I do not look at her naked and she does not look at me. The masking tape on the ground dividing her side of the room from mine is a solid wall. ‘Stop! Now!’ When she shouts at me it is like an earthquake, fault lines in the invisible wall spreading out, the sound of her voice a wrecking ball. The wall crumbles. I have already put my jeans on, which is lucky because I am only half naked, the T-shirt clutched to that horrible embarrassment of my chest. I have breasts. There is no use denying this. What might once have been a mistake, a trick of the light, a glance at the wrong angle, is now an undeniable fact. My breasts are large enough to have a small overhang. You are saggy if you can hold a pencil up under them, my sister told me. Emily has not been blighted with breasts. My sister has a simple elegant swelling that just helps to accentuate her slender waist. My sister has no overhang. Our grandmother has kept my sister’s training bra for me to wear and I am wearing it, but my swellings are too big already and the hideous rolls of flesh spill out the side.
