“So when do we get to be butterflies?” I asked.

“You don’t,” Mom answered. “You go off to college, or wherever, and then I get to be a butterfly.”

She was looking at me when she said “wherever,” so I said, “Maybe I’ll just stay here all my life. With a butterfly net.”

“Yeah,” said Mom. “Then you can use it to drag me off to the nuthouse.”

When it comes to Frankie, Mom always talks about college like it’s a given, but not me. I looked at Frankie snoring away. Sometimes I think God made an inventory error and gave Frankie some brain cells that were supposed to go to me. He could sleep away the afternoon and still pull straight A’s, but me? There were only two A’s I ever saw on my papers: the A in Anthony, and the A in Bonano. What made it worse was that Christina already seemed to be following in Frankie’s footsteps, gradewise, so it cleared the path for me to be the family disappointment.

“C’mon,” I told Howie and Ira, “we’ll talk in the basement,” which is the place we always talk about important things. Ours is what you call a finished basement, although it really should be called a someday-will-be-finished basement, because no matter how much work we put into it, there always seems to be a bare wall with insulation that’s never been covered up. It probably has something to do with my dad, who keeps putting in the wrong wiring, or my uncle, who got cheap insulation that just happens to cause cancer. Whatever the reason, walls keep having to come out. Still, the basement had become like our own military bunker where we discuss national security and play video games that my mother is convinced will rot out my brain even faster than professional wrestling. And it really pisses her off when we play the wrestling video game.

But today we’re not playing games. Today is a war council about the weird kid everyone calls the Schwa.

We sat on the floor, and I told them what I found out in the course of my investigation. “I’m not a hundred percent sure how the Schwa got his last name, but my aunt’s hairdresser’s brother is his next-door neighbor, so the story must be pretty reliable.” I paused for effect. “The story goes like this: The Schwa’s great-grandparents came over from the old country.”

“Which old country?” asked Howie.

“I don’t know, one of those old countries over there.”

“China’s an old country,” says Howie. “He doesn’t look Chinese.”

Now I know why Howie always buzzes his hair, because if he didn’t, he’d have millions of people trying to pull it out.

“He means somewhere in Eastern Europe,” Ira said.