The sun disappeared. He exhaled. Stearns turned his head and met Kingsley’s unapologetic stare.

Kingsley knew he should look away. Politeness demanded it of him. Discretion demanded it of him. If he didn’t stop staring, he had a feeling Father Robert and Stearns himself would demand it of him.

But he couldn’t look away, any more than he could have looked away had he come face-to-face with God Himself.

As Peter read from the catechism, Stearns stood up and, without asking permission, left the classroom. Father Robert didn’t say a word to stop him, merely continued the conversation with the other students. Kingsley’s heart pounded, his hands clenched. Had he been sitting in a Judas chair he couldn’t have been any more uncomfortable.

After ten seconds of trying to hold still, he got up and followed Stearns.

Once in the hall, Kingsley looked around wildly. No

Stearns to be seen. Which way had he gone? Out the front? The back? Upstairs?

Kingsley had no idea why he’d been seized with this mania, this absolute need to follow Stearns. But he’d done it now, left class without permission. No going back.

He heard the ringing of footsteps on the tile floor echoing off the concrete walls. Racing toward the sound, Kingsley found Stearns pacing the foyer between the third and fourth stories, a small Bible in his hand.

Stearns stopped in his pacing and faced Kingsley. He didn’t speak. Kingsley opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

“You left,” he finally said, reverting to French. Vous avez quitté.

Vous? They were the same, students in the same school. Why did Kingsley automatically use vous instead of the more familiar tu?

“Tu as quitté aussi.” You also left.

Tu. Not vous.

“I followed you.” Kingsley felt beyond foolish, stating the obvious. But he had no other words, no other reason. What could he explain? He was here because he was here. “Why did you leave?”

Stearns glared at him before turning back to his pacing.

“I’m allowed to leave.”

“I know that. You’re allowed to do anything you want. But that doesn’t answer the question.” Kingsley stared at him, dropped the English and asked again in French. “Pourquoi?”

“You were staring at me.”

Once, Kingsley had heard some phrase about discretion and valor, something his mother had said in English. He had forgotten how it went, however. Didn’t matter. He was beyond discretion now and couldn’t care less about valor.

“Oui. I was.”

“Why do you stare at me all the time?”

“Why do you care?”

Stearns didn’t answer for a moment. Finally, he met Kingsley’s eyes. “I don’t know. But I do.”

Had he been offered a million dollars at that moment in exchange for un-hearing those words, Kingsley would have said “Keep the money.”

“You should go back to class,” Stearns said, turning his attention back to his Bible.

Kingsley rolled his eyes. “Does it bother you that Father Robert treats you like that?” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall.

Stearns turned around again.

“Like what?”

Kingsley shrugged. “I don’t know. You do all the work in class. No one else answers any questions but you. He made you recite Bible verses. Recite them. Not read them. You perform for him.”

After looking at Kingsley a moment, Stearns resumed his pacing and reopened his Bible.

“He’s not making me perform. Father Robert loathes silence. No one here makes me do anything.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Stearns leveled his steely gaze at him again. Something in that stare caused Kingsley’s courage to falter. He took a quick breath and pushed ahead. This was the longest conversation he’d managed to have with Stearns since that first terrible day here. Even if he infuriated him, at least it would keep him talking.

“It’s only…you can come and go as you please in the classes. No one else can do that. You never eat in the dining room with us, although Father Henry said it was required for us all. Curfew doesn’t seem to apply to you. Why?”

“The rules are designed to keep students in line and safe. The Fathers know that if I stay up after curfew it’s because I’m reading. If I leave class it’s because I have other work to occupy myself. I eat with Father Aldo in the kitchen as it’s the only time we have for my Portuguese lessons.”

Kingsley shook his head. “No. It’s different. There’s more. You get special treatment here, and I want to know why.”

“It isn’t special treatment. I’m treated like an adult. And I’ve earned that. Behave like one, Kingsley, and you might earn it, as well.”

Stearns gave him one last glare before brushing past him and taking the steps down.

Kingsley knew he should go back to class. He wanted to follow Stearns but something told him Stearns had met his quota of words and wouldn’t be giving up any more to Kingsley today. Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after. He’d keep waiting, keep watching... Kingsley could tell he annoyed Stearns. Not the reaction he was going for, but better than nothing. Stearns usually walked around as if no one else in the world existed but him. To get under his skin was step one. Into his bed, that would be step two.

“King? What are you doing out here?”

Kingsley glanced over his shoulder and saw Christian coming down the hall. He and Christian had become fast friends almost by default the past two weeks. They were two of only five of the boys at Saint Ignatius who apparently had any experience with girls whatsoever. Christian also had a dirty sense of humor and the foulest mouth in school, when the priests weren’t around, that is. The virgins at the school gave them looks of awe mingled with jealousy when he and Christian and a couple of the others swapped stories of girlfriends and blow jobs and brushes with furious brothers and jealous boyfriends.