My new form is 3S. There are two other New Boys there. You can tell by their blazers. Everyone else’s blazer is worn shiny at the elbows. The rest of the uniform may be new, but blazers are expensive. Parents like to make them last, at least until the fourth year, when you have to go from a plain blazer to one with a blue trim. Only a New Boy’s parents would buy a blazer for just one year. And only a New Boy’s parents would buy him a briefcase so shiny and new that it actually creaked when he opened it. That shine; that creak. Those are the signs of a New Boy.

Anyway, those two New Boys. Nothing special, either of them. One of them is a golden retriever, well fed and well bred. The other’s a nicely clipped poodle, not big enough to be scrappy, but one that might give you a bite on the leg if it thought you weren’t looking. No one has said much to me up to now. The New Boys are trying to play it cool. Or maybe no one’s interested. Unless you want to join a team, a seventh-­term boy is surplus. My House Master, Mr. Fabricant, came into the form room the other day at lunch break, trying to sign me up for the School Orchestra, but I told him I couldn’t spare the time.

He gave me a kind of sad-doggy look. “Well, that’s disappointing,” he said. “I would have thought you’d be happy to join. Make friends; contribute to the House.”

(That’s right, we’re in Houses. Mine is Parkinson House, which means that I get to wear a red tie if I earn a hundred House Points. I doubt I will. Still, Mr. Fabricant doesn’t know that. To him, I’m an unknown quantity, all bright and new and shiny.)

I gave him my brightest New Boy smile. “I’m awfully sorry, sir,” I said. “It’s just that I’m waiting to see how much work I have to do before I catch up with the other boys. I hope it won’t be too much. But until I know for sure, I can’t afford to take on any extra commitments.”

Mr. Fabricant looked happier. “Oh, well, I suppose that’s all right. It’s nice to see you taking it so seriously. Maybe once you’ve settled in—”

“I’ll be sure to tell you, sir.”

I noticed Goldie and Poodle watching me as they ate their lunch.

“What did you get?” said Poodle.

I always get the same thing. Same sandwich, same piece of fruit, same kind of snack at Break. No sweets, no crisps, no cake, nothing my mum would think common. Like I’m going to be judged, somehow. As if a healthier diet could cure me of My Condition.

“We could share, if you like,” I said.