I thought it was kind of weird that the principal, who probably had a lot to do, was taking time out to walk me to my first class, but I didn’t say anything about it. I just picked up my coat – a black wool trench by Esprit, très chic (my mom wouldn’t let me wear leather my first day of school) – and waited while he and my mother shook hands. My mom kissed me goodbye, and reminded me to find Sleepy at three, since he was in charge of driving me home – only she didn’t call him Sleepy. Once again, a woeful lack of public transportation meant that I had to bum rides to and from school with my stepbrothers.

Then she was gone, and Father Dominic was walking me across the courtyard after having instructed Adam to wait for him.

‘No prob, Padre,’ was Adam’s response. He leered at me behind the father’s back. It isn’t often I get leered at by boys my own age. I hoped he was in my class. My mother’s wishes for my social life just might be realized at last.

As we walked, Father Dominic explained a little about the building – or buildings, I should say, since that’s what they were. A series of thick-walled adobe structures were connected by low-ceilinged breezeways, in the middle of which existed the beautiful courtyard that came complete with palm trees, bubbling fountain, and a bronze statue of Father Serra with these women – your stereotypical Indian squaws, complete with papooses strapped to their backs – kneeling at his feet. On the other side of the breezeway were stone benches for people to sit on while they enjoyed solitary contemplation of the courtyard’s splendour, the doors to the classrooms and steel lockers were built right into the adobe wall. One of those lockers, Father Dominic explained to me, was mine. He had the combination with him. Did I want to put away my coat?

I had been surprised when I’d wakened Sunday morning to find myself shivering in my bed. I’d had to stumble out from beneath the sheets and slam my windows shut. A thick fog, I saw with dismay, had enshrouded the valley, obscuring my view of the bay. I thought for sure some horrible tropical storm had rolled in, but Doc had explained to me, quite patiently, that morning fog was typical in the Northwest, and that the Pacifico – Spanish for passive – was so named because of its relative lack of storms. The fog, Doc had assured me, would burn off by noon, and it would then be just as hot as it had been the day before.

And he’d been right. By the time I returned home from the beach, sunburned and happy, my room had become an oven again, and I’d prised the windows back open – only to find that they’d been gently shut again when I woke up this morning, which I thought was sweet of my mom, looking out for me like that.