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I was fond of Ancra Atlas, though he was not my friend. I went with the flow and kept my grades up, while his calling was to be a writer. He was more like an adult brother than a boy in my grade, pronounced by how we wore our fathers’ suits on the night of the dinner cruise. Lapels and shoulder pads made not the boy a man. He was in a world apart, one of the chosen dreamers, thanks to the blessings of three girls who knew his potential. Two of them, the engineer and the pianist, were with us in Montreal. They discussed classical music, and I let Ancra talk about politics. When he asked what caught my eye, I mounted the steps rather than explain that I saw someone.