He could see the rest of the school shop behind him in the mirror, crammed tight with the uniforms and notebooks, lacrosse gear, Shakespeare and Yeats and mathematical texts, the smell of fresh paper and glue, and all of those shining people. At the register, one of the other children stood with a stack of clothes, seeming bored, elegant, casually stunning, and cold. His mother was next to him, chatting with another mother with rich black hair, and his father typed away on his cell phone. Jack couldn’t help but imagine the sort of life they must have—galas and fundraisers and meals out, clothing and jewelry and shoes without holes.

He held a blue jacket under his chin, trying to imagine the next four years, what he would look like. Who he might be. His fingers delighted in the soft material, but—

“For fuck’s sake, Jack. We can’t—go look at the used pile.” His mother’s face was pinched and still somehow disinterested. She had tucked herself in a corner, maybe in an attempt to go unnoticed, but she stood out here just as much as he did. She didn’t fit.

He’d learned not to blush, not to show shame. He turned away from the mirror and dug through the pile of used uniforms.

The blond boy at the counter slanted his eyes over, looked at Jack from his scuffed sneakers to his frayed collar, and Jack could feel his eyes like glaciers on his neck. The boy smirked. “This school’s really been lowering its standards, Mother.”

His mother turned from her conversation, glanced at Jack and his mom, and pursed her lips. Half an unkind smile, and then her tanned skin smoothed out into a blank haughtiness. “Be nice, Theo.” She turned back toward the other parents, unbothered. Dismissing Jack—and maybe her own son—as if he were of no consequence.

A sigh from the boy, unnoticed. “If I must.”

Everything that Jack had ever hated about himself was visible on the other boy’s face. An unpleasant face, a jeering face. That child had seen right through him, right down to the root, and he had found him wanting.

And that boy—Theo—was everything that Jack yearned to be. His skin was pale, clear, white enough to show the blue tracery of his veins, and his hair was perfectly coiffed, and he wore a five-thousand-dollar watch, and he could afford to be cruel. Could afford to go to Gwynns without a scholarship, without working himself down to the nub, competing and scrapping and begging, Please, see me.