AS I WALKED I came upon a very busy road. A nearby sign said the road led to some highway. I didn't know where the highway went, but it looked like it was heading out. There was a stump sitting a few feet off the road. I sat down on it to rest and contemplate my next move. I realized I couldn't return to Diane's, even if I wanted to, because I didn't know where she lived or how to get there. What a mess I was in! I sat there, tired, cold, and hungry, when a car approached.

The passenger-side window slowly slid down. The driver, a white man, leaned over and asked if I needed a ride. Before I could respond, a police car pulled up behind him. The policeman hadn't stopped for me. He stopped because he thought the motorist was having car trouble or in need of some kind of help. It wasn't until after the cop had gotten out of his car and started approaching the motorist's window that he noticed me sitting on the stump. He paused, looked at me, then at the motorist, then back at me, as if he were trying to decide which needed his attention first. He decided the small black girl sitting on the side of the road would be first.

"What are you doing here?" he asked softly, beginning to move toward me slowly and cautiously, trying not to startle me. I heard him, but didn't respond. I was trying to think of what to say. I mean, I had been taught to trust the police. I never had a reason to distrust them. Until now. I was starting to realize that everyone wanted something.

"Do you live here?" he asked as he continued toward me. He seemed like a nice man. The motorist had also gotten out of his car and was following behind the policeman.

"Do you know her?" the cop asked the motorist.

"No," he replied. "I just saw her sitting there, which seemed strange. I was concerned, so I pulled over."

"What's your name?" the cop asked.

"La'Vette," I replied.

"La'Vette. That's a pretty name. What's your last name?"

I told him. But since I didn't trust him, I only answered direct questions.

"Are you lost?"

"Yeah," I replied. It wasn't a lie. I was lost. He didn't ask me why I was on the stump so early in the morning. He didn't ask me if I'd run away. He didn't ask me if I'd been raped, beaten, or what. He asked if I was lost, so that's the question I answered.

"Well, where do you live?"

I was uncertain about how to answer this one. Should I say San Diego? Although that's where I was from, I didn't live there anymore. Or should I say Lancaster? That's where Diane lived and it now looked like that's where I'd be stuck.

"I don't know," I replied.

He noticed me shivering and asked if I wanted to sit in his car while he made a call to see where I belonged. He gave me a big smile.

"Yeah," I answered. Besides, I thought, it's gotta be warmer in there than out here.

The cop told the motorist he'd take over from there. He opened the passenger door of his cruiser for me and told me not to touch anything. He got in and radioed the dispatcher to see if a child with my name had been reported missing. We waited a few moments while she checked, neither of us saying anything to the other. He flipped through some papers on his clipboard. I had never been inside of a police car before, so I marveled at all the intriguing gadgets.

Soon, the dispatcher came on and told him that no one with my name had been reported missing.

"Do you have any relatives?" he asked, turning to face me.

"No," I said. "I live in a foster home." I was tired. There was nowhere else to run, and I didn't know what the alternative to Diane's would be. I had no more fight left in my little body. I had given up.

"Do you know the name of your foster mother?" he asked. I told him. The dispatcher was able to tell him where a "Diane Dobson" lived, and we headed that way. Within minutes, her house was in sight.

Turns out that road with the stump was less than a half mile from Diane's house. And that road would have led me right out of Lancaster.

Diane's house was dark when we pulled into the driveway. Holding my hand as we approached the door, the cop rang the doorbell. When Diane opened the door, the cop cheerfully said, "Looks like we found something you lost!"

"Oh, yes," Diane cried with tears in her eyes. "Where did you find her?"

She shoulda been an actress, I thought.

Diane continued. "She must have been sleepwalking again and wandered off. She does that a lot."

I didn't speak up. I didn't say, "Liar!" I had admitted defeat.

"Can I speak to you privately for a moment?" he asked Diane. He was looking at me as if I were a little slow and might be harmed by what was about to be said.

"Sure," she replied as she grabbed his arm and gently led him into the formal living room. When she turned on the light, he seemed immediately impressed with what he saw.

