Confident people. The ones who don’t hate their bodies, the ones who aren’t afraid to say what they really think. Well, don’t trust them. I know how to fake it and I can pass as one of them. But from the outside you can’t tell the difference between them and me. I think it’s because there is no difference: we’re all faking it. When I’m most nervous, a kind of steel closes over my skin. I breathe really slowly and look into space with a bit of a smile as if I’m remembering something funny, or I just don’t care. Like I’m maybe even looking down on the world. It’s a good trick – it keeps me safe – but it has its disadvantages. Because when I’m at my most shy and terrified, when my heart’s fluttery and I’ve forgotten how to move, and I’m wishing someone would feel sorry for me and come over and be my friend, they’re probably looking at me and thinking, That bitch is so up herself, I would never talk to her. But that day, someone did. After I heard my mum saying that I wouldn’t always live with her – which was true, I know, but it’s just not great to find out your mum is counting down the days till you’re gone – I had to get away.
