I look like shit. I don't enjoy comparing myself to people but Amelia looks amazing. I don't know why I'm shocked because on Tuesday she'd told me she had had her nails done because she was waiting to receive news about her promotion at work. She's a Marketing Manager at Vogue Magazine which she earned because of her impressive CV modified by her volunteer work in Spain.

Back in University she'd always say to me, 'this may sound stereotypical and harsh but I'm a black woman. That means I have to work twice as hard just so I can qualify for something as small as an interview. I'm not a lawyer but if I want to work for a big company such as Vogue I need to look overqualified to hire but good enough a risk to take'.

Whenever we'd have these conversations i would feel guilty because I studied Accounting & Finance. Boring. It sounded unimportant and unimpressive because I knew there were no race obstacles for me to face especially during my first year at work. I just had to know my numbers and look good on paper. The plan was to find a firm that is looking to diversify their staff and I'd fit right in and get my chèque and subscribe to Vogue magazine because i loved that my friend worked there. There's multiple things I was wrong about but fortunately for me, race hasn't been a problem. Unfortunately for Am race was a problem amongst other things such as the overall overachieving working culture.

On one of our calls Amelia had confessed that the working culture is so different from what our tiny little brains at university thought it would be. We both thought that once we were done with university we'd get hired soon after and get our hands on adult money. We already had plans for our first chèque. Amelia would finally ditch the grocery store make-up she'd use to keep herself happy during our broke days and upgrade her wardrobe and makeup consecutively. My plan was to introduce myself to actually good food.

When I was in high school I used to subtly drown in self-pity about how poor I was because I was from a lower-middle class family attending a private only-girls school. I thought that my lifestyle would finally change in university. Such was the stereotype if you're Zimbabwean. You suffer through Primary school in silence because high school is supposedly going to be a better journey promising more freedom and increased self-confidence. And you get bigger breasts. Which is what you wish for as a girl that age, since femininity is mostly indoctrinated at this stage. Then you dream of going to university where you'll eat healthily, hopefully overseas not that our own universities were not up to standard. University was an idea, an opportunity to escape your parents, to free yourself from insanely high prices and the depression of eating something as small as a yoghurt as some form of luxury food. Attending university far from home was a break. A safe haven to finally be who you were hiding from those who have been around you since infancy. But you couldn't fantasise about university so openly. Only planning for high school seemed achievable.

I thought I was going to attend a local high school. My Primary school teachers lectured my mother on how it was not a good idea to take me to a Roman Catholic all-girls school especially at my age. They were wrong and my mother was right to fight their bias. On the other hand, I didn't know any areas outside of my local neighborhood. I'd go to the CBD only twice a year, three times if I was lucky. I was ignorant of the fact that some schools were located in the CBD such as the one I was destined to attend.

Coming to terms with the fact that you're poor is a stage meant only for adults to experience. Not for a child that I was. You start to really understand that you are the way that you are because you don't have any money. My cousins, before the first day at school, told my cousin brother and I who were both at the same grade that in high school no one raises their hand in class. Their best tip, in my opinion, was always sit at the back. Which I did. But at St Catherine's High School every girl raised up their hand eagerly to answer every question. Sitting at the back was not a statement, it was a matter of convenience. You couldn't skip any lessons because no lecture began without your attendance. Teachers were highly respected as well as highly skilled. Their tips were ideal for government schools' survival, which had completely different ground rules in comparison to private schools. These stereotypes made it easy to identify your kind, my kind, at St Catherine's. All the poor students related with any of these.

One, they didn't own a pencil case. Only when your civil-servant parent was more worried about their daughter fitting in, you were lucky to have one. But the contents would be two pens and pencils. A ruler, a rubber and a new mathematical set. Whilst the other rich kids had very ambient looking pencil cases with stickers and beads hanging from the zipper. Files and notepads are very artsy- aesthetic looking. Pencil cases are fuller than the ones at Gift shops being advertised for their efficiency.

Two, you never packed for lunch. This one is debatable because my opinion is biassed. I've never had a good relationship with food. From a young age I didn't like having food. I'd store it in my mouth for more than 30 minutes without chewing it or swallowing. After my family was glued onto the TV screen I'd stand up and hurry to the bathroom. I'd flush all the food I had had preserved down the toilet and pretend I was sleepy to escape to my room to avoid confrontation. Part of my habits were formed because I couldn't process as a child that my mother couldn't afford me.
I never received any gifts as a child. I didn't form any attachments to gifted dolls and other toys. I didn't have any fancy dresses and cute hairstyles. I was robbed of my childhood because my family didn't have any money. Same goes with food. I had had the same food since I could chew. I didn't complain. Why would I? I didn't know there was better out there until high school.

People bought lunch from the cafeteria and received pocket-money from their parents to spend however they wanted. I was genuinely shocked. Bread was expensive. My mother was not a great baker so I had to carry these ill-looking imitations of scones to school. They tasted like chalk but that's all there was at home. When lunchtime came, I ate novels and plays. Through this practice, I made friends from the same class as me. They didn't have lunch. Poverty united us. It was always a funny story to share.

Three, they didn't know social media was a thing. I am not proud to say that the only reason I know of Instagram and TikTok is because I was told I have to market myself
in order to get things done for you over here at St Catherine's. Then you start to notice that having wifi isn't a luxury like your mother protested. Other kids just have it. It's a regular expense at home. Then, you start to be bullied for your lack of interest in boys. What boys could you possibly know of? Your aren't conventionally attractive. Then you're weird. Then you're gay. Then people aren't interested in you anymore. You wear the same shoes on civics functions, you're not particularly interested in your looks and hair. Why don't you wear protective hairstyles often? You've had the same one for half a year! Your uniform is getting untidy. You bleach the area on your shirt for your armpits so they don't smell. One good thing about you is every girl present wants your body type. You're slim not by choice, your have a full chest(you wish you didn't manifest), your hair is healthy but unattended, so they feel they can take better care of it than you which they can.