Refusing her invitation to sit down in one of the beautiful plush baby-blue chairs, the cop stood talking to Diane for a few moments. Because they were whispering, I couldn't understand what they were saying. I did notice that, as they talked, the cop was admiring the living room. When they ended their discussion and made their way back to me, he commented on how beautiful the living room was.

"Why, thank you!" Diane exclaimed, obviously proud that someone had admiration for her precious room.

Whatever Diane told the cop, he seemed to accept it.

He bent over so that he could put his face really close to mine, smiled, and asked if I was okay.

"Yes," I whispered. I wanted to scream, Don't go! Take me with you! This chick is crazy! But I didn't. I just stood there with my head hanging down. Something told me that screaming would be useless.

With that, he told me to be more careful, patted my head, bid us a good day, and left. It all happened so fast and matter-of-factly.

As far as I know, there was no discussion as to how I came to land on a stump by the roadside. He never asked Diane if I had run away or why. He never asked her why she hadn't reported me missing. He never asked why, if Diane knew I had a habit of "sleepwalking," she hadn't taken better precautions to prevent me from sleepwalking right out of the house.

Diane closed the door and watched through the window as the cop left. I didn't move. Neither of us spoke. But as soon as the cop was out of sight, she spun on me so fast I felt the sting before I saw her hand coming. She slapped me. Hard. I fell to the ground crying. I kept trying to tell myself, Don't cry; don't cry, because I knew she got off on making us cry. But it hurt real bad. So I sobbed, all the while trying to hold it in.

The other children were now awake, but afraid to come out of their rooms. Diane hollered, "Git yo' stupid asses out here so y'all can hear this!" The others grimly marched out of their rooms and gathered around us. Diane liked to do things with an audience.

"Listen, you little bitch," she snarled as she grabbed me by my hair and forced my face up toward hers, "I hate a lot of things, but one thing I really hate is cops at my fucking house! Lucky for you, I didn't even know your stupid lil ass was gone. But the next time you call yourself 'running away' you'd better stay gone, because if and when you come back, I'm going to beat the shit outta you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I cried, and she allowed me to drop my head.

But then she angrily snatched my head back again, forcing me to look into her hateful eyes. We stared face-to-face for a moment before she slammed my head into the floor and stormed off. At first, I couldn't understand why I felt severe stinging in the back of my head. I looked up after her and realized why: strands of my hair were hanging from her still-clutched fingers as she walked away. The other children stood there, quietly staring at me and listening to me cry. Slowly they turned, one by one, and went back to their rooms. Crying and rubbing my bruised forehead and reddened cheek, I followed.

No sooner than I went to my room and laid down on my bed to try and get some sleep, she was ranting and raving about how dirty her house was and how lazy we were. She stormed in the room, told us to get our "lazy asses" up and clean. I was exhausted. I hadn't slept in almost twenty-four hours and the booze and weed I'd done at Candy's had long since run out. Diane ordered me to start in the bathroom. I obeyed.

I didn't mean to go to sleep but I was so tired. I sat down to "rest," and didn't wake up until one of the kids came banging on the door screaming that they had to go to the bathroom. Luckily for me, Diane was still cautious of the police so she only cussed me out; she didn't hit me. We cleaned the entire house that day, same as always. By the end of it, I was too tired for my nightly reflection on the events of the last couple of weeks. It was the first time, since finding my mother dead, that I got a full night of uninterrupted sleep. One good thing that came out of the cop returning to me to Diane's was that, for some reason, he scared her-at least for a while. She was very calm for the next few days. And, for the first time that I knew of, she warned Pete to behave himself. Diane really hated police. Even though the cop took no report and in no way inquired into the situation at her house, for several days she nervously roamed from room to room, looking out the windows for something-what, I didn't know.

Shortly after the cop returned me to Diane's, I turned twelve. There was no party, no cake, not even a "Happy Birthday." Didn't matter, though, because my birthday was the same day Pete left for the military. I figured not having to worry about him anymore was my birthday present.

