This is where it gets complicated. According to St. Oswald’s rules, Lower and Middle School boys can only go up North Stair, and down South Stair. This is to Ease Congestion, says Dr. Shakeshafte. Out of bounds to Lower and Middle School boys are: the Upper-School Common Room, the Sixth-Form Common Room, the Staff Common Room (of course), the Quiet Room, the Chapel (outside of services), the boiler room, the Porter’s Lodge, and pretty much all form rooms unless a Master is present. (That’s what we call them here. Masters. Does that make us all dogs?)

Then there are the other rules I am somehow expected to know. Line up outside your classroom. Stand up when a Master comes in. Always say sir when you’re talking to a Master. Say sir to prefects too, and make sure you do what they tell you. Don’t take your blazer off unless the Head announces Shirt Sleeve Order in Assembly. Don’t eat in the corridors. Always keep your shirt tucked in. Don’t bring your own books into the library. Always keep to the left-hand side. Already I’ve been shouted at a hundred times. New Boy, don’t do that! New Boy, walk on the left! How hard is it to remember a name? Maybe I’ll change mine to New Boy.

I sometimes try to tell myself that I’ll only be here for five years, max. That will make me eighteen. I’ll be practically old by then. Sometimes I already feel old. If the average life is seventy years, then I have fifty-six years left. Fifty-six more years. That’s all. And five of them will be wasted here. That leaves me with just fifty-one. Fifty-one years of existence. It makes me shiver all over to think that people will be alive when I’m dead. People who haven’t been born yet; people who’ve never heard of me. Kids who are younger than I am now, with more of their lives ahead of them.

I know I shouldn’t think about that. It doesn’t help My Condition. But it’s like scratching a midge-bite. It hurts a bit, but it feels good too. Besides, I know how to deal with that now. I’m in control of it, Mousey.