We never made it to cheerleading practice. In fact, I never, ever went to a single cheerleading session. Instead, three times a week, when we were supposed to be at practice, we were in the parking lot of Kmart. Mr. Bassinet said that our "cheerleading practices" were okay because we weren't having sex. Since I didn't know any better, I believed him.

Besides LSD, Mr. Bassinet also introduced me to cocaine, what I came to think of as white heaven. Indeed, in my encounters with Mr. Bassinet, he always had plenty of weed, LSD, and cocaine, as well as a never-ending supply of booze-all for me and all at my disposal.

During our "practices," I would often marvel at how inattentive people can be. I asked myself if anyone else wondered about the yellow van that was frequently parked in the Kmart lot; if anyone noticed that no one ever got out of it and no one ever got into it. But the people continued milling around and about the parked van, going about their shopping tasks. No one ever wondered about the big yellow van.

It was during one of our practices that it occurred to me who actually gave me the name La'Vette. See, when Momma told me that "Daddy" changed my name because he didn't like Cupcake, I thought she had meant my daddy-not Mr. Burns-hell, I had never even heard of Mr. Burns. But it was not my daddy; it was Mr. Burns who'd changed my name from Cupcake to La'Vette. The same Mr. Burns who caused me to be up in that van having "cheerleading practice" with my forty-five-year-old foster father. That man was no father-he was an asshole, plain and simple.

Nor did he deserve the right to change my name. I made up my mind right then and there that I would never refer to him as anything except asshole (although years later I also allowed myself to call him sperm donor). And I would take back my birth name-the name my mother gave me. From now on, I would use my real name-Cupcake. And, since La'Vette was the name chosen by the fucked-up asshole-who was directly responsible for my fucked-up life-I would use that name when I did fucked-up stuff. La'Vette would be my bad name, and Cupcake would be my good one. That realization was one good thing that came out of those cheerleading practices.

But there was another. Mr. Bassinet began to stand up for me. He would no longer let Mrs. Bassinet hit me or even cuss me. "Leave her alone!" he would bark in my defense. I mistook his protection for love. In my mind, what I was doing to him was okay because, in return, he was doing something for me-protecting me. After attending a few practices, he cut down my chores so I wouldn't have to clean as much. And whenever Mrs. Bassinet left the house, he'd let me ditch my chores and watch TV with him (though he never touched me in any way unless we were at practice). And when Mrs. Bassinet returned and started fussing, he'd step up and tell her to "get off it!"

Our "practices" also afforded me a continuous supply of drugs and alcohol, which I had come to depend on-for sanity, tranquility, and confidence. Mr. Bassinet also made sure I always had plenty of cigarettes. In other words, once we started cheerleading practice, Mr. Bassinet took care of me.

I learn quickly. Mr. Bassinet never had to punch me again during practice. I learned to do what he liked and how he liked it. But don't get me wrong-although I acted like I liked it, I was very much aware of how fucked the whole setup was. I was a twelve-year-old druggie and boozer that sometimes turned tricks, and whose only claim to fame was being good at cheerleading practice.

- A short time later, I started my period. Although I knew what it was, I wasn't expecting it. I was at school one day when one of the girls told me I had something on my pants. I went to the bathroom to discover them soaked. The school nurse called Mrs. Bassinet to come and pick me up. All the way home, she cussed me out because I'd "messed up" my clothes.

A couple of days later at practice, Mr. Bassinet told me not to worry about getting my period or about what we were doing. He said that since it wasn't sex, I couldn't get pregnant.

"Cool," I said. "But could you keep that bitch wife of yours off my ass?" I asked as I bent to snort a line of coke. He poured me another rum and coke and laughed. "I'll do what I can."

Our practices became parties of a sort. We'd get high and drunk and have bitching sessions about Mrs. Bassinet-I actually began to look forward to them because it seemed Mr. Bassinet hated her just as much as I did.

