All he knew was that his name was Arthur and he was from London.

He looked down and saw the socks he was wearing, one black and the other purple. “Oh, I say, these are most certainly not mates.”

The girl giggled and so did the boy. “Oh, you’re silly, Billy. That’s good. You sound just like Dr. Watson on those Sherlock Holmes movies you’re always watching, doesn’t he, Jimbo?” Then she skipped off, and the boy called Jimbo ran out, shouting, “Better hurry up or you’ll be late.”

Why, he wondered, were they calling him Billy when his name was Arthur?

Was he an impostor? Had he come into this house among these people as a spy? A detective? It would take some logical thinking to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Why was he wearing two different-color socks? Who had put them on? What was going on here?

“You coming, Billy? You know what Daddy Chal will do if you’re late again.”

Arthur decided that if he was going to be an impostor, he might as well go all the way. He joined Challa and Kathy on their walk to the Nicholas Drive school, but he said nothing all the way there. When they passed a room, Kathy said, “Where you going, Billy? You’d better get in there.”

He hung back until he could figure out—by the last empty seat—where it would be safe to sit. He walked to it without looking right or left, holding his head high, not daring to speak; he had figured out that the others had laughed because he spoke differently.

The teacher handed out the mimeographed arithmetic test. “When you’re done,” she said, “you may leave your papers in your books and go out to recess. After you come back, check your answers. Then I’ll collect the papers and grade them.” Arthur looked at the test and sneered at the multiplication and long-division problems. He picked up a pencil and quickly went down the paper, doing the problems in his head and writing in the answers. When he was done, he put the paper into the book, crossed his arms and stared into space.

This was all so very elementary.

Out in the schoolyard the rowdy children annoyed him, and he closed his eyes …

After recess the teacher said, “Take your papers out of your books now.”

Billy looked up, startled.

What was he doing in class? How had he gotten here? He remembered getting up in the morning, but not getting dressed or coming to school. He had no idea what had happened between waking up at home and now.

“You may check your answers before turning in the math papers.”

What math papers?

He had no idea what was going on, but he decided if she asked him why he didn’t have his math, he’d tell her he forgot it or lost it outside. He’d have to tell her something. He opened his book and stared in disbelief. There was the test paper with all the answers written in—to all fifty problems. He noticed that it wasn’t his handwriting—similar, but as if it had been written very quickly. He’d often found papers in his possession and just assumed they were his. But he knew there was no way in the world someone as bad as he was in math could have done those problems. He peeked over at the desk next to his and saw a girl working on the same test. He shrugged, picked up a pencil and wrote “Bill Milligan” at the top. He had no intention of checking it. How could he doublecheck the answers if he didn’t know how to work the problems?