I wrapped my arms around Daddy's neck and held on for dear life.

Daddy was trying to calm me down, in between shedding his tears. Larry was now wrapped around Uncle Jr.'s legs. It must have been quite a sight: one skinny black girl wrapped around Daddy's neck like a scarf, wailing at the top of her lungs; and one skinny black boy wrapped around Uncle Jr.'s legs like a cobra, wailing at the top of his lungs.

Daddy and Jr. were each trying to hush our cries and gently pry us off. Wasn't working. Finally, Uncle Jr. asked the judge, lawyers, and Mr. Burns to give him and Daddy a few moments alone with us. Mr. Burns stormed out of the room. I don't think he was pissed because we didn't want to go with him; I think he was pissed because now we had to go with him and he wasn't getting any money.

Once they left and Daddy calmed us down, Daddy, Larry, Uncle Jr., and I all sat in a close little circle. Daddy told us he loved us and that he always would. He told us to remember that as long as we remembered our mother and carried her in our heart, she would not die because her spirit would live on in us. Soon, he couldn't talk anymore. He was crying too hard.

Uncle Jr. wrapped one arm around Larry and the other around me. He told us that he, too, loved us and that he would always be there for us-no matter what. And that if we ever needed him, to call him. He couldn't talk anymore either.

(During the next several years, Daddy, Lori, and Kelly would move around and change phone numbers quite a bit. However, Jr. refused to move or change his number-he wanted to be sure that, if we ever needed him, we would always be able to find him or get in touch with him. To this day, he still lives in the same house and has the same phone number.) The four of us stood there in a group hug for a few moments, crying. I was wishing we could stay like that forever. But, soon the judge came in and said we had to go. I walked out backward, tears rolling down my face. I waved good-bye to the only real family I ever knew. I waved till I rounded the corner and couldn't see them no mo'. Even then I kept on waving. Even after I was in Mr. Burns's car and we were driving off. I must have waved for ten minutes. The four of us would never be together again.

3.

MR. BURNS WAS pissed.

He took off out of that court parking lot like he was rushing to a fire, swerving and weaving in and out of traffic. Larry and I didn't say a word. Besides, what would I say to him? What do you say to a stranger who you just found out is your father? And, he was driving like a maniac. I was too scared to talk. Shit, I just hoped his crazy ass didn't kill us all.

The veins in Mr. Burns's forehead were popping out. He was yelling about how his house wasn't ready for us. He never bothered to explain why, if he wasn't ready for us, he had fought my daddy so hard to get us. He said that until he was ready, he was going to send us to live with a lady who ran a foster home. Didn't matter much to me. Momma was gone. Daddy was gone. Uncle Jr. was gone. Everybody I loved was gone (except Larry and they could have him). I didn't know what a foster home was, but I hoped they had food. I was hungry.

No one said a word when we pulled into the parking lot of Mr. Burns's apartment building. As we parked and got out, a large black woman got out of a car parked beside us. This was the fattest, ugliest, blackest woman I'd ever seen. She stood at least five foot eleven and weighed three hundred pounds. Her arms looked like a couple of gigantic watermelons that had been strung together and hung from her shoulders. Her big arms led down to equally gigantic hands. And she had black moles all over her face. She wore a short black afro and had a deep, husky voice.

Mr. Burns called her Diane. He introduced her to us as Mrs. Dobson. She bent to shake my hand. She was so huge, as she leaned over, I was sure she was going to topple over onto me. But she didn't. She gripped my hand. Hard. So hard it made me wince. Then she wrapped her huge hands around Larry's to shake his. I could tell she shook his hard, too, because once she let go of his hand, he started trying to shake the pain out of it.

Mr. Burns got our bags out of his car and threw them in the trunk of Mrs. Dobson's car like he was throwing out yesterday's trash.

"Go with her," he barked at us. "I'll come and get y'all later."