You're a fast runner and have short moments of confidence. Everyone wants to replace you and take your body. You're irrelevant. If you think you're special because you have the tools that they want then you're lying to yourself. Some fell for it and later became spokespersons for fake friends and failed friendships.

So, you read a lot. No one likes to be associated with nerds unless they're so bored of their rich lives that nerds become a breath of fresh air. Rich girl x Poor nerdy girl. You become friends for two years, whilst on and off. But that rich friend becomes Nadia. You fall in love amongst all the nuns and the homophobia. The idea of telling your friends that you found love is terrifying because then you'd have to hear them tell you that you're gay because you learn at an all-girls school. But you didn't know you were pansexual because you can't be attracted to anyone. When Nadia told you she was in love with you, you didn't understand that emotion and told her. Then she shared a link for an aro/ace test online and you were a 100% match. She understood you, with your teenage hormones, when you told her you don't think you're a girl anymore.

She was there for you when you lost your friends because they heard rumours about Nadia. She stayed when you told her you couldn't afford taking her on dates and hoped that at uni you'd buy her all she wanted but nothing changed there either. Nadia teaches you that people who have money aren't the enemy. Money isn't what's bad about them. What makes you hate them so much is their personality. She uses her privilege to give you a childhood you never had.

Then you grow up.

Now you worry about friends not getting their deserved promotion. You have access to money. You own a lavish, maybe decent apartment in New York. It was not your good ole American dream, Spain was, until you saw a woman on TikTok working at Google in Los Angeles and you over-fantasized about working at Google. You came to New York to work on your CV. Also because Nadia had moved from Canada to New York a year ago so you thought you'd live with her as during the gap year. But Nadia isn't who you're used to anymore.

'It's been more than two days Am, you think they'll give it to you?' I asked untying the shopping bags she had placed on my emerald kitchen counter alongside her Prada Milano sage green bag and car keys.
'I'm not rushing it anymore. I really thought I was going to get it. I could use the money,' she said with a soft controlled voice. Hinting slight concern and disappointment.
'I can help with money if that's a problem. I'm not saying I have more...'
'No Max. I don't want money. I want my own office and to get Denzel off my back because he's still being a prick.'
'You know you and Denzel are starting to be enemies to lovers trope and I'm here for it. He asked you out and you said no. Maybe he's frustrated?'
'I told you Max. I'm not looking for a relationship right now,' she said, closing the packed fridge and turning to face Max.

Max loved watching Amelia turn. They were a sucker for practising how good they had gotten at studying people's body language. Amelia was very attractive. She had what I imagined was coconut skin. Fresh and smooth and brown. Her makeup highlighted how brown she was which made her even more beautiful. She didn't hide the black dots on her face which she inherited from her father. She was tall and curvy. She had on her Brazilian weave and a headband and an Adidas tracksuit. She looked like a soccer mom. I play soccer so I guess it fits my fantasy.

'Enlighten me Am,' they said, moving themselves to the living room which was golden because of the expressive sunset making the room look modern. If I were a YouTuber my apartment tour videos would have been a hit.
'I always forget how much I love your loft apartment Max. Oh, I almost forgot that I brought you yoghurt.' She threw one to them and they caught it heroically.
'You remember the Spaniard?' began Am. Max nodded in response, knowing very well where this story was going.
'He was very funny and before he broke up with me he made a couple of drinks at his place. I thought I was being seduced. I wasn't complaining because I was prepared down there for whatever that was leading to,' she paused as if to check if there was enough time for her to continue the story.
'And?' pressed Max.
'He broke up with me. He wanted me to be so relaxed that it wouldn't hurt an inch. I didn't mind that he didn't want to be with me. I just knew I was going to miss his dick. He didn't offer to be sneaky links after,' Max giggles like a child 'now I'm so traumatised that I can't be seduced at all. Also that's why I think breakups are so overrated. They make you feel guilty about being jealous that someone else is going to enjoy your ex's penis and his special techniques. Not that many men are eager to learn about women's bodies out here. Remember last-week-Jayden?'
'Yes. The Starbucks boy?' they smiled as they took another mouthful of yoghurt and listened attentively.
'..that whiteboi was good. He was young but of age and he took his time on me. Made me feel so good. I orgasmed three times, twice on that flagpole. I tied him up and rode him, which was out of insecurity because I hadn't asked him if we can continue as fuckmates yet. Usually I do this on the third night but I didn't care. He was so obedient, with his cute little moans. I fucking paid him.'
'Am you did what? Did the poor child cry and run back to his mama?' They teased and judging by the eyebrow raise from Am it had worked.
'That's the best part. He kissed my cheek on his way out and left. Yep I paid him as he was leaving the apartment with my number written on the dollar note. How much? you ask. Two hundred and fifty dollars. Nigga has student loans to pay, I'm done with mine bitch.'
They both laughed so hard that they stopped after choking on their tongues. Max couldn't believe how much they had missed their best friend.
'I'm so glad you're laughing again. Are you okay?' she asked moments after.
'I have hope that submissive men are not extinct!'
'That's it. We are going out and we are both taking a shower. Please stop me if we start making out like all the times we do. Knowing you, you probably won't stop me. I can pay you to do other stuff.' She winks. I'm tempted.
'Yes ma'am!'