But Mr. Clarke—Harry’s not like that. Harry sees my potential. Harry lent me Lord of the Flies—his copy, with his personal notes. Harry isn’t the kind of man to lend his books to just anyone. And now I go to Harry’s room every Break and lunchtime. I bring him tea in the mornings from the big urn in the kitchens. I water his plants. I tidy his bookshelves. I put his records into alphabetical order. I’ve always liked helping out at school, and there are so many ways to help.

Miss McDonald at Netherton Green called me her Special Little Helper. Okay, so that’s really lame, and besides, it didn’t turn out that well, but with Harry, it’s different. For starters, I’m not eight anymore. Harry and I have a more adult relationship. We can have conversations. We can talk about music and Life. I think he sees how mature I am, compared to the other boys in his class.

That’s part of My Condition, of course. I’ve seen more than some of those boys ever will. Harry understands that. He knows I’m an exceptional case. And I like to think I understand him too—at least, I do a little. I can tell how much he loves his job, but sometimes he looks tired. I wonder how he ended up here, instead of at a better school. I wonder why he’s still just a Master, and not Head of Year or something. And I wonder why he’s not married. He’s clever, and kind of good-looking, and not too old for that kind of thing. Perhaps he’s like me, and doesn’t like to get too close to people. Perhaps, like me, he has a past and doesn’t like to discuss it.

I’ve thought of just asking him. But no. There’s an invisible chalk line that runs along the teacher’s desk. Even though he’s asked me to call him by his Christian name; even though he talks to me as if I were his equal. He’s still a Master. I’m still a boy. There’s still a distance between us. But in a way, I respect him more, for keeping his private life private.

And I can wait. I’m good at that. I’m good at waiting, Mousey. I can be like other boys; at least, I can on the outside. And one day, when I’m sure of him, then I’ll tell him everything—Bunny, Miss McDonald, the dog; the games down by the clay pits; even you. Because you were nothing, Mousey. You were nothing, compared to me. And Mr. Clarke will understand—

Still, there’s lots of time for that.

After all, it’s only September.

Chapter 6

6

September 7, 2005