- One night I was awakened by a policeman. He was gently shaking me and telling me to get up. At first I was disoriented.

What's a cop doing in my bedroom?

As my mind begin to clear, I could hear Mrs. Bassinet downstairs yelling and cussing at the top of her lungs. Something about "bitch, ho, slut," etc. Nothing unusual had happened that day, so I had no idea what all of the fussin' was about.

The cop, a stocky white man, looked at me and said, "Get up, sweetie, you have to go."

"Why?" I asked.

"Your mother wants you to leave."

"She's not my mother!" I retorted.

"Get up, get your clothes on, and get your things together," he replied, oblivious to my outrage. "I'll wait outside."

It didn't take me long to get my things. I had left Diane's with no clothes, so all I had were the few outfits I'd been given while I was at Hillcrest. Mrs. Bassinet had not spent one dime of the money she'd been paid for me on me. So my things fit easily into a paper bag.

I gathered my little bag and stepped outside my room. The bright hall lights hurt my eyes. The cop waited a moment, and then we made our way down the hall to the stairs. As we reached the end of the hallway, I froze. Glaring up at me from the bottom of the stairs was Mrs. Bassinet. Her eyes were blazing red, and she was really drunk, really pissed, and screaming at the top of her lungs.

"Git that bitch out of my house! Git her out!"

Mr. Bassinet sat on the couch, drink in hand, head down, not saying a word.

I didn't understand what was going on. She was so enraged.

Had she found out about cheerleading practice? But who told her? Not me. I hadn't told a soul.

The cop's partner was at the bottom of the stairs, trying to pacify Mrs. Bassinet.

"Now, ma'am," he was saying, "we are taking her. But, we need you to calm down."

Mrs. Bassinet wasn't payin' him any attention. "Get that ho, slut, black bitch out of my fucking house! Git her out!"

I was scared that if they made me pass her, she'd punch me. I didn't mind being cussed out, but I didn't want to get punched. The cop must have sensed my apprehension. He took my hand, and we slowly began to descend the stairs. Mr. Bassinet never looked up and Mrs. Bassinet never quit cussin'. When we were four or five steps from the bottom, I stopped. The cop's partner took Mrs. Bassinet's arm and moved her aside so we could pass.

As we approached the police car, I asked the cop if I could sit in the front. "No," he said, "you have to sit in the back." Although it wasn't my first time in a cop car, it was my first time in the back. The metal grate separating me from the cops made me feel like I was in a cage. We sat there; neither of us saying anything. A few moments later, his partner came out and we took off-back to Hillcrest.

I never found out why Mrs. Bassinet was cussin' or why I had to leave. All I knew was that obviously I must have done something wrong to be caged and returned to the place for unwanted kids. I never saw the Bassinets again. Didn't matter. They'd left me with memories I'd never forget.

10.

BACK AT HILLCREST, no one ever asked me what happened at the Bassinets' or why I had been put out. It was just like everything else that had happened in my life: shit happened and no one gave a fuck. I was getting angrier and angrier.

Someone decided it might be beneficial to have a psychiatrist talk to me and determine if there was any truth to my allegations of child abuse. The shrink was a short, fat white man. As I entered his office, he welcomed me as if I were an old friend.

Don't jive me! I wanted to shout. We both know you ain't my friend and that you don't really give a fuck about me! Instead, I shut my mouth and plopped down in a large brown leather chair. He gave me a wide, warm caring smile. The gentle and kindhearted way he looked at me gave me a glimmer of hope.

Despite my suspicions, I decided to give him a chance. I figured I'd tell the truth-one last time-to see if someone, anyone, could help me out of the hellhole my life had become.

I began to talk. I didn't mention the cheerleading practices. I figured, hell, if they were having trouble believing my stories about life at Diane's, they sure weren't going to believe what was going on at the Bassinets.' Neither did I tell the shrink about Pete, Candy, or turning tricks.