- Diane's fear of the cops returning didn't last long. As time went on, her abusive rampages became worse and more frequent. Severe infractions got you beat with what Diane called her "bull whip"-a stick wrapped tightly in leather with individual leather strands hanging from the end, small knots tied throughout each strand. Diane told us that the "wonderful" thing about her whip was that not only did it hurt like hell, but it never left lasting marks. She said this was because the whip was made of "special child-beating leather." She regularly warned us that if we ever told anyone about being hit, they wouldn't believe us; and what's more, no one gave a fuck about us anyway.

And she'd fuck with our minds. We'd clean a room, but by the time she got through with "inspection" she had us thinking our crazy asses hadn't done shit. She'd be ranting and raving about dust and dirt being everywhere. Or she'd ask you to find something that she had hidden. For example, one day she started screaming and yelling that one of her precious teacups was missing from the living room. She warned that it'd better be found, and fast, or there'd be hell to pay. The foster kids frantically scrambled around trying to find it. Connie remained in her room, comfortably watching TV. The cup wasn't found that day. As punishment, we were restricted to our rooms for the remainder of the evening and weren't given any dinner. Later that night, as I passed Diane's room on my way to the bathroom, I heard her and Connie laughing at their game and the fear on our faces. Diane was holding the supposedly missing teacup and telling Connie she'd hidden it in Connie's room.

That bitch! Of course we'd've never found it. No one even thought to look in Connie's room!

When I returned to my room to tell the other girls what I'd overheard, they didn't believe me. They knew that Diane was crazy, evil, and manipulative. But for some reason, they felt that such a trick, if true, was just too cruel. I gave up trying to persuade them, deciding to leave them to their own beliefs.

We were regularly called "fuckers," "bitches," "hos," "sluts," "whores," "lil mothafuckas," "black sons of bitches," "goddamn sons of bitches," "goddamn worthless fucks," "worthless pieces of shit," "useless fuckups," "foster fuckups," "good-for-nothings," "dumb fucks," and anything else she could think of.

Diane often neglected to feed us, and since we weren't allowed in the kitchen ourselves (other than to clean), we sometimes went hungry. When we did eat, our meals were almost always beans and rice.

Though we rarely got meat, there was one way to get it. I discovered this trick when I'd failed to clean the hallway baseboards adequately. I'd worked all day and was starving; my stomach had gone from growling to howling. I was actually looking forward to the usual ration; so I was pleasantly surprised when, instead of beans and rice, Diane set a plate of chicken and rice before me. Ignoring the rice, I reached for the drumstick like it was water in the desert. I grabbed it and took a bite. It wasn't very flavorful, but I didn't care. I was eating meat, though very, very greasy meat. Grease was dripping down both sides of my chin like a waterfall. As I wiped it away using the back of my hand, I glanced up to see the other kids staring at me with what looked like horror. I stopped chewing immediately.

"What's wrong with y'all?" I asked. No one replied.

Forget 'em. I told myself. They just jealous.

Just then, I looked down at the drumstick. For some odd reason, the grease oozing from inside was red. Nervously, I looked at the back of my hand that I'd used to wipe my chin. It too had a streak of red splattered across it.

Red? Where the hell is all this red coming from? . . . Then it hit me. The bitch had given me half-cooked chicken. It was still bloody inside. I dropped the drumstick, spit out what I had in my mouth, and pushed my chair back from the table so hard it toppled over. As I ran to the bathroom, I heard Diane and Connie laughing. They had been standing behind me, watching me, waiting on me to discover their chicken surprise.

Once in the bathroom, I plopped down on the floor and stuck my head in the toilet. I hadn't eaten all day, so there was nothing to throw up. I sat there dry-heaving trying to free my mind of the image of eating half-cooked chicken. Once I was sure nothing was coming up, I flushed the toilet, washed my mouth and hands, and returned to the kitchen. Diane and Connie were still there, and so was the bloody plate. Diane pointed to it and told me that I had to eat it or go hungry. It was a hell of a predicament to be in. I chose to go hungry. Unfortunately, it wouldn't be the last time.

