Roby's pretense of joy was a fixed trait, and in fact she was incapable of thought or emotion, but, not knowing this, she existed in a state of faux bliss that was the envy of all those around her, if anyone. The next day she went out for dinner, and for a normal person this would be a significant event requiring the purchase of a wholly new dress and expensive making-up techniques, but Roby was an ugly bag of rats. She looked like all the trash bags had fallen out of a garbage truck and then got run over by a semi behind it, and then it rained, and then a concerned citizens' group swept all the trash into a big pile and put it by the side of the road, and then it rained again.

I'm exaggerating a little.

But Roby realized none of this and was content to just go about life being whatever it was she was, none the wiser—and there's a phrase that was doing some heavy lifting, because she was also very stupid, and failed at every job she ever had. She even managed to screw up a fancily-pantsed position of nobility that would have had her and everyone she liked set for life. She didn't know any letters or numbers and probably thought that a sparrow was some sort of fish, and although it is in some districts, it's not in this one, and never would be again. Roby probably thought everything was some sort of fish.

She sat down at the head of the table, not because she was the guest of honor or anything, but because all the other seats were taken, and in fact there wasn't even supposed to be a chair at the head of the table, so she was kind of crammed in there and was in the waiters' ways.

“I'd like to give a toast,” said the stoutest lemur. A nearby coat hanger gave him a piece of toast to in turn give, but the cheeky lemur made off with it, running into the kitchen and out the back door and thence no one knew, because no one followed him, because no one cared at all about him.

“Now we have lost one toast,” said Roby, “and no longer can we boast to have the most toast.”

Plucky Dugong said, “Let's get some extra heaps.”

“Heaps!” said everyone. “Heaps, heaps!”

The waiter came by, and leaned in next to Roby. “What can I get you?” he had to say.

“It is not the place of me to place a limit on what you can be,” said Roby, making a little effort—making little effort.

“Then, we can make another lie,” said the waiter. “Let's have one be made peaceably.”

Everyone cleared the table and set up a board game, a big one with lots of pieces. No, not chess again. One of those mansion-themed ones. Everyone got a token in a different color, and a bunch of little tokens that were probably money or points or something. And when I say “everyone,” of course I mean everyone except Roby. It's not symbolism, so don't look into it.

Roby watched quietly and did not know how to play, and no one seemed about to explain it, either. Of course, she wanted to play, and when the game began they all looked at her to take her turn, but she didn't know what to do, so she went to the mall and looked at some clothes, but she couldn't see them, because all concepts of fashion, from color to shape to cut to trim, were a closed book to her.

Some music was playing, and it got through.

Roby said to a cat, “A fine thing to find a thing, I think.”

The cat said, “Cut it out.”

“There is not a knife of me around, and not a scissor to be found!” wailed Roby.

“Look and behold!” said the cat. “An arts and crafts store. Step inside. Find scissors. Find last year's calendar, too. What awkward wishes are clinging here still? Well, have all or nothing, but decide at once.”

“Well!” said Roby. “I must have a nothing for now, for none is the number of monies I have.”

The janitor came in and said, “Who said anything about money?” Then he had a big, big gun and robbed the store, and kidnapped Roby, and threw her into a street, and drove his car right at her, and crashed into her and knocked her down, and Roby was worried about how she'd pay the doctor.

The doctor came in and said, “Who said anything about money?” Then the doctor took off his hat and he was the janitor after all, and the cat had left to make all the money in a flea market, and Roby wasn't allowed in.

“You have to be ethnic,” said the bouncer.

“I shall do my best,” said Roby, and she did her best to be ethnic, starting by looking around the kitchen, and the kitchen was very small, and she didn't know how the stove worked, and she didn't know what was in all the bottles, but she was very hungry, so she bit into the bottles, and found they were all made of candy, and so ate them all. That was unwise, because it was bad for her teeth.

“So,” said Joey Obelisk, “here's the needle.” Joey unveiled a needle that he was going to jab right into her teeth, and then everything heavy was on top of her, and Joey went and stabbed all of Roby's teeth with the needle. Presumably the needle had something in it, right? Well—I didn't say it was a syringe. Don't misvision the story. Maybe it was a sewing needle. Maybe Joey was just sewing all of Roby's teeth together. Maybe he'd yank on the thread and rip out all of her teeth and have a nice necklace. But Roby did not want all her teeth ripped out.

