I was here yesterday and the day before, though. And the one before, and the eleven days before that too. I cut one teacher’s lesson one time and another’s the next, sometimes in the mornings, sometimes in the afternoons. Today it’s French with Madame Lupion. Scott said I should make sure that I spread the missed lessons across all subjects so the teachers don’t catch on so quickly.

Scott McMillan is a specialist at cutting class, Googling, and doing things nobody else does. He also excels at chess, drawing, and getting bad marks at school. At everything, in fact. He’s thirteen, has an IQ of 148, can fake anybody’s handwriting, and has a rich father who hates him.

My IQ’s a mere 144, which makes him “very gifted” and me “gifted,” or as Scott would put it, “Moi le Brainman, you my smart-ass sidekick, mon ami.” Le Brainman is currently going through a French phase after polishing up on his Mandarin and an African dialect that features lots of clicking sounds.

I’m thirteen too. I’m a synesthete—or, as some boys at my school call me, a synes-creep—and my father’s in an induced coma. That’s like a long-lasting anesthetic, except for the fact that he has small suckers in his brain that are supposed to relieve the pressure, a machine that takes care of his breathing, another one that keeps his blood cool, and yet another one that eats and pees for him. They intend to wake him up today.

Nobody at school, apart from Scott, knows that my father’s in a coma. That’s partly because nobody knows that Steve, my mother’s husband, isn’t my real father. Except for Scott, who once said to me, “Man, at one fell swoop you could be the most interesting boy at school—well, for one wonderful week at least. Give it some thought: you might not want to pass up this opportunity. Being the mystery kid could be one of the greatest things that ever happened to you. It’d work like magic on the girls too.” There are no girls at our school.

Scott and I are the only thirteen-year-olds at Colet Court to have been invited to join Mensa. Scott calls this high-IQ society the “wimps’ club.” My mum says I should be proud of myself, as one of only two Year Eight students among the nine hundred or so young Mensa members in England, but being ordered to be proud leaves a nasty taste in my mouth.

If she knew I was here, she might give me up for adoption. Never speak to me again. Send me to boarding school. I’ve no idea how she’d react.