I take the concrete path that cuts across the central lawn and forks in the direction of the senior classrooms. A parent donated gallons of paint to the academy four years ago. Now all the classrooms are blue. The science room got two coats before the paint ran out, so it’s darker. Jacaranda branches shade the corrugated iron roofs and add a dash of green to the blue landscape. Toward the end of the year, the trees will bloom purple and cover the lawns with dead flowers that pop under our feet.

Mr. Newman, a mixed-race teacher from Pietermaritzburg in South Africa, calls the roll for science class, and if Lottie doesn’t get here soon, she’ll be punished for tardiness. I don’t care if she’s late. After all, the native medicine was paid for with my impago and it was her stupid mumbling that got me hit outside of chapel. Still, my head turns in the direction of the main office, where the poor students are lined up to get their secondhand books. She’s two from the front, and she won’t make it in time.

We take our seats in the classroom the color of a rainy-day sky. Scarred wooden chairs and desks are ranked in five straight rows, with the teacher’s desk at the front of the room, right next to the blackboard. Mr. Newman, who smells of aftershave and leans too close to girls, starts the lesson with a basic “name three planets, three trees, and three mammals” test that all but the thickest of the students will pass. Mr. Newman is lazy, and teaching us new things requires effort.

Halfway through the test, Lottie knocks on the door and asks permission to join the class. Mr. Newman picks up a ruler from his desk and raps her twice across the knuckles, the price of entry. Last night, I was sure that dead Lorraine’s ghost was out to get me. But this morning, I think that maybe Lottie is right: spirits don’t exist. If they did, then her father, Mr. Diamond, would take the ruler from Mr. Newman and smack him across the knuckles with the metal edge till his skin split.

• • •

Monday’s lunch is boiled potatoes with boiled spinach greens and fried onions. The teachers serve themselves first and sit at the teachers’ table at the front of the long dining hall with big windows that let in the light. Boys and girls in their final year go next, and then the rest of the students line up by descending grade and age. The little ones go last, which is fair because they are small and have to learn patience.