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The Italian ones tortured me with the pasta sauces and lasagna. During lunch time these same friends magically produced carefully 1000 crafted sandwiches on bulkie rolls, little sprigs of romaine jutting out just over the herb-strewn tuna salad. I glanced down at the peanut butter and butter sandwich my mother had sat on before flinging it into my Partridge Family lunch box and wished my real parents would come back 1000 and get me. Surely I had been switched at birth. By some cruel twist of fate my real mother was out there saddled 1000 with some kid who wanted to shoot baskets and eat butter while I had been sent home with a woman who had no sense of appreciation for my interest in jewelry, evening gowns, and home cooking. My fake mother knew that something was amiss as well. She would regard me thoughtfully as I persisted in hammering the basketball into a patch of pole three feet below the dangling net as we dabbled with her suggested game of one-on-one. At 5 feet tall, my mother had proven herself a formidable opponent on the Kathryn High basketball team and she could not imagine why her 5' 2" daughter could be such a miserable shot.
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