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Leonardo da Vinci once said that when you looked at your work in a mirror and saw it reversed, it would look like some other painter’s work, and then you’d be a better judge of its faults.

I stood, feet anchored to the ground like they were sprouting roots into the carpet beneath me, and glared at the mirror in front of me. It glared back. Flat, shiny, and unrelenting. So utterly bloody unrelenting that I wanted to toss something at it just to break its icy stare. Shatter it, like it was so fond of shattering me.

When I couldn’t take it a second longer, I turned my back on the thing, pulled yet another T-shirt off, and tossed it to the floor. My previous school was easy; I’d wake up each morning and slip on our black and white uniform, no mirror needed. But everything was different now, and it wasn’t just the lack of a school uniform that made it that way. In fact, it couldn’t be more different if my mother had decided to uproot the family and move us to one of Jupiter’s far-flung moons.

I’m a city girl. Born and bred. And up until seven days ago, we’d lived in a penthouse in one of Johannesburg’s cool, newly renovated downtown areas. My school, the Art School, where I was studying fine art, was only a few blocks away. After class, my friends and I would walk the streets lined with coffee shops, art galleries, and vintage clothing and record stores, and hang out in our favorite place, the smoky, laid-back jazz café, Maggie’s.

At night, I’d sit at my window and watch the city below spring to life. I loved listening to the frantic symphony of the city. A soundscape of honking taxis, shrieking police sirens, rushing, shouting, pushing people. Everything so alive. Everything pounding, blaring, screaming, and growling at you.

I’d gaze at the brightly colored lights of the Nelson Mandela Bridge that took you right into the thumping heart of the city. Johannesburg. Joburg. Jozi. It’s called many things. But my favorite name is its isiZulu one: Egoli, Place of Gold. Which is exactly what it is when the sun dips down and the city lights flicker on, casting that warm, molten glow across the tops and sides of the skyscrapers.

Gold’s my favorite color, by the way. But there’s no gold here. Looking out of my bedroom window all I could see now was blue, the massive sea stretching to the horizon, reaching up into a never-ending cloudless sky. An infinity of it.

Blue . . . it’s such a simple color, really. A primary color.

Gold, however, well, that’s another story. It’s complex. Layered. Much harder to create, and it’s also so much more than just a color. Gold contains a certain magic, an extravagance, a mystique.

I tried to sigh but the breath got caught in my esophagus. I turned my back on the window now too. I’ve never liked the sea. Too much water. Too much sand. Besides, I’m not exactly a bikini kinda gal. I haven’t been beach-body ready since, well, forever. How ironic then that I’ve landed here, in the middle of bikini-Barbie, thigh-chafing hell.

Clifton, Cape Town. A place where you’re either wearing activewear because you’ve just left your early morning gym sesh—green smoothie in hand—or you’re in swimwear ’cause you’re headed to the beach, green smoothie in hand. And don’t even get me started on what it’s like when the sun goes down. Let’s just say you won’t find a moody jazz club on these streets. It’s more upscale eateries, shucked oysters, and cham-bloody-pagne.

Currently, I’m staging a silent protest against my mother for uprooting my life and dragging me here. But what’s new? My mother and I have been locked in a kind of protest for the last four years now.

I do, however, understand why we came here. I just can’t help feeling that I wasn’t consulted. Which I wasn’t. The closest thing to a consultation came when she’d walked into my bedroom three weeks ago and declared, We’re moving to Cape Town. She might as well have detonated an atomic bomb—that’s how it felt as I sat on my bed and saw my entire life explode into a million pieces.

We came here for my brother, Zac. I’m not blaming him for this, how could I—I love him more than I can probably describe. He’s nine. He’s also specially abled, as my mother prefers to say. She enjoys upbeat euphemisms, but between you and me, he’s on the autism spectrum.

Over the last few years, his symptoms had gotten worse, until his school had finally “suggested” that he attend a facility “better aligned with his unique needs.” (Everyone likes euphemisms, it seems.) So, after a quick google search by my mother, the best assisted learning school in the country was located, and now here we are. Sunny, beachy, activewear central—with green smoothie in hand.

“Crap!” I pulled yet another outfit off and tossed it to the floor, adding to the massive patchwork of clothes that lay twisted at my feet. My floor was starting to look like a Hannah Höch artwork, my favorite collage artist, and I swear, if you looked hard enough, you could see a galloping horse desperately trying to break free of the tangled mess.

But nothing I owned seemed right. And you need to wear the right thing on your first day. Something that gives off the vibe that you didn’t try too hard, but that you tried just hard enough.

“Hurry.” My mother’s voice raced up the stairs and burst into my room like an unwanted guest. I’d already told her she didn’t need to take me to school—I had my own car—but she was insistent. “I’m going to be late for my meeting!” She sounded rushed and angry, which had been her general vibe for a while now, certainly since that fateful day four years ago—the day the doves cried, as I’ve come to call it in my head.