She—Roby, I mean—went and sat down in the front row of the movie theater. Nothing was on the marquee—they just left the machine on. The premovie roll was playing, where they just give you bits of trivia and ads over and over until it starts repeating. It gets dull, and it blinds you to time. It's the longest moment left. And everyone was waiting for all the lights to darken and for the show to start, but it wasn't going to. Oh, how you waited—you thought the speakers were loud, the lights were down low, but once things really got started, you realized that you ain't seen nothin' yet. Roby had a lot of popcorn, and she ate it, but a lot of it was unpopped, and—

Roby said, “Square your eyes on a prize of this size!” She was riveted by the movie. By the blank screen.

On the other side of Roby sat—

“No.”

Oh. Okay, then. Never mind.

In the run-down section of the city, in an alley—or a main street? So much had collapsed, so much debris had collected. Who knows how it was meant to be, once upon a time. Supposedly the rich stooped here so the poor could spit on them, but that made no sense. There were a lot of—cul-de-sacs, I guess? Culs-de-sac? Just, dead end streets. Nooks and crannies. Things no one needed, no one wanted, but somehow it gave character to the city. There were a lot of dogs, though. A lot. And it makes you wonder whether there was something else there. Whether you missed something. Whether it was worth going back.

“Do you want to go check?” said—said Roby? I guess Roby said that. But she'd never make it. So, like everything else, just never mind.

Roby ate her popcorn, seeds and all. This called for dessert, so she went to a really pretty and fancy little cafe, a place that specialized in absurdly expensive desserts and sweet treats. She ordered everything, and they made it for her, because it was her birthday every day, and she ate them, and they were okay. That's my opinion. They were okay. Chocolate, cake—whatever. But, to Roby, it was the most splendid thing she had ever eaten. It was all so delicious, so wonderful. She gobbled it up and ordered more. That was her special skill this time: she could wolf everything down without a pause and savor it profoundly. What a champ.

Grainy—well, sort of... hm. Out of focus? Low res? I don't know, but it was oversaturated and too red, this next restaurant. How many restaurants has it been this time? But it's not the black one. It will never be. I hope. But it was all red, and stained the film, and they didn't even show you the food. Maybe there was no food. Maybe it was just a place to be. Do they have those? Well, they did now. But Roby wasn't there. She was just watching. She didn't laugh. It wasn't something you laugh about, but you get the joke, and you just kind of—watch. Did Roby get the joke?

“Yes, I enjoy jokes!” said Roby. “I like my funny bone poked,” she said.

Someone had to come help. It was Student #417. Student #417 began to set up her presentation in the two-ply, along with everyone else, and lo! They were all so good. Someone had a TV. I didn't know you could do that. It was dark and cold—outside. Inside was bright and cold. Roby was on the table. She was a failure, and Student #417 knew it now. Really, Student #417 had never tried. But, whose fault was that? A student can't get wiser than their teacher. Yes! It wasn't Student #417's fault at all, it was all Roby's! Roby drove her to this, Roby made her do this! It was Roby who had the responsibility of showing her the way and she didn't. Thanks for nothing.

“You've been to a lot of schools, haven't you?”

I guess. Perhaps more than most.

“Did you like it?”

In the first school—well, “first,” relatively speaking—the floor was darker. Warmer. Safer. And I did a much better job there. I think we did. I remember having to cheat the program to make a novel. I don't know if we had both and didn't realize it or what. When I stood in the tiny huge room. It once seemed to cover acres but, in the light, the crowd was so seeable, and everything seemed so small, and then when I got bigger, if I got bigger, all that disappeared and it just became extra space. But anyway, we—we only made the broken one, I think. I'm pretty sure. It's been so long. And, I don't remember anything I learned. Wait—no—there was sugar. I remember the sugar. And the little men. How could it have been both? I remember making the stones. I remember how they smelled. So salty. I know we baked stones! I guess we did it twice. Four, five, six—no, six, seven, eight. The last time was the worst time. Why? Had I just become tired? Out of ideas? No—none of my ideas were ever any good. It was Roby's fault. I can't compete with a TV.

“Why do you do this?”

Roby got to go around looking at all the projects as an attendee. She still had her popcorn. This was the real show. And all the students' projects stretched out for miles, and she went and looked at each and every one, and she asked a hundred questions at each and every one. They all had those trifold displays with pictures and graphs, and Roby looked at the pictures and studied the graphs and read the labels on the axes. Then she went back and saw them all again, and went forth and saw them all yet another time. She kept passing by the TV. Roby was a stupid girl who didn't know letters or numbers.

Was.

Roby said, “Going-home time is of me now, Mom.”

Old Missus Lopkit said, “All right, honey. Stay with your friends while I go warm up the car. It is cold outside.”