Diane's emotional abuse was especially painful because we all came to her already burdened with some kind of catastrophe or misfortune. One set of sisters from Oceanside had been removed from their home because they told a teacher that they were being molested by their stepfather. The rest of the story wasn't clear, but they said that the situation came to a point where the social worker assigned to their case told their mother that, if she got rid of the stepfather, the girls would be allowed to return home. The girls got quiet for a moment. One started to cry as the other finished telling the story. Without hesitation, their mother told the worker that she had never been without a man, was getting older and wouldn't be without a man; in fact, couldn't be without one. She looked the worker dead in the eyes and told her, "keep 'em." Several days later the girls were at Diane's.

We children had had enough despair and distraction in our lives. I missed my family immensely. I longed for my mom, to see her face, to hear her voice. I desperately needed guidance, support, and love-none of which was ever found at Diane's. Physical touching of any type was forbidden (other than Pete's). We weren't even allowed to hug or touch each other.

Connie, too, had her own forms of cruelty: she would use her status and approval as a means of turning the foster children against each other. There was a pecking order among us foster kids. Whoever was in Connie's good graces got promoted to special treatment. That person would get extra helpings of food (the good food that Connie and Diane ate), could play in the front yard (as long as Connie was with that person), and could even go into Connie's bedroom (where she had a big-screen color TV, a stereo, and every game a child could want). One word from Connie and her favorite could pass his or her chores on to some less-fortunate kid; or could at least escape a punch to the stomach from Diane for some random transgression.

As a result, the foster kids turned on each other and were in constant competition for Connie's friendship and approval. But I refused to kiss her ass. I acted like I didn't care whether she or any of the other kids liked me. Inside, I knew better. I wanted to be liked, longed for someone to love me. But I would not allow them the satisfaction of seeing that they were hurting me or that I needed anything from them. They may have suspected they were getting to me, but I sho as hell wasn't gon' show it.

7.

ONE DAY, I was sitting on the floor in the den watching TV. I had resigned myself to the fact that I was stuck in this torturous hellhole, so my new strategy was just to pretty much stay out of Diane's way, especially since her latest trick was to tell me that I deserved what Pete had done to me because I was dark, ugly, motherless, and insignificant.

The other children were in the backyard playing-vying for Connie's attention. I never played much anymore. I wouldn't allow myself to chase behind Connie for her approval. Besides, I was usually too tired, too sore, or too sad. Out of the blue Diane came in, plopped her fat ass down on the couch, snapped off the TV, and slapped me on the head.

"You ain't never gon' be shit," she sneered, " 'cause you ain't got no mother."

My mother hadn't been dead three months.

Damn bitch, I thought. I'm in here minding my own business and here you come fucking wit' me!

"Now, Connie," she continued, putting emphasis on the name, "She's gon' be something because she's got a mother!" With that, she popped me on my head again and walked out.

I just sat there thinking about what Diane had said. It got my blood flowing again. It renewed my determination to get the fuck out. Because, hell, if I wasn't going to be shit, I damn sure wasn't going to be it in Lancaster! I decided it was time to try to run again. Only this time, I'd do it right.

- Diane enrolled me in school. I was grateful to be in school because it allowed me to get away from Diane during the day.

Connie and I went to the same school-which was 99 percent white-but we didn't hang out together. She referred to me as her cousin because she said that calling me a foster child was too embarrassing-for her. I didn't care what she called me as long as she stayed the fuck away from me.

Luckily, I'd found a couple of portals out of my life: booze and weed, thanks to Pete and Candy. I smoked and drank every chance I got. I loved being loaded. Everything looked and felt good when I was high-even me.

It's true what they say about birds of a feather. I quickly found other kids like me-kids who wanted or needed oblivion. One good thing about hanging out with kids who drank and smoked weed is that it didn't matter that I was black and they were white. The only color we all cared about was green-be it money or weed. Green was keen.

Buying booze was easy, even for a twelve-year-old. I just stood outside the liquor store and asked an adult who was going in to buy me some beer or whatever type of alcohol I wanted. If they agreed, and most times they did, I just gave them the money and waited for them to come out with the goodies. If they refused, I waited and asked the next person.

After watching my friends do it, I began shoplifting small things-purses, wallets, and cigarettes-which I would then trade for money or weed. I was really good at stealing cigarettes-which I'd also begun smoking. However, I never really had to worry about the money for my habits-at least not yet-because all of my friends got allowances and were more than willing to share what they had.

