The first day was a disaster.

He didn’t expect it to go well, of course. But somehow, year after year, he was never prepared for how bad it could be.

First, there were his parents. They always came with him the first day, he knew that. But he always let himself hope that this year might be different.

“The other parents don’t come,” he said at breakfast.

“We’re not other parents,” said his mother.

It was hard to argue with that.

Of course, there were plenty of parents who drove their kids to Tandy Bay Elementary on the first day. But they didn’t come into the classrooms. Not if their kids were in sixth grade!

But there were Mr. and Mrs. Dearborn, large and bulky, wearing dark suits, pushing their way through the milling students to get to the teacher’s desk. They looked like a couple of beetles on an ant hill.

“Excuse us,” demanded his mother, holding out her cane to clear a path. “Pardon!”

Kids backed away, giggling.

The teacher stood up, surprised. She was new, Lewis saw—a pretty young woman with stylish blue glasses and blond hair tied back. She held out her hand. “I’m Ms. Forsley. Can I—”

“Charlotte Dearborn,” said Lewis’s mother firmly in a voice that carried into the hall. “Dr. Charlotte Dearborn. And this is my husband, Dr. Gerald Dearborn. We’d like a word about our son, Lewis.”

The class grew quiet, the buzz of voices fading.

“Well—” said Ms. Forsley. But it was too late.

“Lewis is gifted, you understand, and he’ll need special …”

Lewis forced his brain to sing la-la-la so he wouldn’t have to listen. But he heard the laughter behind him and a boy’s voice repeating “Special!” He heard Ms. Forsley’s voice, too, pleasant and friendly, suggesting that they could discuss it later. The teachers always said this, every year, but his parents never learned.

La-la-la, went Lewis in his head, trying to block out “Lewis’s health” and “fragile,” and then “asthma” and “allergies.” The other kids were beginning to sit down, so he shuffled sideways and dropped into an empty desk, wishing he could shrivel up like a raisin and fall through a crack in the floor. La-la-la, he continued—forever, it felt like—until Mrs. Dearborn finally stopped. Thunk, thunk went her cane down the aisle.

As she passed Lewis’s desk, she paused.

What now, he thought. Suddenly, her hand came out, and—was she really smoothing down the hair at the back of his head? Was his cowlick sticking up again? Who on the whole, stupid planet cared if Lewis’s hair stuck up?

His mother, that’s who. She made a loud “tsk” sound.

Mr. Dearborn added his own good-bye—a fond pat on Lewis’s shoulder. Finally, they were gone. Lewis let out all the breath he’d been holding in.

Then he waited, scrunched tight against the plastic of his chair. Sooner or later, Ms. Forsley would do it. Speak directly to him.

It didn’t happen right away. When she took attendance, he managed to squeak out a “Here!” It sounded weird and got a few laughs, but she moved on quickly.

“Danny Divers?”

No answer. Lewis looked around.

“Does anybody know where Danny is?”

From the back, someone said, “He moved away at the beginning of summer.”

Lewis felt a stab of disappointment. Danny Divers wasn’t exactly his friend. More like an ally. He and Danny had been somehow on the same side. And now Danny was gone.

When attendance ended, Ms. Forsley welcomed the class and said all the usual things about having a good year together. Then she suggested that they begin by each telling one interesting thing they had done over the summer.

“I’ll start,” she said. “This summer I traveled to the Rocky Mountains with some friends to go hiking.”

There was more, but Lewis didn’t hear because of the roar in his ears. His heart began to pound, and his head and upper body filled with warmth. He heard the other kids saying … something. He tried to think of what he had done this summer. Moved to Shornoway, of course. But it didn’t matter. It was hopeless. He was hopeless.

Some of the kids had long stories, so it took a while to get to him.

“And you, Lewis?” said Ms. Forsley.

The room went quiet.

She waited. The whole class waited.

Lewis felt heat, like flames from a furnace, rise through his body and flow into his face. He felt panic seize his muscles, holding them tight and rigid. He opened his mouth. Ms. Forsley leaned forward.

Nothing came out. Not even a grunt.

The silence grew.

“Lewis?” said Ms. Forsley.

The silence dragged on. Lewis knew what he looked like. Scarlet. His face was now the same reddish color as his hair. No. Brighter! Kids had told him how he looked when this happened. Like a human tomato.

At least he wasn’t crying. Sometimes when this happened, tears ran down his face.

At least he wasn’t doing that.

Finally, a voice spoke up. Seth Tyler’s voice, polite. “He can’t talk.”

“What do you mean?” said Ms. Forsley. “Of course he can. Lewis?”

“No,” insisted Seth, his voice not quite so polite anymore. “He can’t talk in class. He never does. We’ll sit here all day if you wait for him.”

Muffled giggles followed.

“That’s enough.” Ms. Forsley sounded rattled. “Lewis, we’ll give you another chance later. Now … um, Catherine?”

Another chance later. That was bad. It meant she would keep trying. Most of his teachers did keep trying. They thought it was their job to get Lewis to talk in class. They even gave grades for it. They called it participation. Or worse, oral presentation.

Lewis had seen a movie on TV once where the main character described himself as “terminally shy.” The phrase stuck in Lewis’s mind because that was exactly what he was. If it were possible to actually die of shyness, Lewis would have been in his grave long ago. Back in first grade, probably. That was the first time he had found himself in a class with other kids, his parents having kept him out of kindergarten because of a flu scare. Before first grade, it was just him and his parents and his nanny, Judith, who had looked after him when he was little. Judith was nice, but, like his parents, quite old, and looking back, Lewis figured that she must have been shy herself. At any rate, she never spoke to the other adults in the playground, so Lewis didn’t talk to the kids, either. Not until first grade.

