The trouble with Mark's eleventh birthday was how early it was... January.

According to his mother, Uncle Claude had received the letter on his birthday as well; only Uncle Claude's birthday was in October. Mark couldn't stand the suspense already, he couldn't imagine what Uncle Claude must have gone through.

Gifted individuals brimming with potential...

Mark worked extra hard in school. He felt that he needed to, that he needed to prove that he was the best of the best. He fought his way through the slog of boring day after boring day after boring day.

The snow melted, grass grew, and trees flowered. Mark's family grew increasingly worried at the lack of word from the school. The flowers deteriorated, petal by petal, and Mark worked harder and harder.

Finally, it came; the last day of school, and with it, report cards. Mark had never achieved grades like this before. His sense of pride was diminished, however, by the empty mailbox awaiting him at home.

"It's in the mail," his mother (or father, as he was pleased by the news as well) would say every day, "it's coming."

But the lazy summer days drew on and on, dragging Mark kicking and screaming towards the inevitable; the letter was not coming, he was not going to Winnowridge, he was fated to lifetime of boring lessons and dull classrooms.

Finally, a week before the new school year, he marched up to his mother, who was seated on the chesterfield, reading a fashion magazine

"I'm not going." "Not going to what, sweetie?" "School. I'm not going." "This is about Winnowridge, isn't it?"

Mark didn't answer. He just glared, with his hands clenched.

"Honey," his mother began the speech she'd been preparing for weeks, "Winnowridge is a very selective place. Maybe they thought it would be a better fit for... someone... else..."

Mark's mother had seen the look in Mark's eye.

"Listen, sweetie, it's not that bad. I bet Claude didn't have such a great time there after all!"

The light bulb in the lamp beside her exploded.

After about thirty seconds of silence, Mark's mother said, "...I'm sure it just overheated."

Then came the sound of the buzzer.

Mark's mother punched the button, answering in her sickly sweet voice "Yes?"

"Judy! I'm glad you're home. It's Claude. That older brother that you never seem to call?"

"Claude! Oh dear! Here, let me get the door-"

"Don't bother," the voice said, and cut out.

Before Judy could walk to the coffee table to straighten it, a knock came from the door. Judy stared in apparent disbelief.

"I'll just let myself in, shall I?" came the muffled voice from the other side of the door. Without waiting for a reply, the door opened, and in stepped Uncle Claude.

Uncle Claude was a somewhat portly man, and did not posses the tallest stature in the region, or even the room. He had a very round nose, which matched his round face and stomach. He wore a large hat with a simply enormous plume, a sort of a cape, and a stylish pearl-grey suit.

"And this is Mark!" he proclaimed mightily, throwing his hands in the air. "He has my nose."

Mark crossed his eyes to look at his own sloped, pointed nose. He shook his head.

"Then my ears!" Claude bellowed, unperturbed.

Judy laughed.

"Well then, I'm sure he has my eyes." Claude's winked one of his emerald eyes.

Mark tried to wink back with his own bright blue ones. He'd never got the hang of winking, it always became a blink.

"Then we share something inside. Deeper. Oh!" he said, and he dug in his pockets, "I do believe we also share a school."

Mark could scarcely believe his ears, or his eyes. His uncle was holding out a letter, which clearly said upon the sepia, heavy-grain paper in flowing black ink "Mr Mark Jack Williams, Milk Carton Apartments, Kingston, ON, CA".

"I don't know why they called it a milk carton," Uncle Clause said with another jaunty wink at Mark. Mark blushed and his mother paled. "Now why doesn't Mark skeddadle off to his room and read his letter while you an I catch up?" Uncle Claude had his arm around Mark's mother and was already leading her back to the chesterfield, leaving Mark awestruck and quiet, holding a thick envelope that contained his destiny.