By the rate Ms. Whimbrel was chirping off names -- Dowitcher, Flemming, Gadwall, Jaeger, Kestrel -- the leaves on the trees would yellow and he'd be ready to fly from this freshly waxed floored roost.  P. Martin.  Why not Peter or, even, Preston?  But P. Martin?  

He glanced at the clock:  tick . . . tick . . . tick.  And, all he could think of was itch . . . itch . . . itch.

Whatever possessed his mother to name him P. Martin -- a question he'd asked her time and time again.  Why P?  

His new classmates' names crawled across his skin as the teacher pecked out each one:  Anthony Ackland, Roy Billings, Caroline Brewster . . . Peck, Peck, Peck.