By then, it was too late. He knew nothing. He got everything wrong. Clothes, of course. He wore a coat that first year—a long blue coat that came down past his knees.

You couldn’t play games in a coat! So tag and dodge ball were among the things he got wrong. Some of the other things were lunch foods, recess, birthday presents, names of cars, taking turns, TV shows, sharing, Halloween costumes and talking.

Talking was the worst. He’d gotten that wrong immediately. He had talked way too much, he could see that now, and he didn’t talk the way other kids did or about the same things. So they had stopped talking to him. They had stopped listening. They had stopped even seeing that he was there. He couldn’t blame them, really.

But Lewis wasn’t stupid, and he understood—even at six—that the other kids didn’t like him, even if he didn’t know why. So, little by little, he had given up. Eventually, he had ended up like that guy in the TV movie—terminally shy. He couldn’t speak anymore in class. Not at all! In the past few years, he had said so little that his school voice had rusted right over. If he forced himself, what came out was the caw of a crow, or—like this morning—a rodent squeak.

When the recess bell rang, Lewis followed his classmates outside. He found a place to stand, beside the front stairs. Over the years, he’d developed a talent for finding corners of the schoolyard to hide in, walls to lean against. He was good at stillness, too—so good, kids ran past without seeing him, as if he were a stump. If Danny Divers were there, they might stand beside each other. Two stumps. They might say a few words now and then.

But Danny Divers was gone.

Lewis kept his head down, as if he had a powerful interest in his own shoes. A picture of an ostrich popped into his head—he’d heard that ostriches hide their heads in the sand, believing this makes them invisible. He smiled to think that he was really no smarter than an ostrich.

“What’s so funny, Lewissssser?” said a voice to his right.

Seth.

Lewis didn’t answer.

“I guess he won’t talk to us,” said Seth. “Maybe it’s because he’s so special.”

Lewis stared at the shoes in the semi-circle around him. He knew Seth’s shoes well. White trainers, heavily scuffed, with a couple of blue stripes. White pants. Lewis knew without looking up that the T-shirt was white, too. This had been Seth’s uniform ever since he’d turned up after Christmas the previous year. White shirt, white pants, every day. Nobody had ever dressed that way at Tandy Bay Elementary before. But Seth was the opposite of Lewis. He made friends easily. Soon there were two more boys dressing in white. And by June, two more.

Now, glancing around, Lewis could see, above the shoes, six pairs of white pants. Maybe they were on sale, he thought, and his mouth once again betrayed him with a smile.

“Must be hilarious, Lewissssser,” said Seth. “You’re a regular comedian.”

The other boys laughed.

“But guess what’s not funny. You’re standing in my square again.”

Yes, thought Lewis, this was how it started.

The front of the schoolyard was covered in paving stones, each about the size of a desk top. It didn’t matter which square Lewis stood on—that was the one Seth would want. It didn’t help, either, to leave the paving-stone area. Seth would draw a square around Lewis in the dirt if he had to. Just so he could claim it.

“I don’t suppose you’d mind moving, Lewisssser. I mean, I know you’re fragile and all, but even us ordinary guys who aren’t so special need a place to hang out. Know what I mean?” Guffaws from the other boys. The blue-and-white shoes took a step closer.

“Move!” ordered Seth.

Spotting a gap in the circle, Lewis darted through. He headed for the swings where Mrs. Reber, the playground supervisor, had joined hands with a circle of little girls. If he got close enough to her, Seth might leave him alone. If he got too close, Seth would notice and come after him later, calling him a baby. There was a perfect distance—close, but not too close—if only he could figure it out. Last year, he’d spent a lot of time trying.

This year it would be worse. Six guys already in Seth’s white gang. And it was only the first day.

In the afternoon, Ms. Forsley tried him again with a question. An easier question—or so she thought. They were discussing what the class would do during gym time.

“How about you, Lewis? Do you like sports?”

Yes or no, thought Lewis. That’s all she wants. Answer!

But it was an impossible question. If he said yes, everyone would laugh. Lewis Dearborn, an athlete? Ha, ha. If he said no, it would make him a weirdo. Lewis Dearborn doesn’t like sports? It must be because he’s so special.

He said nothing.

Finally, it was over.

On the long walk home, Lewis had time to think. Not about school—there was no point. He thought about the tower instead. How fantastic it had been, living there. In those first days upstairs, he’d been sure that nothing at school could touch him—not if he could go home to Libertalia. And now, instead, he’d go home to more impossible questions, this time from his parents and Mrs. Binchy. Did you have a good day? Did you have fun with your friends?

Why couldn’t the pirates just leave him alone? Why couldn’t they hang out somewhere else, as they had done when he first moved in? All he’d had to worry about then were a few noises.

He could handle noises.

His next thought stopped him in his tracks. What if the pirates weren’t in the tower? What if he was avoiding Libertalia for nothing? There’d been no sign of them when he went upstairs with his father. Was it possible that the pirates had left?

Longing swept through Lewis like a tidal wave.

He turned into the Shornoway drive. There it was—the tower. He stared till his eyes began to water from the wind. Then he decided.

He was going back upstairs.