At ten, never asked to babysit the English teacher's toddler during my lunch hours (somehow I thought it would be a good deal). At least I'd know they weren't afraid of what I would do with the child (push her out the window?) I don't know where people got their information.

They were worried, too, about me being a school patrol; about my parents. And at the meetings they said I was loud and not apologetic, that I took too long to say sorry and then forgot to look sincere. They didn't like that at my school.

Afterwards I would talk back and put my hand up when they asked if six strong boys would help to carry boxes.  I swore up and down I hated pink and girls and soft things -- maybe that's why I wasn't allowed to be near the babies or the primary kids going home for lunch, crossing at the Laurence Avenue crosswalk. I was a girl monster, loud with crooked bangs and would push them squealing into the tires of the bus.  Maybe.

I didn't come in late from lunch like the patrols and get hot chocolate.  I had no orange sash, no free tickets to the patrol rally at  Commodore Park to watch bad movies on the big screen.

I ate my lunch from a blue and yellow astronaut lunch box  and liked my thermos to be broken so I could shake it and hear glass.  I sipped my warm warm drink looked a long time at the teachers and memorized their license plates and that's why *I* was late.