One day when I was 17 years old, I was on my way to school, when I quite literally stumbled over Henry. One second I was happily daydreaming about an alternative me, slim, beautiful, popular, when suddenly I found myself lying facedown on the tarmac – unhurt because my fall had been broken by something soft. No, I don't mean my excess flesh this time, but something which made a sort of ooomph-noise when I landed.

"Oh my God, are you okay?" I scrambled to my feet and looked down to see Henry sprawled out on the floor, nose bloody, clothes torn and his school bag contents scattered all around him.

I am ashamed to admit that, despite my exclamation, the first thought which popped up on my internal monitor was:

'Please, God, don't let anybody have seen this!'

This was closely followed by:

'I can't believe I steamrolled the guy with my flab. How embarrassing!'

Obviously, I couldn't just grab my bag and walk away, even though everything inside me screamed at me to do just that.

I felt myself blush – which made me blush even more. Well aware that my face resembled a very ripe tomato, I bent my knees and awkwardly started to gather up some of Henry's belongings.

"I'm okay." Henry finally answered and slowly got to his feet, hugging himself with one arm, carelessly tossing his dirty and torn books into his school bag with the other. 

I kept my eyes firmly on the ground, watching Henry, using my peripheral vision only. "Be like your sister! Be supportive! Say the right thing!" My mother's shrill voice rattled my brain, effectively paralysing me. "Katherine, my dear, it isn't exactly rocket science. It's called human decency! What's wrong with you?" My thoughts raced. My hands felt clammy.

Henry finally straightened, hissing under his breath. I got up myself and turned towards him, still avoiding eye contact. Silently, I handed him what I had managed to salvage from the dirt.

"Thank you," Henry said quietly. He really had a nice, cultured voice. "You'd better go now. You don't want to be seen with the likes of me."

I turned and took two steps. Then I paused. "The likes of you?"

"Half-caste, I believe, is the term generally used. Worse than being black, you know!"

"Worse than being black?" My social graces and quick wit amazed even me at this point.

"Yes, when you are of mixed race, you don't belong in anyone's world. Everyone hates you."

He had finally located some tissues, which he now used to clean his face as best he could and to stop the nosebleed.

"I always thought you were properly black." The words were out of my mouth before I managed to engage my rarely used filter. I blushed again. Hardly imaginable, but Henry genuinely seemed to take no offence.

"That is because you live in a basically all-white neighbourhood and go to a basically all-white school. Most of you have probably never seen a coloured person in real life – apart from me. Jesus, even I have never really seen a coloured person – apart from myself in the mirror. So, there you go. I am different in more ways than one to everyone else. I guess that makes me some sort of freak. How the others behave ... well, maybe I deserve it."

'I am different.' That statement hit me right in the solar plexus. I stared at my shoes.

"You should probably go and see a doctor," I suggested.

"It's just a bloody nose and a few bruised ribs. I've been here before. Don't worry about it." He started to walk away. I followed.

"Look, you're a nice kid, Katherine. You don't want any trouble."

I took a deep breath. "I'm not really scared. They've most likely forgotten me by now anyway," I muttered under my breath, not really believing my own words myself, but feeling uncharacteristically brave.

Then I fell in step beside him.