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If the kid's a success, it's because of the school. If the kid's a failure, it's because of the home.

Not all the teachers at my school are like that, just most of them. Good teachers don't want to
teach at poor schools. People think poor kids are automatically failures, so why bother with us?

I'm not a failure. I've just turned eleven and I'm in grade eight. They bumped me ahead a couple of grades. Every year, though, the teachers warn Tammy that I'll come to a bad end. They think that because we're poor and my brothers are autistic and my mother used to be a stripper that I'm doomed to a life of crime and failure.

The eighth grade play is the highlight of the evening.

“If our play is the highlight, everyone's in for a big disappointment,” I grumbled as I buckled Daniel into his harness.

“‘The play's the thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king,'” Tammy quoted. She used to do a dance to Elizabethan music. She quoted bits of Shakespeare while she was stripping. She said she enjoyed doing it, but the quotations went right over her audience's head. “That's from
Hamlet
,” she said.

“Have you ever read the whole play?”

“Don't need to. That's the best line.”

“I thought the best line was ‘To be or not to be'?”

“Overrated.”

We keep the twins on harnesses when we're out walking with them. The harnesses keep them from
running into the street. They don't understand about traffic.

I moaned and groaned some more about my part on the way over to the school.

“There are no dumb parts, just dumb players,” Tammy said.

“Oh, knock it off. Let me enjoy being grumpy.” Tammy just laughed.

Tiffany, one of my classmates, and her gang of girls who follow her around like sheep were grouped just outside the school entrance.

They'll make good teenagers, I thought.

I headed for the backstage part of the auditorium. Mom was going to walk around with the twins until the play started. “I'll try to tire them out so they'll sit through it,” she said.

The play was really dumb. It was written by a girl in our class who thought she was a great writer because teachers had told her so for years. They only told her that because she writes things they like.

In this play, a girl is nervous about starting grade eight. She has a dream the night before school starts, where a fairy godmother leads her through all the wonderful things she'll learn in the coming year. The girl wakes up in the morning looking forward to school. I was sure it would have the whole audience puking before it was halfway through.

I played an equilateral triangle. I wore a huge cardboard triangle around my neck, and I had one line. “My sides are equal, and my corners are equal, so everything about me is equal.” Really deep.

Backstage, everything was chaos. Our teacher, Miss Melon — we called her the Watermelon or Melonball behind her back — was fluttering around, checking a million unimportant details. “You'd think this was opening night on Broadway,” I mumbled. Before I could duck away, she spotted me.

“Good, you're finally here. Hurry and put on your costume.” She pushed me toward my fellow geometric shapes.

Tiffany and her gang arrived, and they were giggling as I walked past them toward the costume table.

“What's the joke?” I asked. “I could use a laugh.”

“You're too young,” one of them said.

“Yeah, you wouldn't understand. You don't even wear a bra yet.”

“You don't think with your breasts, idiot,” I said back to them, “or maybe you do.”

“Did you just call me an idiot?”

“What's the matter? Don't you understand what it means? Ask the Watermelon for a dictionary. Let
me know if you need help with the alphabet.”

“You little...” Tiffany pushed me, hard, and I fell to the floor. My triangle got bent, which cheered me up considerably. I sprang up from the floor and started to push her back, when I felt a restraining hand on my shoulder.

The Watermelon had me in her grip. “Khyber! Stop that! Look what you've done to your costume!”

“It looks better this way,” I muttered, although not loud enough for her to hear.

“Now, smarten up and no more nonsense. I'll put this down to backstage jitters, but if it happens again, you'll be in trouble.” Miss Melon didn't say anything to Tiffany. Tiffany's pretty. Adults never think pretty kids can do anything wrong.

I'm not pretty. I'm scrawny and my hair is always messy because I can't be bothered to comb it.

Tiffany had the starring role in the play, of course. She played the moronic girl who was afraid of grade eight. One of her gang members played the fairy godmother. They were strutting around backstage like a couple of peacocks. I felt kind of sorry for them. They didn't seem to realize what a joke the play was.

I watched the play from the side of the stage. It was as dopey as I'd remembered it from rehearsal.
We were coming up to my entrance. I could hear the twins, way in the back. They were getting restless.

I entered the stage with the other shapes. Daniel was really starting to fuss, and as Tammy tried to calm him down, David slipped off his chair. He started walking around, touching other people and their things, making his special noises.

Good for you, David, I thought. Maybe there will be something fun about this evening after all. Daniel raised his noise level, too, adding to the fun. Tiffany had to raise her voice to be heard.

Then I saw the faces on the people in the audience. They turned their heads, trying to show their disapproval to this woman who couldn't control her children. The people David touched withdrew from him like he had a bad smell.

“Why don't you put those dumb brothers of yours in a zoo, where they belong?” Tiffany growled at me.

That did it. I marched off the stage, adding to the twins' noise by stamping my feet. The play halted as I went down into the audience.

“Come with me, David,” I said. I picked him up. He put his warm little arms around my neck and let me carry him to the front of the auditorium. It was a bit hard going up the steps to the stage. David was getting heavy.

Up on stage, I glared at my classmates and at the audience. I belted out my stupid line, not knowing or caring whether it was my turn or not.

“My damn sides are equal, my damn corners are equal, so every damn thing about me is damn equal!”

I tore off my cardboard triangle, flung it to the floor, then stomped back off the stage.

Tammy and Daniel were waiting for me at the door. I got into my jacket, and we left the school.

“Come here, you,” Tammy said, once we were out in the cool night air.

She wrapped me in a huge hug. We put the boys between us, and we hugged them, too. It sure felt great.

I thought she'd bawl me out for swearing, but she didn't even mention it.

I went to bed happy that night, but I woke up a couple of hours later. I could hear Mom in the kitchen. She was crying.