We were too sad to argue and too scared to question what was going on. I suppose we thought it didn't really much matter anymore anyhow. So, we miserably and quietly obeyed. As we climbed into Mrs. Dobson's car, a skinny little black girl sitting in the front seat spun around and proudly introduced herself as Connie, Mrs. Dobson's daughter. Mrs. Dobson stood outside for a moment talking to Mr. Burns. I could hear her asking him about "the money." Mr. Burns, still pissed, didn't want to talk about it. He told her that something had "come up," and he needed to do some research on it, but he'd get back to her.

"Okay," she snapped, "but make sure you do. I didn't drive all this way for nothing, and I don't keep nobody's bratty kids for nothing." With that, Mrs. Dobson climbed into the car and we drove off.

Larry and I never even saw the inside of Mr. Burns's apartment. And I never saw Mr. Burns again.

4.

WE DROVE FOR what seemed like forever. Neither Diane nor Connie said one word to us, and we didn't speak to them. I didn't know what to say. As we passed a sign that read "Santa Ana," Diane announced she was tired of driving and needed a break. A few moments later, she pulled up to a house, which I later learned was owned by her other daughter. No sooner than we'd stepped into the entryway, Diane ordered me and Larry to go outside. As we headed out the front door, I glanced back and saw her and her daughters head toward what looked like a large living room. Larry and I went outside and sat on the curb, each in our own haze of uncertainty and despair. Suddenly Connie came out of the house, stomped up to us, and announced that she'd come to "lay down the rules." She hadn't said a word to us since she'd introduced herself back in San Diego. Now, she was standing over us with her hands on her hips, a snarl on her lips, and swinging her big butt back and forth to emphasize her nastiness.

"Listen, you little shits," she snapped at me and Larry.

Connie was three months younger than me, black and skinny like me, except her butt was bigger and she had moles on her face like her mother. But her moles had hairs coming out of them. The hairs in the mole on her top lip moved when she breathed. They danced around her mouth whipping here and there with every twitch, so you couldn't help but stare at them as she talked.

"You are the foster kids," she stated with obvious authority. "I am the real kid. Don't forget it. If you piss me off, I'll make your lives hell."

With that, she turned and ran into the house. Bitch. I didn't know what a "foster" kid was and really didn't care whether I got to be one or not. As for being "real" kids, we were real, weren't we? Larry must have been thinking the same thing because simultaneously we both started looking at our arms and legs, feeling them as if to check to see whether they were real. Crazy heifer. What was she talking about? One thing I did know was that I didn't like her. And she obviously didn't like us. Something told me that Larry and I were in for trouble.

- Once we'd hopped back into the car and continued on our way, I was soon fast asleep. When I awoke, a sign informed me that Lancaster was twenty miles away. I wondered to myself why Diane didn't live in L.A. with her other daughter. She must have been reading my mind because she began talking, to no one in particular, about being forced out of L.A. She angrily ranted about how, a couple of years before, L.A. wrongly took her foster license; something about some twins that had died in her care. Something about giving them aspirin when they had the chicken pox or measles. She was talking so fast, and with all of the cussing and fussing, the details were hazy. But, the bottom line is she did something to them when they were sick that you ain't supposed to do.

Even though what happened was labeled an accident, apparently her foster license was taken away. Diane sat silent for a moment. Then, she gave us a sly grin in the rearview mirror and declared that she didn't care; she'd just moved, changed her name, and got another license. (The foster-care system wasn't computerized in 1974, so I guess Diane didn't have to worry about any cross-checking.) I don't know if Diane was telling the truth or just saying that to scare us. It didn't matter, though. We didn't have to stay with Diane long to realize that if she had done something to those twins, whatever it was probably wasn't an accident. As we pulled up to her house, Diane proudly stated that Lancaster was a "new" town and "all white"-like somehow that made it better than any other town. New, old, white, green; I could give a hoot. I was learning not to care too much about anything or anyone anymore.

The house was very nice; I'd never seen one that nice before. There wasn't an apartment building anywhere in sight. Everywhere you looked there were picture-perfect sprawling green lawns and everything was sparkling clean. It looked like a neighborhood straight out of Leave It to Beaver. All the cars were nice and new, neatly parked on the street; no old broken-down hoopties haphazardly thrown against the curb like in the hood. And it was so quiet. Not like where I came from. No loud music from hoopties slowly cruising by. No home stereos blasting the latest soul hits out of open windows. No kids strolling down the block with boom boxes on their shoulders. In this neighborhood, you could actually hear birds chirping. And, there were no children visible or audible. No street football games or little girls on porches playing dolls or jacks. There were no dodge ball games breaking out on the sprawling green lawns. We were definitely not in the hood.

