MR. CHIVERS arrived shortly after a quarter past nine, puffing and red-faced. (I later learnt that he cycled to school.) He hurried past me without saying anything, opened the door to his room, and stumbled to the window, where he stood staring down at the cement quad. Spotting someone, he slid open the window and roared, "Kevin O'Brien! Have you been kicked out of class already?"

"Wasn't my fault, sir," a young boy shouted back. "The top came off my pen in my bag, ruining my homework. Could have happened to anyone, sir. I don't think I should be kicked out for—"

"Report to my office during your next free period, O'Brien!" Mr. Chivers interrupted. "I have a few floors for you to scrub."

"Aw, sir!"

Mr. Chivers slammed the window shut. "You!" he said, beckoning me in. "What are you here for?"

"I'm—"

"You didn't break a window, did you?" he cut in. "Because if you did, there'll be hell and leather to pay!"

"I didn't break a window," I snapped. "I haven't had time to break anything. I've been stuck outside your door since eight, waiting. You re late!"

"Oh?" He sat down, surprised by my directness. "Sorry. A flat tyre. It's the little monster who lives two floors below. He…" Clearing his throat, he remembered who he was and adopted a scowl. "Never mind about me — who are you and why were you waiting?"

"My name's Darren Horston. I'm—"

"— the new boy!" he exclaimed. "Sorry — clean forgot you were coming." Getting up, he took my hand and pumped it. "I was away this weekend — orienteering — only got back last night. I jotted down a note and pinned it to the fridge on Friday, but I must have missed it this morning."

"No problem," I said, freeing my fingers from his sweaty hand. "You're here now. Better late than never."