But I did tell the shrink about Diane's abuse and about my running away and sleeping under park benches and the freeway underpass. He listened with what looked like great interest and periodically jotted down notes. I began to get excited, like maybe he would do something to keep me from going back to Diane's.

Too quickly my time was up. As I got ready to leave, I asked to see what it was he had written. He said I didn't get to see what was in his report, but that he'd give it to the judge. I left feeling good about my decision to be half-assed honest. The good feeling didn't last long.

- That bastard shrink went back and told the court that he doubted any abuse had occurred, and that, in respect for my "father's" wishes, I should be returned to Diane's. He had an explanation for everything: that any marks I'd had were probably caused by sticks and shrubbery when I'd slept on the ground or under bushes. And that with Diane's impeccable record, it was doubtful that she had done the things I'd claimed. Besides, none of the other foster children in her home would confirm my story.

Based on the psychiatrist's report, Mr. Burns's lies, and Diane's "impeccable" Lancaster reputation, the decision was made that I would be immediately returned to Diane.

Although Mr. Burns did show up at court (to lie), he didn't have the balls to come to Hillcrest to get me and take me to Lancaster. Diane herself came to pick me up. So accommodating. Heifer.

The ride to Lancaster was just like the first one. No one said a word. Diane drove the entire way without stopping. By the way she was driving, I could tell she was pissed. Connie was with her, sitting silently in the front seat in her new Nordstrom clothes. Spoiled little bitch. I was already thinking about how, and when, I'd run away again.

There were still four boys and four girls at Diane's. But, of the original eight foster children, six were new.

Because I was a repeat I didn't need the "Don't be in my living room" speech, the tour of designated places, or the initiation punch (though that ain't saying much because sooner or later at Diane's you got punched). When we got to Lancaster, Diane took a nap. I went and sat in the den to get the 411 on what'd been hap'nin since I'd left: who'd run away, who'd got sent back to their families, who'd been beaten, tortured, or starved, and so on.

"Speaking of beatin's," I snapped when the conversation had turned to that subject, "why didn't y'all speak up when they asked you if she beat y'all?"

"Come on, Vette," a girl who had been one of the original eight replied. "You know how 'the system' works. If we woulda told, they wouldn't have believed us. Hell, this is my fifth foster home and I've been hit in every one! But what does my social worker say when I tell her dey beatin' my ass?" She paused to make a snooty face as she imitated her social worker's voice: " 'Stop exaggerating!' or 'You should be grateful someone's willing to take you!' "

"Besides," she continued, in her own voice, "Momma woulda beat us and you know it!"

I slumped to the floor because I knew she was telling the truth. Then what she said hit me.

"Momma?" I gasped. "Why'd you call that bitch Momma?"

Seems Diane had instituted a new rule since my departure. Everyone had to call her "Momma"-not "Mrs. Dobson" or "Diane," as it had been when I left. I didn't have to ask why. I knew why. It made her look friendlier and more charming, caring, and loving when the system came calling. But more important, it probably gave her a demented sense of pleasure because she knew how much we hated doing it. (She even got to the point where she made the children sign their school pictures to "Momma," thanking her for everything she'd done.) "And, by the way, don't call me La'Vette anymore," I announced. I figured now was a good time to reveal my original true name. "My real name is Cupcake, and that's what you'll call me from now on." I'd stood up and put my hands on my hips. My demeanor told them I was not playing.

"Cupcake?" they all chimed in unison. I steadied my legs, ready to pounce. If any of them said anything smart or shitty about the name my momma gave me, I was gonna pop 'emgood.

"That's cute!" they replied, again in unison. I relaxed my stance, since it was clear they weren't going to try to talk shit about my real name.

"But don't tell Diane," I warned.

"Momma!" they quickly corrected me while looking around, afraid she'd heard. "Call her Momma. If you don't, she'll hit you!"

I'd forgotten the new rule just that fast. Didn't matter too much, though. Like I said before, no matter how hard you tried to be good, sooner or later, you'd get hit.