It was then I realized I would probably never see my hood again, the kids playing football in the street, separating like oil and water when cars passed through; children playing hide-and-seek using trees, Dumpsters, and cars to hide behind; little girls giggling as they played house or combed their dolls' hair into the latest, hippest styles. One look down this street and you knew that kind of love didn't live here. Everything looked so sterile, I wasn't sure that kind of love could move in if it wanted to.

As we walked into Diane's house, my mouth dropped. It was huge. We entered into the dining room. To the right was a huge kitchen, bigger than my bedroom back in the hood. Catty-corner and to the right of the dining room was what Diane called the "formal" living room. It was really pretty in there. Everything was white and baby blue. The couch was white with gold trimming; it was covered with beautiful plush baby-blue cushions and pillows. Diane said it was "European" furniture. There were fancy glass tables everywhere, with beautiful crystal lamps on them. There were hundreds of knickknacks and figurines made of glass, brass, china, and crystal, all perfectly displayed around the room. Huge floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors allowed sunlight to dance and sparkle off its choice of reflective surface.

And the carpet was also baby blue-and when you stepped on it, your feet just melted into its plushness; it was like sinking in quicksand. I was standing on the carpet, marveling at its softness, when I heard the punch. I looked up and saw that Diane had punched Larry in his arm, hard. Before I realized what had happened (and before I could run), Diane punched me in my arm.

Now, I'd been punched before. I'd gotten into fights at school-plenty of times. But those were kid's punches and they never hurt too much. But this one hurt. Before I could say, "Ow," Diane snarled.

"This room is off-limits to you little bastards. The only time I want to see you in here is when a social worker comes. If there's no social worker in this house yo' lil asses better'd not be in my living room. Is that clear?"

I didn't know what a social worker was, but I knew I didn't want to be in this room if it meant I was gonna get hit.

"Yeah," we replied as the tears rolled down our faces. I don't think we were crying from the punches, though they did hurt like hell. I think we were crying because we knew that life as we knew it was over.

Diane's house had five bedrooms and two baths. She gave us the tour, shoving us from room to room, pointing out the only two "approved designated spots" for foster children. One was the den, which really wasn't a den at all. It was just a small room where Diane had stuck a TV and an old tattered couch. The other was our bathroom, which was huge. A person could easily lie down in there.

Because Diane was obsessive about cleanliness and us being outside of our "designated spots," there weren't many places in her house we could go unless we had a reason to be there-which usually meant cleaning. We weren't allowed in her precious European living room, except to clean it. We weren't allowed in her or Connie's bedroom, except to clean them. We weren't allowed in the kitchen, except to clean it. We weren't allowed in the dining room unless we were cleaning it or eating. We weren't even allowed in our own bedrooms unless we were cleaning 'emor sleeping. We weren't allowed in the front yard or anywhere in the front of the house, for that matter (Diane said we'd bring down the neighborhood). So, the den, the bathroom (if you were using it), and the backyard were the only places foster children were allowed. Newcomers quickly learned that to be found outside of a designated spot guaranteed a punch, kick, or worse.

For now, Larry and I would have our own rooms; however, Diane told us not to get used to it. She had six other foster kids coming in a few days, and we would be sleeping four to a room. Except Connie. Connie would continue to have her own bedroom; she was never required to share anything with the foster children. She didn't use our bathroom-she used her mother's. She didn't have any designated places. She could even play in the front yard.

Diane's nephew Pete was also living with her. Pete was a tall, slender black man. His skin was the color of black coffee. He had deep-set brown eyes, which seemed to hide a secret hatred. Pete never smiled or talked much. He pretty much ignored the "foster kids" but seemed to really enjoy Connie's company. Though slim, he was well built and prided himself on his body. Pete was waiting to go into the army, but lately he'd been getting into "a lil bit of trouble." Diane said if he didn't go into the army, he'd end up dead or in jail. But, until he left-which was supposed to be in a few days-he would stay at Diane's and sleep in Larry's room. He stayed at Diane's because his family considered Lancaster safe. Surrounded by a bunch of white folks, what trouble could he possibly get into?

