Poodle said: “It’s a persona. In real life, he’s married and everything. Besides, it’s the eighties. What do you care?” Goldie looked disgusted. But Poodle was defiant. “I know it’s a sin in the Bible,” he said. “But so is eating shellfish.”

Harry was marking books at his desk. I was sure he was listening. His head was at an angle, you know, as if he was paying attention. And there was a look on his face. Not quite a smile, but nearly.

“What do you think, sir?” I said.

Harry looked up. “About what?”

“You know. Sin.”

Harry smiled. For a moment I was almost sure I’d gone too far. Then he said: “I don’t believe God really cares what you eat, or what you wear, or whom you love. I think that if God made the stars, He must have a greater perspective.”

We didn’t say anything more after that. But I thought about it, Mousey. What Harry meant is that God’s too big to care about who you have sex with. After all, why would He care? Why does He care about anything? And then that started me thinking about My Condition, Mousey, and how much God would really care if He found out I was different—

Of course, my parents think He would. But then, my parents go to Church. They believe in all that stuff. My dad even preaches there sometimes. After Bunny and Netherton Green, they started making me go too, to help with My Condition. But although I got better at hiding it, My Condition never changed. I guessed either God wasn’t listening, or He wanted me this way. I got pretty good at pretending, though; speaking in tongues and fainting. That’s what you do in our Church—at least, if you know what’s good for you. It’s even kind of fun sometimes. Like scoring at a soccer match, with everyone shouting and hugging you. No one hugs me, generally. I’m not very huggable.

At Netherton Green, everyone thought I was a freak and a weirdo. But this time, Mousey, it’s different. St. Oswald’s has turned out okay for me. I even have a nickname. Didn’t I tell you that, Mousey? Yes, they call me Ziggy now. Because of my favorite album. Ziggy and the Spiders from Mars. Nicknames are important when you’re trying to be cool and fit in. And Ziggy’s such a cool name. Even my dad seems to think so.

“Your chums look very sound,” he said over the dinner table last night. (Sound is the highest praise from Dad.) Chum. That’s a kind of dog food. How appropriate, I thought. But I didn’t say it aloud. I’ve learned that with Dad, my jokes don’t always go down very well.

“Yeah, they’re pretty cool,” I said.