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Her eyes looked worn and her bottom lip quivered. Grigg, our tall, bee-hived blond principal, stood before our third grade class. The lights flickered on and off in class, and I put my hands on my head to show I was no longer working. It was so frustrating learning my nines, even after my teacher taught me a trick with my hands. I never could remember nine multiplied by seven. No one would have been surprised if it was my mother, Kathleen LeFranc, who shot her children to death in 1991. On at least two occasions, she crossed the median into oncoming traffic. When we splurged and went out for Taco Tuesday, my brother and I weren’t allowed to leave the Americanized Cantina until she finished every last drop of every last glass. My mom had a nightly ritual: She filled a glass to the brim with The Cheapest Chardonnay and drank all of it, again and again and again. Decidedly, it was also not her fault she liked to drink. It wasn’t my mom’s fault we were poor it wasn’t her fault my dad didn’t pay child support. I usually ate from the “Up for grabs!” table, which should have been called “Sad, inedible things!” I was never allowed to complain about this either my mom made that quite clear. If this wasn’t humiliating enough, I was also That Kid at School who frequently didn’t have a lunch. Fabric Arts, Baking, and My Best Self were all trampled on by the miniature ponies behind us. And despite how hard I marched and waved and smiled alongside firefighters and drill teams that day, every few blocks another one of my badges fell off. Instead, she experimented with a combination of super glue and staples, twenty minutes before the annual Laguna Niguel Parade. Unlike Kristine, my mom didn’t use a needle and thread to sew my badges to my sash. My mom “did the best she could.” That’s what people often told me, which was a strange thing to say to a child. I wanted so badly for Kristine Cushing to be my mom. Sometimes there was even an “I love you” note written in pink on Amy’s napkin. She always made sure Amy’s badges were perfectly sewn on her sash, always offered me a ride home when my mom was late, and always put two freshly baked brownies in Amy’s lunchbox, one for her and one for her lucky friend that day. Kristine preferred we call her by her first name rather than Mrs. I attributed much of Amy’s success to her mother and our troop leader, Kristine. She exuded sprightly warmth, had a knack for cookie peddling, and wore her brown and green uniform like it was made for her. Amy Cushing was an impeccable Girl Scout.