- The night after our arrival, Pete and Diane got really happy. They were drinking what I called "feel-good" liquid. The more they drank, the happier they got. Larry, probably mentally exhausted from the emotional turmoil of the last couple of weeks, had gone to bed early. Shortly after Pete and Diane began drinking, Pete staggered into the den where I was sitting and shoved some of his "feel-good" at me and said: "Here, drink dis." As he staggered away, he slurred out that it was rum and coke.

Whatever it was I liked it-instantly. I didn't like the taste. But I wasn't drinking for the taste. The more I drank, the happier I got. The more I drank, the better I felt about myself. After a while, I didn't feel so dark, black, and ugly. After a while, I didn't care that my momma was dead and my daddy and Uncle Jr. were gone. I didn't care that I could get punched simply for being in the wrong room. I was h-a-p-p-e-e!

Yup, I loved that feel-good liquid. I was sitting in the den, humming to myself (I always did that when I was happy), enjoying my newfound pleasure, when Pete staggered back in.

"Meet me 'n the bafroom in five minutes," he slurred, and staggered away. I thought he was going to have more feel-good liquid. I was there in two minutes.

When Pete came in a few seconds later, I was sitting on the toilet, happily dangling my feet and waiting. Not for him so much, but for the feel-good.

Everything happened so fast it seemed like a blur. Suddenly Pete wasn't so drunk anymore. He wasn't staggering or slurring, looking harmless as he had been just a few minutes before when he was drinking and laughing. Suddenly he was very much in control of himself and very angry. He snatched me off the toilet and slapped me to the ground. I gave a little scream as I landed on my tailbone. It hurt like hell when I hit the floor. But before I could give the scream full force and effect, he slammed a washcloth over my mouth. My eyes were bulging and watering. I was scared and didn't understand what was going on.

Pete snatched up my dress, grabbed my panties and ripped them off. It seemed to me they tore like paper. I was astonished at how easily they came off.

Why don't they make these things stronger? I was thinking as Pete began to climb on top of me; forcing my legs open.

Shit, he was heavy. Sort of like my momma was when I found her. But he wasn't dead like she was (although I was starting to wish he was). I wasn't sure what he wanted to do. My butt still hurt, but I couldn't rub it because his heavy body had pinned me down.

I thought I had seen something like this in my sex-ed class, but I couldn't quite remember right then. I knew what sex was. At least I thought I knew; although I'd never actually seen it.

That's when I screamed-although the only thing that actually came out was a muffled yelp because Pete was still holding the washcloth over my mouth. In fact, it had started to slip deeper into my mouth. It was wet and soggy from my spit. I started panicking because I thought I would choke on it like my momma did with her tongue. I began trying to cough it back toward the front of my mouth.

Suddenly the feel-good liquid quit working and I didn't feel so good anymore. In fact, I began to feel the most horrific pain I'd ever encountered, like someone was trying to push something through my coochie and up into my stomach.

Pete was getting more and more pissed as he barked something about having a hard time getting "it" all the way in. But after several thrusts and then one forceful horrific plunge, I felt something inside me give way, ripping like a paper towel being torn from the roll. Pete was pumping his thing in and out of me while trying to keep the towel over my mouth. He was sweating and grunting. I was crying and squirming, and Pete was having trouble keeping control of me and the towel at the same time. But him being twenty-one, and me being eleven, he managed.

As Pete lay on top of me humping for what seemed like forever, my mind begin to wander. I needed something else to think about besides the nightmare on top of me. First, I wondered why they didn't make little girls' panties stronger. Then, I begin to recall my hatred for God. I didn't know Him, but one thing I did know is that people said He could see the future. Well, that told me that God must have known that if He took my mother all of these fucked-up things would happen to me. Besides, not only was it fucked-up for God to take my mother, I felt like it was extremely fucked up for Him to allow me to find her dead body. So, I figured He couldn't like me very much. I resolved again, right there and then on that bathroom floor, that I hated God because He hated me. I decided again, once and for all, that I would not be bothered with Him.

