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tales. But Kathy and I loved them. We’d roll around our beds giggling and laughing at every word until my father’s voice gave out.
    For much of that first summer, Kathy and I felt as though we be-longed in that house. Life seemed quieter there than it had in Los Angeles. And no, the house didn’t shake. But then came fall—and school. That was where I first noticed how different we were, where I realized that the Hendras stood out like graffiti scribbled over a billboard ad for Wonder Bread.
    Lebanon Township School (or Lebanon Township Jail, as it came to be called by those sentenced to attend class there) was a long, white, one-story building with a grassy playground. Inside it had been painted Board of Education green, and in each room—or, at least it seemed like each room—a portrait of President Richard Nixon looked down upon us. I think Spiro Agnew was there too—at least in spirit.
    From the first day my mother dropped Kathy and me off, I couldn’t escape how odd we were. The other mothers wore neat Carol Brady haircuts, pink lipstick, and polyester pant suits. My mother had long, straight hair and a makeup-free face and wore a T-shirt and jeans. Worse was that her British accent stood out, and she didn’t drive a station wagon. I sensed I was in for trouble.
    â€œHave a good time.” Mom kissed me good-bye. I didn’t want to let her go.
    I trudged into my new classroom, never so aware of my shaggy white-blond hair, crossed right eye, and pigeon-toed feet. At the door was my teacher, Miss Mole. That wasn’t her name, of course, but it should’ve been, given the enormous black mole she had on her chin. It had a long hair growing from it, even blacker than the mole itself. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Its hideousness fascinated me. Did Miss Mole know it was there? I wondered. Didn’t she have a mirror? Come on, pull it out! I watched it sway gently as she ordered us to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance.
    At noon, the bell rang, and we grabbed our lunch boxes and filed into the cafeteria. Except I didn’t have a lunch box, the most stylish fashion accessory for the elementary school student of 1971. I had nothing that bore the logo of Bonanza . No aluminum relief of Hoss or Little Joe, ever-so-slightly raised and painted on the front of the box. Not even The Jetsons ! Just a crumpled brown paper bag from under our sink. Even before the days of community recycling, my parents were bag conservationists. I sat down at one of the tables. Some kids next to me were talking about one of the teachers.
    â€œYou know, Mr. Reposo, at wood shop, he ties you up in the closet if you’re bad.”
    â€œI heard he once got a saw and cut a kid’s finger off.”
    â€œNo, he didn’t cut it off. He grabbed a drill and just drilled a hole right through it.”
    I hoped that first graders didn’t have to take wood shop.
    I pulled my cheese sandwich from the bag. My mom’s homemade bread came out in strange shapes with big holes in it. The thick-cut wedges of English cheddar cheese my dad brought back from New York fell through them and onto the table as I tried to take my first bite. I glanced at the kids around me; their bread was pure white, every slice exactly the same. And no holes! Their cheese was sliced thin, perfectly square, bright orange, and soft. Their carrots were sliced, peeled, and packed in the plastic wrap my parents refused to buy. They even had paper napkins—forbidden in our house. “Every napkin is a tree, Jessie,” my father had told me. But at that moment, I didn’t care about trees or preservatives. I just wanted a lunch that looked like everyone else’s. I wanted my mother to wear a polyester-pants suit. I wanted even a sliver of plastic wrap.
    Pouting, I gathered what was left of my lunch and threw it in oneof the huge green trash cans that rimmed the cafeteria. I