They say hello to me, I say hello back although I don’t know them, nor do they know me. How well I look, I lost weight haven’t I, they say, even though it’s the first time they see me. They send their greetings to my sister and ask me to convey them to her. We look a lot alike, they say, even though I only have a brother. Our parents know each other, they insist, they’ve been neighbors, even though we grew up in different cities. They ask how much time I spent in Madrid, even though I have never been to Madrid. They say they saw me strolling in the park, even though I was at home, they say they saw me on the street with a stranger with his arm around my waist and he looked at me with love in his eyes, who is this stranger, tell us about him, even though no one put his arms around my waist and no one looked at me with love in his eyes. Only a stranger, I reply, after all it’s probably a stranger. I spoke engagingly on the radio, they say, even though I never was on the radio. They bring me layered honey cake because they think I like it and offer me a spritzer to return the favor from last time, but I have no idea what they are talking about. They read what I had posted on my message board, what post, I ask. They liked the photo series about me, they can’t recall the name of the magazine, I should remind them which one, it appeared a few weeks ago. Sometimes I just keep nodding when they tell me what a nice chat we had last time, even though it’s the first time I’ve met them, and I only turn in their direction by mistake when they shout her name. By the way, her name really suits me, it’s not my fault that it’s not mine. When I tell them that it wasn’t me, they get confused, leave me quietly while whispering something to their friends while looking at me, or start laughing and say how funny I am. Sometimes they get embarrassed and apologize. I assure them that I am often mistaken for her. They accept this and from then on keep their distance. They say I gave a beautiful rendition of that song, and I only nod. They ask me to sing something, and I have to come up with different excuses, for example, I say that I can only sing on Saturdays or on Mondays, if it happens to be Saturday. Sometimes I apologize when I tell them that they have mistaken me for her, and they answer that it’s no problem. Sometimes I wish I liked jazz, then I would enjoy this concert to which they invited me because I supposedly liked jazz and the pianist. Sometimes they’re right about what I like and at those times I let them mistake me for her. For example, if they bring me a cinnamon bun, I thank them and eat it, or when they take me to a place where I really want to go. I promise to write a song about them, it will be on my next album. They go home and anxiously wait for the album while telling everyone that a song will be written about them.

Anita Harag was born in Budapest in 1998. After finishing her first degree in literature and ethnology, she completed her graduate studies in Indian Studies. Her first short stories that appeared in magazines earned her several literary awards and prizes. In 2020, she was the winner of the Margó Prize, awarded to the best first-time fiction author of the year for her volume of short stories, Rather Cool for the Time of the Year. Her second volume of short stories, including this one, came out in September 2023.

Walter Burgess and Marietta Morry are both Canadian, and they translate contemporary fiction from Hungarian. In addition to stories by Ms. Harag (ten of which have been published), they also translate fiction by Gábor T. Szántó, Péter Moesko, Zsófia Czakó and András Pungor. Many of these translations have appeared in literary reviews in North America and abroad, including The Stinging Fly, The New England Review, The Southern Review, and Ploughshares. Szántó’s book, 1945 and Other Stories (six of the eight stories being translated by them), was published in May 2024.

James is main boy.

Atwood is second main boy.

Tomothy is neither tall nor short, but a secret third thing. He is also third main boy.

Notch is forth, but only in maths.

Frau Gruber is not a boy at all, but serves us supper and consoles us after exams.

Frail Misty is my secret love. The headmaster’s youngest daughter. I must not admit to this in public. And neither is she in the ranking of main boys.

Danovan is headmaster’s favorite although he is not even in the top ten of main boys.

Rickan was once main boy, but no longer. He has fallen out of favor. For shame, Rickan.

Mark and Other Mark are fine friends who care not for rankings. I celebrate them.

Welsh Jonathan admitted to loving Frail Misty last year, during the Feast of St. George, and he has not been the since same. The same since. Poor, unfortunate Welsh Jonathan. He is sixteenth main boy and shan’t rise any higher.

Hankus was the main boy in the 1932/33 term. He lives in the dream attic.

On Walking Day, Chauncey becomes main boy for exactly three hours and may do as he pleases.

On Whitsunday there is no main boy. There must never be a main boy on Whitsundays.

All headmasters were once main boys. This is known as The Main Boy’s Curse.

Despite all headmasters having once been main boys, not all main boys go on to become headmaster. We have asked both Professor Steinmetz, our maths tutor, and our own Notch whether this is representative of contraposition or modus tollens, but have received no satisfactory answer.

Ex. “If it is raining, then we shall not play bowls,” therefore “if we are not playing bowls, then it is raining.”

Yet this cannot be true. We do not play bowls frequently. Or more correctly, we frequently do not play bowls. Such as on Whitsunday last, when the sun shone brilliantly and yet there we were once again not playing bowls.

The bowls pitch is named after James’s grandfather who in his day was also main boy, but never became headmaster.

As Secretary of Boy Rankings I am tasked with compiling this record. I am told it is an honor to do this, that Secretary of Boy Rankings is an honorable position. But I must admit that it does not feel honorable. The Secretary of Boy Rankings is exempted from appearing on the list and this feels to me as though I am not a part of my own life. That I am at best an observer, perhaps. A Recording Angel. I find this quite upsetting despite being treated by the other boys with all deference due my position.

Despite being exempt, I believe I would very much like to hold a position in the rankings. Though not the position of main boy with all its attendant pressure and responsibilities. But to appear somewhere on this list, to have my own name put down here so that it will not be lost to history. Our bodies fade, our contemporaries die, even our eventual children will pass from this Earth, and one day the last person to remember any of us will also cease to exist. But to be on the list of boy rankings is to live on. It is to not be forgotten.

Logic deserts us all, in the end. Frequently. Poor Notch. Poor Mr. Steinmetz.

Holm is final boy. In the end, he shall outlast us all. He shall be the last person to keep us in living memory. Long after we are gone, he shall be mute uncomprehending witness to horrors the rest of us can scarce now imagine.

But, oh Holm. Oh, friend Holm. Remember me well. I beg you. Not as a Secretary or Recording Angel, but as a mere boy who lived and played bowls and wrote letters to his sister and looked forward to Whitsundays and communed with Hankus in the dream attic and asks you now for one final kindness.

Poor Holm. Poor glorious Holm.

Oh, Frau Gruber. What is to be done? I am in need of your consolations, I think.

Tack is the median boy, appearing exactly midway on my list. He is exemplary at nothing, but well-liked by all. Spoken ill of by none. Kudos, Tack. Well done. Well done.

Andreas Trolf is a writer and director living in New York. His fiction has been published in Joyland, The Cincinnati Review, Chicago Quarterly Review, and elsewhere. He is also the co-creator and writer of the Emmy-nominated Nickelodeon series Sanjay and Craig.