And then, suddenly, it was over. As Pete stood up and began pulling up his pants, he growled: "If you tell anyone, I'll kill everyone in your family."

Now, while it was true that I hated Larry, I wanted to be the one to kill him-not someone else. Nor did I want anything to happen to my daddy and Uncle Jr. They were the only family I had. They'd been through enough, and I didn't want to be the reason for their deaths. I already believed that somehow I was to blame for my momma's death (like if I'd've woken up earlier, I could have called for help and saved her). So I wasn't about to be the cause of Daddy's, Uncle Jr.'s, and Larry's deaths too.

Suddenly I got a glimmer of hope. I began to think that maybe Diane could help me. Pete must have read it in my face. Or maybe it was the way I was longingly looking toward the door.

"You think she gives a fuck?" Pete snapped. "Who do you think sent me in here? She's not going to help you. She hates y'all."

That answered the question of why Diane never came looking for me.

"Y'all just a paycheck to her," he continued, "paychecks and maids. Nothing more and a whole lot less."

He stated the last phrase with a calm, sly grin that, by itself, was frightening.

With that, he walked out of the bathroom and left me lying there. I was bleeding. I could feel the blood sliding down my leg like raindrops drifting down a windowpane. I cried as I got up and begin to wash myself with the same washcloth that had muffled my screams. My coochie hurt. My tailbone hurt. And I felt dirty. I didn't know why, but I did. I wanted to wash the dirt away. I tried to wash it away. But, no matter how hard I scrubbed, the feeling of filth and shame remained.

Shortly after my momma died, I heard someone say that the dead come back. I had been secretly hoping my momma would come back. Come back and take me from that house of hell. But, that night, while washing the blood that was still dripping down my legs, while stifling my tears and sorrow, I realized that the dead can't come back because if my momma could've come back, surely she would have done so then. She would've come back to rescue me. But she didn't come. No one came.

I didn't say a word to anyone about what happened that night. Who could I tell? Everyone who knew and loved me was hundreds of miles away.

The next day, Pete pretty much ignored me. He acted like I disgusted him; like I made him sick; which was fine with me. I just hoped he'd stay the fuck away. Later that day, Larry noticed I was limping and asked why was I walking funny. Unfortunately, we were within earshot of Pete who turned and glared at me, his lips in a snarl as he awaited my response. I remembered his promise. I didn't want Larry to die. I didn't want anyone else in my family to die. So I told Larry I'd hurt my legs while cleaning the bathroom (we'd only been there two days and already had cleaned the entire house). He seemed satisfied with that excuse.

Up until the moment he ordered me back into the bathroom two days later, Pete completely ignored me. I started to cry as I slowly shuffled toward the bathroom. I knew what lay ahead and I knew how hopeless it was. I didn't know where Larry was, but I tried to cry quietly because I didn't want him killed. Pete walked behind me shoving me toward the bathroom. As he got ready to close the door, I heard Diane bark, "She'd better be able to work tomorrow!" That pretty much confirmed where Diane stood on the matter. Who else could I tell? Besides, Pete said that no one would ever believe me because no one cared about foster kids. And, from the unfettered violence Diane was beginning to unleash on us at whim, I believed him.

- A couple of days later, just as Diane said, six other foster kids came: three girls (two of whom were sisters), and three boys. An hour before they were scheduled to arrive, Diane shoved me and Larry into the den and told us not to say a word or we'd be sorry.

Several hours later, the six children arrived with a white woman who I later learned was a social worker. As they all sat in the living room, I heard the woman tell Diane how pretty her living room was and how lucky the foster-care system was to be able to call on a wonderful person like her who was always willing to take so many children.

Diane glowed in the praise.

We were to discover that every new foster child who came to Diane's received the same initiation. These six were no exception. As soon as the social worker's car pulled off, they each received the warning punch about her living room and how only the presence of social workers allowed them to sit in there. They also received the grand tour and instructions about designated areas.

