Stifling a yawn, I climb the front steps slowly, concentrating on where I'm putting my feet so I don't trip and make a fool of myself. I'm not good with stairs, especially in new surroundings. When I'm walking where people can see me coming, I get really self-conscious. I hate the way I walk. I mean, I put one foot in front of the other pretty much like everyone else, but the minute I think someone's watching me, my joints seize up and my body telegraphs an unmistakable DORK ALERT! to anyone within sight. I'd give anything to master that slow, rolling gait that lets everyone know you're cool. Whenever I try it, though, something happens to my hips and I look like one of those wind-up toys that tip over after three steps.

Fish says I think too much about it, that I need to forget what my feet are doing and just glide along. The problem is, when I forget about my feet they get the rest of me into trouble. Especially climbing stairs. For me, steps are booby traps, and I'm the Class-A Booby they lie in wait for. My first day at Eaton Academy two Septembers ago, I fell down an entire flight—from the very top to the very bottom. That's how I met Fish. He helped me hobble to a washroom where I hid till the halls were clear. I wish he were here with me now.

Once inside the school, I realize my earlier comparison to the Kingston Penitentiary was unfair. To the penitentiary. Everything here is gray. Walls, woodwork, lockers, even floors are done in shades of Early Battleship. The ceilings are the only exception. They, at least, are white, but their color only reflects and intensifies the grayness that reaches up to them. I feel like I've been swallowed by a brain whose life support was shut off a long time ago.

A sign reading MAIN OFFICE directs me toward a glass door that opens into a large room filled with people. An L-shaped counter separates a waiting area from a secretary's desk, beyond which are copying machines and doors leading to smaller rooms—behavior modification cells, as Fish would call them. I join the end of a line and practise my breathing.

Breathing is like walking. Too many people take it for granted, like all you need is a diaphragm and a pulse and the rest will take care of itself. When I'm nervous I breathe too fast, taking rapid shallow breaths, almost like a dog on a hot day. Marcia Hockstetter was kind enough to bring that little detail to my attention on the occasion of my first honest-to-goodness date.

I'd taken Marcia to our school dance and the DJ had put on that godawful "Stairway to Heaven" that's almost as old as my stepmother. I spent the first minute or two trying to find a rhythm, then gave up and just concentrated on not stepping on Marcia's feet and not tripping over my own. Halfway through it, Marcia looks up at me with her blue eyes wide, and I think, This is it! The kiss! Don't blow it! Her lips part and just as I'm about to lay one on her she says, "Do you know you're panting?" Quite the cold shower, that Marcia.

The line moves ahead slightly as a kid, who can barely see over the counter, thanks the secretary and leaves. I watch him go out, amazed that anyone that short can even feed himself, let alone attend high school. At Brookdale High, grades seven to twelve are all in the same building. Eaton Academy groups students in separate units according to age, ability, and interest. A grade nine student like myself would rarely see someone in grade seven, like Counter-Kid there.

A wave of homesickness suddenly crowds my throat. I really miss Eaton. Not to mention Fish and Booker and the Invention Convention and everything associated with it. For the millionth time I try not to resent my father for bringing us here. I force myself to breathe slowly, smoothly. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

A bell—or, more accurately, an electronic whine—shrills over the PA and suddenly I'm a line of one as everyone in front of me grumbles and turns to leave. I look at my watch—8:50. Norma told me school didn't start until nine o'clock. Watching the halls fill with people heading toward homerooms or the gym or wherever kids go on The First Day, I imagine what it will be like to walk into my own classroom. Not only do I get to be The New Kid, I get to be The New Kid Who Arrives Late. Norma's probably laughing her head off this very moment. Norma one, Randy nothing. I'll kill her.

"May I help you?"

I turn and face a middle-aged woman who has had one too many make-overs. With lips as bright as polished apples and cheeks layered with powder the color of cinnamon, her face looks like one of those frozen pies you microwave right in the box. I try not to stare.

"I'd like to register."

"You would, would you?" It's not so much a question as a comment, and she stands there watching me.

"Yes, I would." I'm not sure what else to say. Is there a secret handshake? Do I slip her money under the counter? I hear myself beginning to pant and I force myself to breathe more slowly.

She continues to look at me, and I suddenly get the weird impression she can see me without my clothes on. I take my backpack off my shoulder and hold it in front of me, rummaging through it for the papers I've brought with me from Ontario. When I find them, I place them on the counter. I leave the backpack where it is.

She sifts through them, her eyes quickly scanning several school documents, including letters of introduction from my curriculum advisor and Eaton's assessment officer, copies of each of last year's term reports, and a number the school can phone to request faxes of my most recent psychological and academic profiles.

"My, my," she says when she looks up again. She boxes the papers between her hands, aligning their edges perfectly, then returns them to me. "Very nice."

I stare at her. Very nice? "Don't you need these?"

"Not without a completed admissions form."

"Where do I get that?"

"From Mr. Martin."

"Who's Mr. Martin?"

"Our junior high guidance counsellor. He's the person in charge of registration and placement. You come here after you've seen him."

I look at her, slack-jawed. "You mean I've waited here for over ten minutes and I'm not even supposed to be here?"

She leans toward me, reaching across the counter. I recoil, then realize she's pointing at a sign taped at groin-level in front of me: ALL NEW STUDENTS REGISTER AT THE GUIDANCE OFFICE, ROOM 108.

"You can read, can't you?" Her apple lips part in a parody of a smile.

I flush, jamming the papers into my backpack. "I read what I can see," I mutter. I want to suggest another place for her sign, but it wouldn't be any easier to see there, either. "Where's room 108?"

"Four doors down on your right. Remember, you're looking for Mr. Martin." She says this last part slowly, like I'm three years old.

I don't bother to thank her—I'm too busy trying to remember if Norma was abandoned as a child. I think I've found her mother.