeah, I think so.’

Like I don’t know. Like I don’t position myself in that exact seat whenever I can for the express purpose of being near her.

This is not going well. I’m so acutely aware of my practically naked body and of being in such close proximity to the girl of my dreams that I can barely string more than two words together. I cross my arms over my chest. Evie glances down at my boobs and then quickly looks back at my face. I feel a tiny piece of my soul die right then and there.

Most days, I quite like my body. It gets me from A to B and allows me to eat as much dairy as I like. However, under the cold fluorescent lights of the art-department toilets and the glance, however fleeting, of a super-fit basketball champion, I’m suddenly embarrassed by it. I wish I’d bothered to shave my legs all the way up, rather than only the bits up to my school dress, and I really, really wish I’d worn nicer undies. I press back against the sink, trying to hide them.

Tactfully, Evie looks away. Her gaze falls on my sodden dress in the sink. ‘Ah, crap. You can’t go home in that. Do you have anything else to wear?’

I shrug. ‘I’ll stick it under the dryer for a bit.’

‘That’ll take forever. I think I’ve got something. Hold this for me.’

She hands me her backpack. The straps are still warm from sitting against her shoulders. I grip them, dumbstruck, while Evie unzips it and starts rummaging inside. We’re standing so close together that we’re only separated by the backpack. I can feel heat radiating off her body, and I can smell her shampoo. She smells like apples.

Eventually she tugs something from the depths of her bag—a shiny, silky, royal blue something. She shakes it out.

‘It’s probably a bit big for you, but at least it’s clean. And dry.’

She smiles. She’s offering her basketball uniform to me. To wear. On my actual body. This can’t be happening.

‘I can’t take that.’

‘Well, you can’t wear that dress.’

She does have a point.

She turns away to give me some privacy, which is a bit of a joke seeing as she’s already seen me in my underwear, but it’s sweet nonetheless. I slip the singlet over my head. It falls to mid-thigh. The shorts are past my knees, but at least they’re staying up.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘You can turn around now.’

When she does, she looks me up and down and smiles her beautiful big smile that she usually reserves for people like Abigail. That smile spreads heat out from my chest right down to the tips of my toes.

‘How do I look?’ I ask, taking a risk and striking an America’s-Next-Top-Model pose.

Evie laughs. ‘Oh my god, like a total babe!’

I know she’s kidding, but I grin at her. She smiles back. My stomach is doing joyful somersaults. Suddenly, talking to Evie feels so simple. It’s just like joking around with Edwin, except I don’t want to kiss Edwin. I really want to kiss Evie, and it occurs to me just how small these toilets are. With one step I could be touching her. I mean, I never in a million zillion years would actually do it, but if I were a different person, if I were brave, I could totally just step forward and kiss her.

There’s an abrupt knock at the door and just like that the moment’s gone.

Ms Loh calls through the door, ‘Patch? Are you in there?’

Evie looks startled. ‘I’d better go, Patch. Gotta catch my train. I’ll see you around.’

She swings her backpack onto one shoulder, smiles at me one more time, and walks out.

There goes the most beautiful girl in the world. She smells like apples, she knows my name, and she laughed at my joke. I think I’m in heaven.

Did I mention that Friday’s my absolute undisputed favourite day of the week? Because it totally, completely, one hundred per cent is.