None of the new arrivals' mommas were dead. They were there for various reasons: some of their mommas were on drugs, some just couldn't keep them, some just didn't want them. We didn't really spend too much time on why each of us was there. Didn't matter why they were there. Only thing that mattered was they were stuck in hell with us.

That night, packed into the tiny room Diane called the den, Larry and I learned all about "the system." We learned what Connie meant when she called us the foster kids. Until my encounter with Diane, I had never even heard of foster children. So I listened in horror as the children talked about the foster homes they had been in and how the white folks who ran the system pretty much stuck kids wherever they could. Some of them had been in four and five homes before Diane's. Some of them weren't surprised at her violence-in fact, they expected it and learned to accept it. I learned that social workers were the people who were supposed to come and check on you, but they hardly ever did. And when they did, they always called first, which meant Diane would always have time to prepare.

It was quickly apparent that Pete was telling the truth when he said we were just paychecks to Diane. She was plainly in it for the money: she had us kids stacked in her house like sardines. And, with eight foster children, each drawing a monthly paycheck, she was getting paid quite nicely; yet she did everything as cheaply as possible. Our beds were two sets of raggedy bunk beds with hard tattered mattresses. Breakfast was always generic corn flakes with powdered milk. Lunch and dinner were always the same: beans and rice (which she bought in bulk). The portions weren't very large, and we weren't allowed seconds. She and Connie always ate what she called "the good stuff": fried chicken, steak, pork chops. And they could eat as much as they wanted.

Nor did it take long to discover that Pete had also been right about us being Diane's maids. You see, Diane was a neat freak. She was obsessive about a clean house. Everything had to be cleaned, and all the time. And, if you didn't do it right, you earned a slap, kick, punch, or, as time went on, worse. Diane would literally come behind us with white gloves to check our work. And, no matter how hard we tried, it was never clean enough. She always found something wrong, always found some reason to go off and hit us. Diane had been doing this long enough so she'd made a science out of her abuse. She knew exactly how and when to hit us. She would only slap us in our faces. Other blows, however, could land anywhere: our backs, arms, stomachs, legs, butts. And, she'd beat you with whatever was most convenient: her shoe, her fist, a belt. She enjoyed inflicting pain-in any way possible.

I quickly learned to hate that gorgeous living room of hers. One of my many chores was to clean it-every day. To Diane, cleaning meant getting on your hands and knees and cleaning the floorboards with toothbrushes. It meant shining the floor-to-ceiling windows and every single piece of fucking glass on the crystals that hung from the lamps. It meant cleaning each of those damned glass tables as well as the knickknacks she had lying on them: beautiful copper elephants, each with their trunks lifted upward for good luck; spectacular china dolls with pretty silk dresses and matching fancy hats; crystal unicorns of varying colors and sizes; delicate teacups displaying intricate designs, which, according to Diane, were made from the world's finest china. And, if you didn't do the cleaning to Diane's satisfaction, it meant getting beat. And in case we'd forgotten-as if we could-she would often remind us that she'd "accidentally" killed before and could "accidentally" do it again.

5.

A FEW DAYS after I arrived, I decided to run away. I didn't even know what "running away" was. I had never done it before and never knew anyone who had. I just knew I had to go. I didn't know where. But I had to go. Any place was better than where I was. Besides, I had made a promise to myself that Pete would never "take" me again. I didn't know the new kids well enough to trust them and tell them about Pete, and I didn't want Larry to get killed.

For now, Pete was still ignoring me. I once saw him eyeing one of the new girls. I didn't know if he had gotten any of them. And, to be honest, I didn't care as long as he stayed away from me. But even if he had gotten to one of the others, I didn't know how long she would hold his attention before he came back my way. I swore that the last time he took me was the last time. Ever.

I hated Diane. I hated Connie. I hated cleaning. I hated that house. I hated being a foster kid. I had to get out. I didn't want to leave Larry, but I couldn't worry about him. Shit, it was everybody for themselves now.

