‘Has Dr Thurmer written to your parents yet?’ old Spencer asked me.
‘He said he was going to write them Monday.’
‘Have you yourself communicated with them?’
‘No, sir, I haven’t communicated with them because I’ll probably see them Wednesday night when I get home.’
‘And how do you think they’ll take the news?’
‘Well… they’ll be pretty irritated about it,’ I said. ‘They really will. This is about the fourth school I’ve gone to.’ I shook my head. I shake my head quite a lot. ‘Boy!’ I said. I also say ‘boy!’ quite a lot. Partly because I have a lousy vocabulary and partly because I act quite young for my age sometimes. I was sixteen then, and I’m seventeen now, and sometimes I act like I’m about thirteen. It’s really ironical because I’m six-foot-two-and-a-half and I have grey hair. I really do. The one side of my head – the right side – is full of millions of grey hairs. I’ve had them ever since I was a kid. And yet I still act sometimes like I was only about twelve. Everybody says that, especially my father. It’s partly true, too, but it isn’t all true. People always think something’s all true. I don’t give a damn, except that I get bored sometimes when people tell me to act my age. Sometimes I act a lot older than I am – I really do – but people never notice it. People never notice anything.