THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY is doomsday, more commonly referred to as casual-clothes day. Casual-clothes day is a massive deal at Mountford. Mountford has a strict uniform policy. Girls have to wear a cream shirt tucked into a blue box-pleated tartan skirt, topped off with a blue V-neck jumper, a ridiculous straw boater and a royal-blue blazer, the cost of which would make you spit out your coffee. Subtract the skirt, add a tie and pants, and you’ve got the boys’ uniform. Shirts need to be buttoned all the way up, and the blazers are compulsory, even in forty-degree heat. All items must be regulation; even socks have to be the exact brand, shade and length decreed by the school.

Teachers stand at the gates before and after school to make sure no student dares to flout the uniform regulations. Mountford even employs undercover uniform spies to lurk near the train station so they can catch offending students once they think they’re out of the danger zone. The uniform rules are enforced so stringently that I guess it makes sense that, once casual-clothes day rolls around, everyone loses their minds over it. It happens once a term, and it’s supposed to be about raising money for charity, but people only pretend to give a shit about that. People (well, let’s be real, girls) discuss what they’re going to wear weeks in advance. It’s more hotly anticipated than a Beyoncé tour.

I’ll be the first to admit that the Mountford uniform makes me feel like I’ve just walked out of the pages of an Enid Blyton book, but it does have its upsides, the most appealing of which is invisibility. Unfortunately, once the uniform’s gone, so is any chance I have of flying under the radar. As a result, I look forward to casual-clothes day about as much as your average colonoscopy.

I never know what to wear, and when I finally do decide, I inevitably discover that I’ve chosen completely the wrong thing. Like the time I arrived at school in year nine wearing black jeans, only to find that all the girls were wearing these hideous sherbet-coloured leggings. It was like they’d prearranged the whole thing, and I was the only one who’d missed the memo. My jeans, which had looked—dare I say—pretty good in my bedroom mirror that morning, suddenly turned into a massive liability. Yes, objectively, it was ridiculous—I mean, why wear what essentially amounts to a uniform on the one day of term you don’t have to wear a uniform?—but it still felt shit to be the one kid left out.

Hence my intense anxiety when I slink into assembly on Wednesday morning. I knew I was wearing the wrong thing before I even left the house; after years of sticking out, I’m pretty much resigned to the inevitable, but still, it doesn’t make the ordeal any easier. Today I’ve chosen jeans, my least-scuffed runners, a bomber jacket, and my ‘It’s time’ T-shirt that I bought for four bucks at an op shop two summers ago. This morning I told my reflection that I didn’t care what everyone else would be wearing. I told myself it was a deliberate choice. That conviction starts to waver, however, when I count seven girls wearing teeny-weeny tight skirts in the assembly hall atrium. Long skinny spray-tanned legs abound. It appears this term is the reign of the micro mini, and I’ve missed the memo, again. Time to brace myself for yet another day of trying to blend into the furniture.

However, something’s different this morning. It starts when I enter the assembly hall. The hall is awash with colour. It feels more crowded than usual, even though there must be the same number of students as always. Girls are busy pretending not to be comparing outfits, and the boys are busy pretending not to be comparing the girls. Among the usual sea of the backs of heads, one face is turned to face the door.

‘Patch! Hey, Patch! Over here!’ Evie calls. She’s sitting in the middle of a row. Abigail and Tamika are on her left and there are two spare seats on her right. ‘We saved you a seat!’ she says.

I give her a happy little wave and try to make myself as small as possible as I squeeze past the other year elevens. Instead of ignoring me, however, more than one person actually makes eye contact. A couple of people even smile. My hands fly to my face to check that I don’t have a booger hanging out of my nose, but everything seems to be in order. I should be invisible. I can’t think what’s changed. I’ve fucked up the dress code yet again, but people are treating me like I belong. It’s disconcerting.

I finally make it to the empty seats and sink into one gratefully. Before I get the chance to catch my breath, Bianca Stanford (of Taiwan-modelling and bellybutton-party-shots fame) leans forward from the seat behind mine and asks, ‘Is that a Gough Whitlam top?’

At first, I don’t realise that she’s talking to me. I mean, what reason would Bianca Stanford have to talk to me? She’s practically a celebrity.

‘Patch?’ Evie rests a hand on my arm.

‘Sorry?’

‘Is that a Gough Whitlam top?’ Bianca asks again.

‘This? Uh, yeah,’ I say, turning in my seat to look at her properly. Her skin is flawless, even up close. She has bee-sting lips and huge eyes that are almost too far apart, giving her the look of a startled baby deer. The overall effect is striking.

‘Vintage. Cute.’ She nods approvingly and settles back in her seat. I barely have time to reflect on how surprising it is that Bianca Stanford recognises a political advertising slogan from the 1970s before the orchestra strikes up the school song. The student body gets to its collective feet with a rumble. Ms Papaevagelou and the other head teachers form a procession, all wearing their academic robes.

