It seemed to take extraordinary effort for him to stand up. He pulled his coat tight and shied away from me a little. Then he gave a little jerk of his spiky head to indicate that I should follow him, which I did. He maneuvered around the gloomy stacks, turning abruptly a few aisles down. He didn’t turn on the light when we went in—I had to switch it on. He also didn’t need to scan for the section or book he was looking for. He walked right to it and pointed to the red spine.

“This one. By Carter. This one talks about Pope’s role in shaping the modern critic. And this one”—he indicated a green book two shelves down—“by Dillard. A little basic, but if you’re new to criticism, worth a read.”

I decided not to be resentful of the fact that he assumed I was “new to criticism.”

“You’re American,” he said, leaning against the shelf behind us. “We don’t normally get Americans.”

“Well, you got me.”

I wasn’t sure what to do next. He wasn’t talking; he was just staring at me as I held the book. So I flipped it open and started looking at the contents. There was an entire chapter on “An Essay on Criticism.” It was twenty pages long. I could read twenty pages if it helped me look less clueless.

“I’m Rory,” I said.

“Alistair.”

“Thanks,” I said, holding up the book.

He didn’t reply. He just sat down on the floor and folded his trench-coated arms and stared up at me.

The aisle light clicked off as I left, but he didn’t move.

It was going to take some time before I understood Wexford and its ways.

Chapter 8

8

WHEN YOU LIVE AT SCHOOL, YOU GET CLOSE TO people really quickly. You never get away. You eat every meal with them. You stand in the shower line with them. You take class and play hockey with them. You sleep in the same place. You begin to see the thousand details of everyday life that you never catch when you just see people during school hours. Because you’re there constantly, school time moves differently. After only one week at Wexford, I felt like I’d been there for a month.

I realized I was popular back in Bénouville, I guess. I mean, not homecoming queen material, because that always went to a Professional Pageant Quality person. But my family was Old Bénouville, and my parents were lawyers, which meant that I was basically always going to be okay. I never felt out of place. I never lacked friends. I never walked into a class without feeling like I could speak up. I was of the place. I was home.

Wexford was not my home. England was not my home.