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Seeing the confused look on your face, Ms. Delilah chimes in. “Quite a diverse curriculum, I know. We try to offer the best for the very best. The best indeed. Such as you are!” She smiles.

The best? Isn’t this a school for delinquents? The supposedly licentious eighteen year old boys with a mother whose paranoia could facilitate the entire Department of Homeland Security?

Then you glance above Ms. Delilah’s head. Strewn along the wall, dozens of golden plaques: “#1 American Private School – St. Hartley’s” and “Best College Preparatory – St. Hartley’s.”

In your mother’s religious psychosis, did she unintentionally send you to the Harvard of private American high schools? How the hell did she afford this place? What the fuck is happening?

“I understand that your church paid for your tuition,” Ms. Delilah says, as though reading your mind. She clutches her heart. “You must be quite the popular young man, to fundraise $60,000.”

Your eyes nearly pop out of your head. “Holy shit,” you slip out. Ms. Delilah covers her mouth and giggles. “Holy, indeed! You’re now a Hartley Falcon, Peter. ‘Mysterium et Lux’ is the motto.”