That night, after everyone went to sleep, I quietly got up (I had started sleeping in my clothes just in case Pete decided to try to get me in my sleep), and crawled out the bedroom window. Because Diane's house was a single story, it was a short drop to the ground. At first, the still evening air felt good against my face. It felt like freedom. Then, a quick gust of wind made me realize it was chilly. All I had on was a thin T-shirt and jeans. I thought about going back and grabbing something to keep me warm, but was unsure if I could spare the time.

It's now or never, I convinced myself. Deciding to forego the jacket, I began to run. I ran and ran and ran, not knowing where I was, and not paying attention to where I was going. Houses, cars, and street signs passed by in a blur. As I ran I cried; cried because of the pain and shame of what Pete had done to me, cried because I missed my momma, cried because of Diane's abuse, cried because I missed my daddy and Uncle Jr. I cried and ran until I was out of breath.

When I finally stopped, I was in a park. I spotted a bench and sat down. I was hungry and tired. And, now that I was no longer running, I was also cold again. I sat on the bench, shivering, wondering what I was going to do and where I was going to go. I had no idea. I realized I hadn't thought my plan out very well.

It was then I noticed a pretty white girl walking toward me. She looked young-like maybe nineteen or twenty. She was very thin-she reminded me of Lori-and pale, but she had large, full breasts that begged for room as they oozed out from the sides of her halter top. Her long legs jutted out from a miniskirt so short that when she bent over-even slightly-I could see her pink panties. She was pretty but had a face that had seen hard times.

She sat down next to me, saying nothing for a while, just listening to me cry. Finally, she said, "My name is Candy. What's yours?"

"Vette," I whimpered. I was too hungry, cold, and tired to be afraid of her.

"What are you doing out here?" she asked.

Her speech was very proper, not punctuated with slang like we used in the hood. She didn't cut off her words or run them together. Instead, she enunciated them fully. For example, she said, "What are you doing . . . ?" not "Whatcha doin' . . . ?"

We walked to a nearby coffee shop where Candy bought me a donut and a cup of cocoa, and I started telling her about Momma, my daddy, and Uncle Jr. I hesitated when I got to the part about Pete. I wasn't sure if I should tell her or not, remembering Pete's threats. But, she was a stranger. And maybe I just felt she was trustworthy, or maybe I just needed to get it off my chest-to tell someone.

Whatever the reason, I told her-just blurted it out-that Pete made me do it with him several times on the bathroom floor. I was starting to cry again. I tried to stifle my tears. I continued on about Diane, her obsession with cleanliness and the punches and kicks I got when I didn't clean to her satisfaction. As I talked, I wrapped my hands around the cocoa, warming my small cold hands. I tried to eat the donut as slowly as possible, knowing it would probably be my last meal for a while, but I was too hungry for that. Besides, having eaten only beans and rice day in and day out, the sweet-tasting donut was a welcomed change. So I devoured it in between sentences and gulps of cocoa.

Candy sat across the table from me and listened carefully, though she seemed indifferent to Pete's behavior or Diane's violence. In fact, her facial expression never changed-like maybe she had heard it all before or had even lived it.

"Listen," she said casually as I finished my story and my donut and clung to the cocoa, "it's a tough world out here. No one gives a fuck about you, and nothing in this world is free. Now, I bought you that cocoa and donut, but from now on, you're going to have to take care of yourself."

I didn't know what she meant, but before I could ask, she skipped outside to a car that had pulled over at the corner and honked. I watched intently through the coffee shop's windows as she leaned over into the driver's side window to talk to the driver. I couldn't see the driver very well, except to see he was a baldheaded white man. Whoever he was, I figured he must be important, because as Candy stood there talking to him, she changed her stance. She was now . . . well, sexy. Her butt stuck out in the street, raising her miniskirt just enough to show the lace trimming of her pink panties. She placed a hand on her hip and casually laid the other on the hood of the car. She smiled and laughed a lot.

Whatever they're talking about, I thought as I watched her, it must be funny.

After a few minutes, Candy ran around to the passenger side, hopped in, and the car took off. I sat there for a moment wondering what my next move was going to be. I figured the man in the car was a friend of hers and so she was gone for good. But, as I finished my cocoa and stood up to go, Candy came hopping around the corner back into the coffee shop.