As the three boys repeated the oath, Oglesby set the book to the side and crossed them with Diviner. “‘Every man should be capable of all ideas, and I believe that in the future I will be.’”

Teddy Boudreaux furtively reached for one of the rubber rats. Oglesby slammed his stick down on the desk.

“Just a minute. You must each answer a final close-reading question. Let’s start with the first candidate-elect. Mr. Tsao, what are the names of the twin boys in Lord of the Flies?”

Tsao looked down at the blue carpet. He really did try to keep the lowest profile possible, an ultra-shy kid with big, owl-rimmed glasses. His face blistered with shame. He didn’t have it. Teddy Boudreaux did.

“Simon and—”

“Incorrect.”

“Samneric! Samneric!” Teddy blurted, and again reached for the rat, and again Oglesby brought Diviner down.

“Now for your question, Mr. Boudreaux.”

“Ha.” Sticky laughed, “Psych! You suck, Boo-dreaux.”

“Second question for the second candidate. Who built the Trojan horse?”

“Oh come on.” Sticky threw up his hands. “I know that.”

“Congratulations, Mr. O’Donnell. You can write a five-hundred-word essay on it.”

Dan broke out of his ignominy, sensing the trap. Teddy Boudreaux had a big smile on his face. He was falling for it.

“Odysseus!” Boudreaux pumped his fist.

“Incorrect.”

The class gasped. Boudreaux’s chin dropped like a guillotine.

Oglesby moved on quickly. “Mr. Gilchrist, do you know the answer? Who, according to Homer, built the Trojan horse?”

“Menelaus?”

“Incorrect.”

Oglesby swept the rubber rats back into his bag.

“There will be no induction today. Mr. Malone . . .”

“Epeius,” Dan replied, sad and calm. The small voice in his head, which, come to think of it, sounded like his father, offered this: No crocodile tears. Don’t let him see you hurting. Don’t let him know that he’s gotten to you.

“Thank you, Mr. Malone. A Norwegian rat is smarter than the mousetrap; he can outthink the maze. Perhaps next time, gentlemen. Class dismissed.”

Oglesby ignored Dan as the class packed up and exited. There was a small part of him that suspected Oglesby had set up this trial to push him further, but then the bell rang, and Dan couldn’t help but get caught up on the miserable fact of how he blew this on his birthday.

Later that afternoon, the birthday boy waited outside the principal’s office with the layout boards for the chronically late November edition of The Roundup. After ninth-period dismissal announcements, the door opened and Father Paul Dallanach waved him in.

The office was unlike any at Jesuit, cocooned with purple curtains, the fluorescents abandoned for a low brass reading lamp; its inhabitant priest enchambered by lots of wood, books, and bottles. Father Dallanach mumbled something over his shoulder and offered a seat to Dan. He then stopped at the bottle of Cutty Sark, which he clinked against his crystal tumbler. The carriage clock housed in dark cherry read 3:50 p.m.