Rite of Passage

The cartons went in my new room, which was larger than my old one. Larger, plus having more book shelves, which pleased me because I like my books out where I can use them, not piled away for lack of space.

I stood looking at the cartons, and not having the courage to attack them immediately, I began experimenting to see what sounds I could get out of the pennywhistle. Three minutes — that was the time we had in peace before the door rang.

First it was our neighbors. They crowded in and said, Oh, Mr. Havero, it’s such a thrill to have you here on our corridor, we hope you love it here as much as we do, and some of us men get together once in awhile, you know, for a little evening, keep it in mind, and oh, so that’s your daughter, she’s sweet, she’s adorable, Mr. Havero, I mean that, I really do, and you know Havero, there are some things I’ve been meaning to talk over with our rep on the Council, but now that you’re here, well, I might as well say it right to you, go right to the top, so to speak…

After that came the sightseers and the favor askers. A lot of favor askers. I could tell them from the neighbors because they tried to butter me up, as well as Daddy. The neighbors just buttered up Daddy.

I don’t know why it is, but in a case like this, the very people you’d enjoy meeting are the ones who have the good taste to stay home and not bother you. I think it may be an unsolvable problem.

Within minutes, Daddy retreated to his office and the people took over our living room while they waited to talk to him. The new apartment had two wings with the living room in between like the meat in a sandwich. One wing had three bedrooms, a bath and a kitchendining room. The other had a study for Daddy and an office. Adjoining the office on the far side was another smaller, empty apartment. Eventually, this was supposed to be a waiting room, but it wasn’t ready yet and so the people were camping themselves inside our house.

I watched the people for awhile, and then I pushed my way through the crowd and went into the bedroom wing. I called up Mary Carpentier from there.

“Hello, Mia,” she said. “Seeing you on the vid like this, you might still be home.”

“I am still home,” I said. “I haven’t moved yet.”

“Oh,” she said, and her face fell. She must have had her heart set on a call from a distance.

“I was just fooling,” I said. “I have moved.”

That brightened -her up again and we talked for awhile. I told her about all the people who were squatting in our living room, and we got giggling like madmen about all the imaginary errands we made up for them to have come about. We also swore again that we would be true-blue friends forever and ever.

When I was done, I went out in the hall just in time to see a heavy-set man coming out of my bedroom. I knew I’d never seen him before.

“What are you doing in there?” I asked.

Before he answered, he stuck his head into the next room for a moment to take a good look around in there. Then he said, “I’m just poking around, same as you.”

“I’m not poking around,” I said quietly. “I live here.”

He realized then that he’d made a mistake. He didn’t say anything. He just turned red and pushed by me hastily. And that’s the way things had been ever since.

Now, Jimmy Dentremont, looking closely at my face, asked, “What happened to your eye?”

I don’t believe in answering leading questions if I can avoid them, but even beyond that I had no intention of telling anybody what had happened to my eye.

“How old are you?” I asked in an even voice.

“Why?”

“If you’re as young as I think you are, you have no business asking me anything. Children should be seen and not heard.”

“Well, I’m older than you are,” he said. “I was born November 8, 2185.”

If he was telling the truth, then he was right by three weeks to the day.

“How do you know how old I am?” I asked.

“I asked about it when I found you were moving here,” he said quite openly.

See what I mean? Staring and prying.

The buzzer in the schoolroom sounded to signal the start of the second hour.

“Is this First Room?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Jimmy Dentremont said. “They don’t tell you that.”

Well, I knew they didn’t. They don’t want anybody feeling bad about what level he’s studying at — or feeling too good, either — but since it’s simply a matter of comparing notes, everybody knows just exactly what level his room is.

Jimmy Dentremont was simply being contrary. So far we had been feeling each other out, and I had no idea of how to take him or even whether or not we could get along. I thought not.

Mr. Quince called me in again after lunch, raised his eyebrows once more at my black eye — I had the feeling that he didn’t approve of it — and informed me that he had a change to make in my schedule.

“Mr. Mbele,” he said, handing me an address.

“Excuse me,” I said.