I started using my friends to unknowingly assist me in my plan of escape. From talking to them, I began learning about Lancaster and the nearby towns. Walking to and from school, I also started to figure out how to navigate my way around town. And my friends taught me that, by sticking out my thumb, I could go anywhere for free. One of my friends told me she'd heard that I had to be gone for twenty-four hours before Diane could report me missing (if she reported me missing), but she wasn't sure if that was true or not. I hoped it was, because it would give me at least a day's head start.

Although my friends knew my home life was fucked up, they never asked for particulars and I never told them (besides, we were usually so high, anything I told them would've probably been forgotten). I figured the less they knew, the better, because if anyone asked them anything, when they replied that they didn't know, they wouldn't be lying.

My friends gave good information about how to get out of Lancaster, but no one knew how to get to San Diego. They had heard of San Diego, but no one knew how to get there. It never dawned on us to look at a map. I figured I'd just wing it.

- One night, while cleaning Diane's bathroom, I failed to polish the sink faucet to her satisfaction, so I got the whip. That damn whip was becoming my regular form of punishment. As I got ready for bed, my body stinging from the beating, tears streaming down my face, I knew it was time to go-again.

Just as before, I went to bed in my clothes. Around four in the morning, when I was sure everyone was asleep, I slipped out the window. Learning from previous mistakes, this time I grabbed a jacket on my way out. I felt more in control because I had a plan and I knew where I was going. I walked swiftly, but I didn't run. No need to. Diane wouldn't even know I was gone; and even if she did, she couldn't report me for twenty-four hours. I made my way down to the familiar stump-a welcome sight, because this time I knew that once I left that stump, I'd be leaving Lancaster.

I was glad I had grabbed the jacket, which provided adequate protection from the crisp morning air. I stood with my thumb out for an hour or so before a van finally pulled over. I ran to it and hopped in.

The van was empty inside except for a few tools strewn around the back. The driver was a thin black man, dressed in a cool tie-dyed T-shirt and jeans.

"Where ya going?" he asked.

I wasn't prepared for that question. I thought you just hopped in the car and went.

"As far as you can take me," I replied. It wasn't a lie. I hadn't thought this part out. I figured I'd first get out of Lancaster and then worry about getting to San Diego.

"I'm going to Thousand Oaks," he said. "I'll take you that far."

"Cool," I replied as we pulled off. I didn't realize I was going in the opposite direction of San Diego.

We rode in silence for a few moments. He didn't ask any questions and I didn't talk.

"You smoke?" he asked as he pulled a joint from his breast pocket and lit it.

"Hell, yeah!" I replied. Wow, what luck!

"Good," he said. "I got some Grand-ma-yang too."

I'd never heard of Grandma Yang, but if it made me feel good, I was down. The bottle he handed to me read "Grand Marnier" but I guessed that it was pronounced "Grandma Yang." And, like everything else alcoholic I'd drunk before, I loved it.

Oh y-e-a-h! I said to myself as we continued to cruise away from Lancaster. This running away and hitchhiking is all right! I took another swig of the "Yang" and another puff off the joint and congratulated myself on a well-executed plan.

- A little while into the ride, the driver, who said his name was Bob, asked me if I was looking to make a little money.

"Sure," I replied. "What's up?" I thought he was talking about stealing something.

He looked at me, his mouth forming into a sly grin. He slowly took his right hand off the steering wheel and began rubbing his crotch area. As I glanced back up at his face, he was looking at me and licking his lips. It was then I realized what he wanted. He wanted what Pete had wanted, what Joe had wanted.

I sat there for a moment thinking about it. I hadn't done that since the night with Candy. In fact, I had pretty much put it out of my mind. Whenever it did come up, I'd get high or drunk enough so that I'd either forget it ever happened or didn't give a fuck. I'd surely never planned on doing it again. But now that it had come up, I remembered that it could be a way to make money. I had nowhere to stay and nothing to eat; I would need food and shelter. And I remembered Candy saying that nothing in life is free; no one was going to give me a job; and that no one gave a fuck about me, which Diane had proven. Still, I remained unsure-until Bob gave me another swig of the "Yang."