Chapter 13.
“How old are you, Rupert?” the man at the desk asks. His voice has the same smooth flatness as the loudspeakers outside. Rupert doesn’t know why that scares him. It shouldn’t matter. It does.
“Fourteen,” Rupert replies.
The man looks down at his notes. “Rupert Chadwick: Manchester. From a poor section of the city known as Moss Side West. Only child. Unusually high-level reader.”
“That’s me,” Rupert says, “but I don’t know about unusual.”
“You seem to be quite an athlete, aren’t you, son?”
Rupert’s chest lifts despite himself. “Center middie at the Man City Football Academy,” Rupert says proudly, “after I earned my scholarship there.”
“But you must know it’s your mind and not your skills on the pitch that earned you the invitation,” the man says. “We’ve never seen test scores like yours for someone your age.”
Rupert’s smile fades. When the man smiles, he reminds Rupert of his uncle Freddie. Freddie’s eyes always stay kind, but the kindness feels like a costume.
“Why did your parents allow you to come here?”
“Because of my mind, I guess,” Rupert says. “My mum and dad think I can do anything I set my mind to.”
“I can see why,” the man says. Then, changing topics: “In school, you can recite long passages from famous works with ease, isn’t that right?”
“It’s just a skill, like kicking a ball,” Rupert says.
“What’s a good one you’ve memorized?”
“Depends on what you want it to be about.”
The man taps the paper once with his finger. “Something about war,” he says softly. “Something people read when they’re trying to make sense of dying.”
“There’s a few come to mind.” Rupert’s throat goes dry. He stands anyway. It’s muscle memory—standing to perform, standing to be judged.
“Have you read ‘In Flanders Fields’ by any chance?”
“It’s one I’ve memorized, sir, yes,” he says.
“Would you mind reciting it for me now?”
Rupert begins to speak in the strong, confident voice he uses for recitations.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly . . .
When he finishes, the tent is silent.
The man behind the desk looks at him for a long moment.
Then Rupert sees the tears in the man’s eyes. The man smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Thank you,” he says.
Rupert sits back down, hands clasped tight in his lap.
“Are you okay?” the kid asks.
“I’m fine,” the man says. “It’s not that it’s sad. It’s that I know exactly how this ends.”