“Late, late, late,” my brother echoed. Zac often repeats words. I try not to swear in front of him, not since the unfortunate crap, crap, crap incident.

I forced myself to face the mirror again. On some days, I can look at myself for longer than a few seconds; today was not one of those days. My pale, flabby thighs that touched, my stomach that oozed over the top of my very unsexy panties, and worse, my “hellos and good-byes”—those flappy bits of fat on your arms that jiggle when you wave at people. I try not to wave.

“Aaargh.” I covered my face and turned away from the evil thing again. I’ve long suspected that mirrors were invented by some gorgeous, stick-thin, yet completely sinister, creature for the sole purpose of tormenting girls like me.

I reached for the nearest outfit I could find: my most comfortable pair of worn jeans and a cute, vintage, button-up blouse I’d found at a little secondhand shop with the boys—my BFFs—Andile and Guy. At art school there were four distinct groups: art kids, drama kids, music kids, and dance kids. For some reason, I’d made friends with the ballet guys pretty early on. We’d just found each other, like attracting magnets, and since then we’d moved around school like a little impenetrable team. I missed them so much . . . and we’d been separated for only seven days.

I tugged my jeans on. They felt a little tighter than usual, probably from all the stress eating I’d been doing lately: carbs really are from the devil (perhaps also invented by the same person who gave us mirrors?). I pulled them up, trying to cover the muffin top, but not pulling them so high that I was now sporting a gigantic camel toe. The black, collared blouse also felt like it was straining across my bust. I adjusted my bra, trying to flatten the ladies, but clearly they were also protesting today, because they weren’t going anywhere.

And then there was my hair, the massive mop of curls that I’d long given up on trying to wrangle with a straightener.

I slipped a pair of comfy, old sneakers on and gave myself an extra spray of deo; it was hot today, and the last thing I needed was to be the smelly girl too.

I inspected myself. I looked fine. Sort of. I looked like me, like I always did. But today I wasn’t so sure how well Me was going to go down at my new school.

Bay Water High, where surfing and bodyboarding were extracurricular activities because the school backed onto the beach. I’d gone to the school’s Facebook page a few days ago and scoured their photos, hoping to find someone, anyone, who looked vaguely like me. But nothing.

Because it seemed that being gorgeous and thigh-gap thin were prerequisites for being a student at BWH. I was not gorgeous. My hair was red and frizzy. My skin erred on the pasty, pale side, with a smattering of cellulite for added texture, and the only gap I had was the one between my front teeth.

She’s just big boned, I’d once overheard my mom say to another mother. It’s probably puppy fat, she’ll grow out of it, the other mother had offered up with a look that resembled pity, as if thinking, Thank heavens she’s not mine. But I was seventeen now, turning eighteen in two months, and I wasn’t growing out of it. If anything, I was growing into it more than ever. My phone gave a sudden beep and I looked down at it. A message from my dad lit up the screen and my stomach dropped.

DAD: Good luck on your first day. Thinking of you!

I stared at the message and then left my dad on Read.

“Loooooriiii!” My mother’s shrill voice came at me again, like a sharp-beaked bird dive-bombing you because you’d stumbled upon its nest.

Oh, that’s the other thing you should know about me—my name is Lori Patty Palmer. Of course, when the elementary school bullies got wind of my middle name, which I got courtesy of my great aunt Patty, they had a field day with it.

Move out the way, here comes Lori Fatty Palmer. I could still hear their taunts. My old therapist, Dr. Finkelstein—whose name I always thought conjured up images of impassioned, academic debates in smoky, wood-paneled rooms—said that much of my anxiety stems from the bullying. From the time I’d had food thrown in my face, the time someone wrote “Kill yourself fat bitch” on my locker, and of course, there was the pool . . .

I took a deep breath; just thinking about the pool was making my insides quiver. I’d been so relieved when all of that was over and I’d gone to art school, but now, today, I felt like that person all over again.

Lori Fatty Palmer.

I inhaled deeply and then tried to breathe out all the negativity, like that meditation app I’d downloaded told me to. Breathe in positivity, breath out negativity. Or was it the other way around?

Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as I thought. Maybe I was just projecting my own fears and anxieties onto the situation. Maybe I would love it at BWH. Maybe everything would be okay. Maybe.

I took another deep breath and the buttons on my blouse strained. (Note to self, no deep breathing today for fear that buttons might pop open.) I walked out of my room, grabbing my pill as I went and throwing it back with a sip of now-cold coffee. I grimaced at the taste. Prozac. I’ve never gotten used to that melt-in-your-mouth, spearmint flavor even though I’ve been taking it for years. Why even bother with a flavor? It’s not like the taste can disguise what it really is.