Moms biggest problem in life had been that she hated being ordinary.

She hadnt beendeemed good enough for the doctors kid. Add that to the being bullied stuff, no wonder she was screwed up. She loved attention. Any attention. She faked being eccentric by collectedcollecting feathers and trying to see auras. When no one noticed she started looking for something she might excel at. She learned how to make hats and cover shoes. She took pottery and weaving courses. For a while she tried writing. In her mind, there had to be something that would catapult her to fame. All she had to do was find it.

None of that affected me until the origami phase. Mom had found a book at the library on how to fold paper into animals. I took a paper bunny rabbit to school, February of grade three. I was the Special Person of the Week and because of that I could take something in to show the class. A big mistake. My teacher called mom and asked her to come in for an art class lesson. To show my classmates how to fold something simple. I knew even then this was a bad idea. If I had known the teacher was going to contact mom I would have told her mom had leprosy or something terrifyingly contagious.

Mom had been was ecstatic after the call. I think she had it in her mind that she was becoming a substitute teacher. She made herself a new dress and I wasnt allowed to see it in advance. The big day arrived and mom knocked smartly on the classroom door. A Friday afternoon. She looked great and I briefly considered that this might turn out alright after all. She brought in all the supplies and she began showing us how to make a fish. She knew we had been studying the ocean and thought that making a fish would be working with the curriculum. Things went well for about fifteen minutes. Then, mom yelled at a little girl that had folded her paper into a fan.

Mrs. Nickerson, could you step out into the hallway with me? Mrs. Hannam was generally quite jolly, but not so much right then. She closed the door behind them. I could hear muffled voices. Mom didnt return to the classroom.

When I got home later she was in bed, smoking. In her underwear. Her pretty dress lay in a guilty heap on the floor. I tried to make her feel better. Mom refused to say anything. A big fat winter fly had gone bump bump bump against the window. Maybe trying to get away from the smoke. Bump bump bump. Let me out. funny

All of a sudden mom had jumped out of bed and grabbed her romance novel. She smashed it down on the fly. You want out. Well, so do I.funny Just once I would like something to work out for me. She was never one to take responsibility for her actions. And, thanks mom. I guess I am not enough to

make you happy. That day, at the age of eight, was the first time I considered that mom might kill herself.

In our small community there were few secrets. I am sure the story of mom yelling at a little girl was told over every supper table that night in Peggys Point and surrounding farms. She had her fifteen minutes of fame alright.

And that was when kids started to stay away from me.

Mom hated that she wasnt special and she hated that I was ordinary too. Once I found a story she wrote bemoaning the fact that she had a ho-hum child. She also wrote that she had thought of jumping on a train and running away. Every time I have heard a train whistle since it has reminded me that had she more courage, she would have abandoned me. Sooner.

When I was twelve and starting grade seven, mom left dad for a year. We moved to Bridgewater and she got a job at a coffee joint. The afternoon shift of course. We rented the upper level of an old house that had been made into apartments. We shared it with many generations of mice. There was a constant family reunion of them congregating in the plaster walls. I could picture miniature picnic tables in there with crumbs from our floor all lined up waiting to be nibbled.

I knew better than to host imaginary flea circuses on my hand, but I still made enough faux pas that I was soon a target at the Bridgewater school. My clothes were not right, I knew answers to questions that no one else did, and I laughed in the wrong places. Or didnt laugh when I should have. I soon had that hunted look that shrieked, PREY.

I hated the bus ride to school. No one would sit beside me. If someone accidently touched me they would yell germs, germs, germs.

Right after Remembrance Day in November that year, a new kid showed up at the bus stop. He was a little taller than me and wore a trench coat and a fedora. He looked like a mini Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. Mom loved that movie.

I didnt know that a person could buy a kids size trench coat and wondered what kind of parents would purchase such a thing for their child. Gangsters? There was a playing card stuck in the brim of his hat. The ace of spades. He had his books in a briefcase. And the finishing touch was a stub of a white pencil crayon behind his ear. It looked like a cigarette. Maybe he was a miniature newspaper reporter.

The other kids, being kids, paused and momentarily assessed this new character that was lined up for their bus. For once, I was ignored. I was trumped, by the Ace of Spades. I knew it would only be a few moments before the collective decision swung to go after me, or the new kid.

Turned out they thought it safer to attack the known, me.

An older boy said, Hey Stan the man, are those your slut of a mothers blue jeans you have on there? Then his eyes flicked to the kid in the trench coat.

Up to now the new kid hadnt said a word. There was silence for about three seconds and then the briefcase was brought up fast and hard, right between the older boys legs.

Pandemonium broke out. The older kid started cursing and swearing and the rest of the crowd was laughing. I just stood there with my mouth hanging open.

The new boy yawned and checked his mens silver wristwatch which dangled loosely on his wrist. Then he looked off into the distance as he took the white pencil from behind his ear and stuck it in his mouth. Wow, this kid had balls.

His name was Acey but he went by Ace.