‘Hey,’ Evie whispers as the teachers march onto the stage. ‘Where’s Edwin?’

‘Oh, uh…’

With a jolt, I realise that I haven’t even checked to see whether he’s at school. We always sit together in assembly—it’s an unspoken agreement. I twist around, scanning the crowd, and finally spot him five or six rows back. There’s an empty spot next to him, which is clearly saved for me. I feel a guilty twinge. He looks kind of doleful standing there. I start bouncing on the balls of my feet, waving at him and trying to catch his eye, but seeing as I’m shorter than practically everyone around me, it’s not a super-effective strategy. I have to stop when Nadine Kim throws me a dirty look. Reluctantly, I turn back to face the stage. I guess I’ll catch up with him later. It won’t kill him to spend one assembly without me.

‘You look good today,’ Evie says, under cover of the orchestra’s playing.

‘You too,’ I say. It’s the truth. She’s wearing a mini-dress, but it’s different from the other girls’. It has a simple nautical stripe with long sleeves and a boat neck that shows off her collarbones. I’ve never really thought about collarbones before now, but suddenly I’m mesmerised by Evie’s.

Ms Papaevagelou approaches the lectern. The orchestra falls silent.

‘Please be seated,’ the Pap says into the microphone.

We sit with a lot of shuffling and the occasional thunk of a plush upholstered seat being flipped down.

‘Good morning, students. It’s wonderful to see so many of you participating in this term’s casual-clothes day.’ She pauses to flash us a smile that somehow manages to showcase every tooth in her head. ‘As I’m certain you’re all aware, this term’s fundraising efforts will contribute to building schools in Uganda. I’m sure you will all give generously. Please be sure to hand your gold-coin donations to your homeroom teacher, who will pass them on to the fundraising office. International citizenship is part of the Mountford ethos, so I’m pleased to see you all striving to improve the lives of those less fortunate.’ She displays another toothy smile. ‘Next, we have Mr Flynn, who has an important announcement.’

Ms Papaevagelou returns to her seat on the side of the stage to tepid applause, and is replaced at the lectern by Mr Flynn, head of the PE department. His face is always red, regardless of season or level of physical activity. He looks ridiculous in his shorts, runners and academic robes. He grips the sides of the lectern with his meaty hands and leans in too close to the microphone. His voice booms through the speakers.

‘Listen up, folks. Next week’s swimming carnival’s coming up real quick, and there are still stacks of events going, so if you wanna have a go, get in touch with your house swimming captain. There’s no need to try out, it’s all about having fun and doing your best.’

‘You signed up yet?’ Evie says out of the corner of her mouth.

‘I’m a conscientious objector,’ I murmur.

‘Too bad. I’d like you on my team.’ Her mouth quirks up in the corner.

‘Shame we’re not in the same house,’ I whisper. Mr Robinson catches my eye from onstage. He frowns and puts a finger to his lips, silently shushing me.

‘And we’re always looking for more marshals. Sign-up sheets are on the house noticeboards in the tuckshop and everyone’s welcome. Go Mountford!’ Mr Flynn practically yells the last two words into the microphone. It squeals, and we all wince as we dutifully clap.

Tamika leans forward in her seat to look at us. She looks appalled. ‘I’ve changed my mind about my Halloween costume. Forget vampires; that’s the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.’ She gives Evie a significant look and settles back in her seat. Onstage, Ms Atkins is announcing Mountford’s results in the recent inter-school Chemistry Olympics.

‘That reminds me,’ Evie whispers. ‘Are you doing anything on Halloween?’

‘Um, homework?’ I whisper back, keeping a watchful eye on Mr Robinson. He’s watching Ms Atkins and isn’t paying attention to any straggling chatters, but I do my best ventriloquist impression, just in case.

‘Come to Abby’s party,’ Evie says.

The last-hurrah costume party with the catering and cases of champagne. Year eleven has been talking of little else since Abigail released the guest list. Unsurprisingly, I wasn’t on it. Neither was Edwin.

‘You sure she won’t mind?’ I ask, trying to catch a glimpse of Abigail three seats down. She’s picking at a thread on her miniskirt and is apparently unaware of any unofficial party invitations being offered.

‘I’ll talk to her. Please, say you’ll come,’ Evie says, tapping lightly on my knee.

My resolve weakens. ‘Okay, yeah. Sure.’

‘Great.’ Evie is beaming at Ms Atkins, who’s singing the praises of the year-twelve chemistry team, but her finger is still resting on my knee.

‘Can I bring Edwin?’ I ask. If I’m going to be in enemy territory, it’d be nice to have at least one more friendly face.

Evie’s smile becomes a little fixed.

‘Sure, if you like. Is he coming to the gallery this weekend, too?’

‘No, that’s just us.’ I nudge her. ‘You’d better watch out,’ I whisper. ‘Two weekends in a row? Abigail’s going to get jealous.’ It’s meant as a joke, but Evie bites her bottom lip.

‘Maybe keep that between you and me.’