The plaster wall at the end of my nose was painted primary yellow and the chips on the radiator belied a hidden silver treasure. I reminded myself that if I were Debbie Clark, I would be punished and couldn’t listen to Mrs. Fox reading her story in the background. I shut my eyes to drown out the sound of Mrs. Fox’s voice.

This corner-sitting business was not unpleasant. I closed my eyes and imagined the island in the book with the butterflies. What would it be like to be on an island when a butterfly landed on the edge of a palm tree? Would there be coconuts? So, I added fuzzy brown coconuts to the palm tree, a grass skirt to my waist and a monkey on my arm. A pirate peered at me through a spyglass from a distant ship. A beautiful Italian maiden with curly black hair stood on a chest of gold coins, tied to the mast with scratchy ropes. Canons fired on the pirate ship from a fort painted on a small peninsula. The monkey and I climbed the palm tree to sit beside the butterfly and watch the fight. We gasped and cheered as a dashing young American soldier jumped from a parapet and landed in a boat that set sail for the pirate ship to rescue the fair Italian maiden. Story time ended before my handsome American made it to the Italian maiden and I went back to my seat feeling a bit wobbly.

Debbie Clark turned in her chair to give me a long blank stare. She said nothing and she did not smile. I stared back.

The word was ‘island’.

Later, in third grade, Debbie’s mom and my mom got to be friends. That happens a lot in poor small towns. Our mothers were weed-smoking, beer drinking, partying types who pooled their children to save money on babysitters. I spent consecutive weekends in Debbie’s apartment while our mothers went out on the town.

Debbie had one older sister and two younger sisters. As soon as our mothers left the apartment, we raided Debbie’s mother’s clothes and make-up. We emptied the kitchen of food, gluing it to paper plates and sprinkling it with glitter. We pulled up floorboards looking for hidden treasures. We baked and stewed impossible concoctions over high heat – filling the small apartment with odors ranging from delicious to toxic. We drank root beer and pretended to play poker while smoking real cigarettes. One night we pulled a fake Christmas tree from the hall closet and decorated it – complete with wrapped gifts beneath. The most fun was when Debbie’s older sister facilitated séances and told ghost stories. One night I became so frightened that I threw up in their shiny black bathroom sink. They laid me down on the couch to nurse me back to health, covering me with bandaids and dispensing copious turkey basters of kool-aid. Unfortunately, I died a horrid, painful and pitiful death. Our mothers arrived just as the funeral services ended and I was being buried under a pile of scarves, coats, mittens and couch cushions.