I started to get out of my bed, but then I heard Juba's voice, soft and soothing. Juba is Mom's best friend. She lives in a tall apartment building at the other end of Regent Park.

Juba will take care of Mom, I thought, then drifted back to sleep.

CHAPTER FIVE

One of my friends is the waitress in the Trojan Horse Restaurant. She's the meanest waitress in Toronto.

That sounds rude, but it isn't. It's true. She was even written up in a magazine. They keep the article posted in the window. The owner says its good for business. He says it quietly, though. He's a little afraid of her, even though he's her boss.

“I don't know how she's managed it, but she makes more than I do,” he whispered to me one Saturday when I was scrubbing pots. “Plus, she gets tips!”

Her name is Valerie, and she must make a small fortune in tips. If she doesn't like the amount a customer has left, she'll call him back and make him leave more. I've even seen her run out of the restaurant after a customer.

“This is what you're leaving me?” she'll bark,
and usually the customer is so startled — and so scared — he'll cough up more money right then and there.

She only does that to rich people — well, people richer than us. There are rich people living all around the outside of Regent Park.

When people go into the Trojan Horse in need of a good meal but can't afford one, Valerie loads them up with extras of whatever they order. She's rude while she's doing it, though, like she's worried somebody might accuse her of being nice. Fat chance.

Valerie does have one weakness — babies. Whenever a baby comes into the Trojan Horse, she goes all gooey and gushy. The boss and I get a kick out of watching her. She'll take complete charge of the baby, and if the parent objects, or someone complains that she should put the baby down and get them their food, she growls at them like a dog protecting its bone. Parents who go to the Trojan Horse a lot wise up and let her take the baby, and then they enjoy a meal in peace. Babies never cry when Valerie is holding them. Maybe they feel how well she would protect them. Or maybe the sight of her mass of fiery red hair stuns them into silence.

Valerie is twice as grumpy after there's been a baby in the restaurant, to make up for being so gooey with the baby.

Valerie is rude with Tammy and me, too, but we're not afraid of her. She was Mom's friend before I was born. They met during Tammy's dancing days. Tammy would roll in for breakfast at two in the afternoon, three hours after the breakfast menu had ended. Valerie would growl at her, and Tammy would growl right back, so naturally they became good friends.

Valerie was gooey with me for the first year of my life, bringing me a teddy bear the day I was born. I still have it. She was Mom's labor coach, too. She practically ordered Mom to hurry up and give birth and stop fooling around.

She stopped being gooey with me and started being grumpy when I was about a year old. I grew up with her rudeness. I like it. When I'm an adult, I'm going to be just as rude as Valerie. I just wish Tammy would let me practice more now.

Valerie's crazy about the boys. I like people who like my brothers. She's rude to them, too, but they seem to know when they're safe and around friends. If anyone in the restaurant complains about the twins' noises or arm-flapping, she takes their food away and tells them to leave. I love it when she does that.

I work at the Trojan Horse for one hour every Saturday morning. It's not a real job, since I'm too young, but it's still a job. Valerie got it for me. She
told the boss that this was the way it was going to be. The boss nodded meekly and disappeared behind the grill.

I love arriving at the restaurant. It smells of bacon and stale cigarette smoke, grease and old coffee. It's warm and cheerful.

“Quit blocking the door,” Valerie snarled when I got to work that morning. I grinned at her and hurried to hang up my jacket.

“Here, clean this!” Valerie pointed to something greasy and gross. She usually has me clean something like that.

“Ugh. Did you save this up for me all week?”

“Less talk and more work!”

I shut up and got to work.

When whatever it was was finally clean, my hour was up. I sat down at the back table, the one reserved for the employees, and Valerie brought me my breakfast. I get breakfast in exchange for work. Having breakfast in a restaurant is great. It makes me feel like a big shot.

I got the Saturday papers from behind the counter, smothered my eggs in ketchup, making them look bloody and messy, and settled down to eat. Valerie gives me extra bacon. I like to dip it in the egg yolk.

After breakfast I spent some time at the library, and by then it was time for lunch.

Tammy had chores for me, as always, then David and I walked over to Allan Gardens. We ran outside for awhile, then went into the greenhouse to wait for a wedding.

Working a wedding was my secret job. Secret from Tammy, that is. She never expressly said I couldn't do it, but only because she never imagined that I would.

David, of course, would never tell. Sometimes it's useful to have autistic brothers.

David and I sat on the center bench in the greenhouse, the most popular bench for weddings. I gave David a couple of buttons to play with so he wouldn't be bored.

We didn't have to wait long.

A wedding party swarmed into the greenhouse and headed for my bench. Their faces dropped when they saw David and me sitting on that bench like we owned it.

“Hello,” the photographer nodded to me, all friendly. I recognized the style. It didn't throw me a bit. Before I got through with him, he'd be tearing out what was left of his hair.

I nodded hello back, to put him off his guard. He got busy setting up his camera. It was pointed at my bench. He, and everyone else, assumed I would move. As he busied himself with the light meter and other gadgets, the wedding party looked
at David and me. They tried to smile pleasantly, because they could see David was special, and they didn't want anybody to accuse them of being mean to special children. Everything was proceeding as it should.

“Now, if I could just ask this pretty young lady to step off to the side for a few moments...” The photographer smiled at me again.

I smiled back. I didn't move.

The best man came onto the scene. “Are we ready?”

The photographer glanced in my direction. The best man (if he was their best man, I'd hate to see their worst one) nodded, as if he knew his duty and would do it. He sauntered over to me, with all the time in the world. He sat his ugly self down beside me.

“What have you got there, sport,” he asked David. “Some buttons?”

David made one of his noises and kept playing with his buttons.

The best man tried me next. “We're hoping to take some pictures here. You don't mind, do you?”