Jonathan Wheeler didn’t soothe my spirit any. “Dunphy, I understand that a friend of yours bit the dust,” he said after barging into my room. His roommate, Candle (dubbed because of an ear condition that often left golden rivers of wax clotted over his earlobes), stood behind him peeling the rind off an orange that was smudged with fingerprints, like an old baseball.

“Yeah,” I said warily.

“Well, you’d better just forget about it because there’s not a damn thing you can do. He’s history.”

“God must have something better planned for him,” Waltham added.

Wheeler looked at Waltham and smiled. “God?” he said. “Don’t tell me that you morons still believe in God?”

Waltham and I looked at each other and nodded. I always believed in God when I was scared shitless. But in my heart I was a C and E Catholic and wasn’t entirely sold on the God thing. The two times I went to church each year (Christmas and Easter) weren’t enough to rope me in.

“Sorry, kiddies,” Wheeler said. “I hate to burst your biblical bubbles, but he does not exist. Uh-uh, no way. Pure theological bufferoonery.” Counting on his fingers, he said, “Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny … God.”

“Th-th-that’s a bad thing to say,” Waltham cried, “and it’s a lie.”

“A bad thing to say about whom? Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny?”

“You know who I mean.”

“Oh, spare me the pious drivel, Waltham. God is an invention to keep morons like you from killing each other. Those who know that rule the world.”

The fact that this guy would be living on my hall for a whole year drained me of energy. By June I would be up for sainthood or murder. Waltham and Wheeler volleyed back and forth reasons why there had to be and couldn’t be a God. Wheeler was the better volleyer and kept jamming it down Irving’s throat. I didn’t say anything, just lay on my bed and prayed to God that I was praying to God—for Mousy’s sake.

One clear morning toward the end of September, I slept through breakfast, showered, and decided for the first time in my life to blow dry my hair. You know how sometimes you wake up and you’re just flat-out butt-ugly? Well I was nasty that morning. Big nose, puffy cheeks, swollen eyes, and a couple zits on my forehead that were quickly developing into antlers. So I decided to go with the ninety-mile-an-hour look to see if it would help any.

As I was walking to class I noticed something promising coming toward me on the boardwalk. My heart started thumping like a football in a clothes dryer. Jane Weston. As we converged, I glanced over and said, “What’s uk?”

“Hi, Dunph,” she said. “How’re you doing?”

We stopped but continued leaning in the directions we were headed.