After she left, Eleanor said, "I like her."
Jack said, "Me too."
---
There were smaller days after the large one, and the smaller days were where belonging either rooted or withered.
Jack learned the names of the security guards. He learned which vending machine stole money. He learned that Dr. Mori's soft questions could dismantle a performance more thoroughly than shouting, and that surviving those questions made you sturdier. He learned that Mrs. Cole kept tissues in her scoring folder and pretended they were for allergies. He learned that Principal Harrison's deep green ties came in three slight variations and that Margaret chose them, a fact Harrison once mentioned in a hallway as if surprised by his own willingness to be known.
He learned, too, the particular loneliness of being both inside and outside. At St. Mark's he had been the advanced one. At Westbridge he was one among many advanced ones, some of whom had private tutors flown in for masterclasses, some of whom cried in practice rooms when their parents' expectations landed like weather systems. Jack did not mock those tears. He recognized pressure in any accent.
One evening he found Pierce alone in a stairwell, not glittering, just tired. Pierce said, without preamble, "My father sends recordings of my lessons to three consultants. If I breathe wrong, I hear about it at dinner."