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high school student. In a typical public high school. On a typical part of the Moon. Almost.
    But.
    He led a double life of the most bizarre proportions.
    Extreme Academic Schizophrenia
was how his guidance counselor once described it to his father during a parental meeting. “Your son excels is some classes. In literature, for example. Ancient literature. He is beyond the other students. In fact, I would recommend that he begin university coursework just so he won’t get bored. The same is true for his standing in history class. In philosophy, well, he might as well teach the class himself. He is astonishing. Your son has the makings of an excellent researcher in the humanities, should he someday decide to go into those fields.”
    Ringo was ready to pop open a champagne bottle and do headstands.
    “But that’s wonderful!” He laughed.
    “That part is wonderful, yes, indeed it is, Mr. Rexaphin.”
    “Gagarin University, here we come!” Ringo thrust his fist into the air, and the guidance counselor went red with embarrassment.
    “Well, not so fast, sir…”
     
    The meeting went downhill from there. And, of course, Ringo blamed himself. He was essentially a mathematician and a scientist. He had failed miserably to transmit any of this inherent knowledge to his poor, suffering son.
    “By law, as a public school funded by the taxpayers of the Sea of Tranquility, we are obliged to place Hieronymus into the remedial math class and the remedial science class and at least one remedial industries class. Your son may be at the top of his class in the humanities, but in science and math, he is at the very, very bottom.”
    “Very bottom?”
    “Lower than the scum at the bottom of the math ladder.”
    “That’s terrible.”
    “He will never graduate if he continues on his current course — he won’t even be allowed into the next grade, he’ll be held back. But if we move him to the remedial section, he will at least pass those classes. His average will improve.”
    “This is horrible. My son…in remedial…”
    “He will have a schedule unlike any other here at Lunar Public 777. Half his day will be spent with the smartest, brightest, most intellectually curious in the entire school — the Advanced Honors class. The other half of his day will be spent with…”
     
    That evening, Ringo tried to find a private school for Hieronymus. He knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who knew the admissions officer at Armstrongington Academy. He swallowed his pride without a thought, and after twisting a thousand conversations twenty-six-seven ways, he secured a quick last-minute interview.
    I’m sorry, sir.
    He failed for two reasons. He couldn’t afford it. And even if he could, they still wouldn’t let his son attend their fine institution. The reasons?
    I’m sorry, sir. These are the worst math and science grades ever submitted by any applicant to Armstrongington Academy I have ever seen in all my years as an admissions officer.
     
    Hieronymus attracted the worst kind of attention within seconds of walking through the broken-hinged door. Mess. Overturned tables. An odor he’d never smelled before. Not a teacher in sight. Chaos and noise and sudden stares fooded in his direction, because he was new and because of the goggles. Sucked into a strange mini-world of anarchy and gaudy clothes and bizarre idiomatic expressions he could not understand. He was immediately surrounded, and three of them swarmed on him. His first day in the remedial section was quick and violent.
     
    Is it true that you can see the future of anyone you look at without your goggles?
    Let go of my arm!
    Is it true, goggle-freak?
    No. It’s nothing like that!
    I heard that when you take your goggles off, you can see colors that no one else can see. And that some of those colors show where people went and where people will go. Is that true, goggle-freak?
    Stop calling me that, you filthy Loopie.
    What, goggle-freak?
    Let go of my arm