I don’t know much about music, you know, except for the kind my parents like. Elgar and Mozart and stuff like that. I’m not allowed to watch Top of the Pops, or listen to music on Radio 1. I sometimes do, though, when Dad’s not there, so I know at least some of the hits. But I couldn’t tell you what was so special about this music of Mr. Clarke’s, except that it was—special, I mean—like fingers playing on my spine. I didn’t even recognize any of the instrumental sounds. I thought perhaps there was something in there that might have been a guitar, or a voice, or a synth, or some kind of animal in pain.

And all the song titles were named after animals: “Pigs”; “Sheep”; “Dogs.” That one was my favorite. “Dogs.” I felt like someone had opened up a dirty window in my mind.

“Wow,” I said, when it finished.

Mr. Clarke looked up and smiled. His eyes are like yours, Mousey.

“Come on up. Feel free to browse.”

There are two full boxes by his desk, one of singles, one albums. Boys are allowed to look at them, as long as Mr. Clarke’s in the room, which seems to be pretty much all the time. Some of the artists I recognized; the Carpenters; Roberta Flack; Elton John; the Beatles. But there were lots of others I’d never even heard of.

“I want to hear them all, sir!”

He laughed. “That’s what I like to hear. But not so much of the sir, all right?” He laughed again at the look on my face. “You can call me Harry,” he said. “At least when we’re both off duty.”

Well, that came as a surprise, you can guess. I’ve never called a teacher by their Christian name before. Not even Miss McDonald. It’s something that you just don’t do. But then, Mr. Clarke—no, Harry—isn’t a regular teacher. He sees things differently. He’s smart. And I can tell he likes me.

Pigs. Dogs. Animals.

It’s funny, you know. I always thought I was the only one who saw other people as animals. Turns out someone else does too. Mr. Clarke gets it. What kind of animal is Mr. Clarke? A mythical beast of some kind; a unicorn, or a dragon. I mean, I know he’s kind of old, but there’s something in his eyes. Something different, Mousey.

After school, my dad asked if I’d made any friends yet. I told him yes. He asked me their names.

I said: “Harry.”

“And what does Harry’s dad do?”

I told him I didn’t know. (It was true.)

He said: “You’ve got to know these things. A man’s friends say as much about him as his clothes, his job, his class.” (Dad’s very big on class.)

“I’ll ask him,” I said.