- While I was away, some of the children had begun stealing food.

Since no one would own up to being the culprit (indeed, each child blamed the others), Diane put a lock and chain around the refrigerator. This wasn't difficult because the fridge and freezer stood side by side. So she just slipped a metal chain around the entire thing, brought it through both door handles, and locked it with a padlock. Only she and Connie had keys.

Diane's lock and chain around the fridge also provided Connie with another form of sick amusement. Connie's key hung on a gold chain around her neck. To taunt us, she'd walk around swinging the chain in a small circular motion. This was especially torturous on extremely hot days when we'd pass by staring at the fridge and freezer, knowing there was ice-cold water, sodas, and multiflavored Popsicles inside. This caused even more rivalry and dissension among the foster children because if you were in Connie's corner, you got to get stuff from the fridge whenever she did.

Connie had instituted a heinous and hateful trick of her own: "hot foots." One night she turned it on me. While I was asleep, Connie and two or three of the foster children (the ones who, at the time, were in her good graces) crept up to the foot of my bed and slowly, cautiously, and quietly lifted the covers. Taking a book of matches and tearing them off one by one, they carefully placed two to three matches in between each of my toes. Then, they lit 'em. I was slammed into consciousness by the pain of fire on my feet. I bolted straight up in the bed, screaming, crying, and waving my hands, shaking them in an attempt to put out the blaze. Connie and her crew howled with delight. Realizing that blowing at my feet with all my might wasn't working, I jumped up, ran to the bathroom and literally jumped into the toilet. By the time I limped back to bed, the culprits were rolling around on the floor, holding their stomachs, crackin' up laughing.

As the "hot foots" became more regular and frequent, Connie's cronies learned to block the bathroom door to deny the burning kid access to the toilet where they (learning from my lead), would jump in with their flaming feet. On several occasions, bedding began to burn from the flames. To prevent this, Connie and her crew would stand by with a bucket of water to throw on the bed. This added to their fun because even if the bedding didn't catch on fire, they threw the water on you. Since we each had only one set of bedding, the victim would have to sleep on wet bed linen until it dried.

Now, more than ever, it was important to win Connie's approval. Since I refused to play her game, I got more than my share of "hot foots."

I fought back as best I could: I began sleeping with socks on, or with my covers "double-tucked" at the bottom of the bed, or both. Problem with this strategy was that Connie and her crew would chill out on the hot foots for a couple of weeks, making you think the danger was over. Soon as you slipped up and forgot to wear your socks or double-tuck your sheets, they'd getcha.

Diane was aware of this behavior, and seemed to love it. She called it a game.

No one got hit for the first few weeks after my return. It seems Diane was worried about being watched. Whoever had questioned her about my accusations of abuse had obviously scared her-for a little while anyway. It wouldn't last long; didn't need to since she had several things working for her benefit: she was such a good actress and she lived in a nice big house. What's more, she was always willing to take children that were "difficult to place." Social workers loved her.

- But about four months after my being returned to Lancaster, the system unequivocally confirmed it really didn't give a shit about me.

Diane had been ranting and raving about my failure to scrub the bathroom baseboards to her satisfaction. When I insisted that I had scrubbed them, she said I was talking back. She chased me through the house swinging that damn bull whip. I was fast, but not fast enough. She caught me and delivered a few good whacks.

A couple of days later, I happened to go to school. I was enrolled in the nearby junior-high school, but I hated school, so I usually ditched. However, for some reason, this particular day I decided to go. Unbeknownst to me, the school had been giving kids random medical checkups. It seems they'd kept trying to give me one, but I was never there. Somehow, word got to the nurse that I was present that day, so she called me to her office.

I took off my clothes, put on the little blue paper dress she'd given me, hopped up on the table and waited. Some friends had scored some killer coke and were just dying to share it with me, so I was hoping the nurse would hurry up and get the damn thing over with.

The nurse entered the room and began her exam. She checked my blood pressure, humming softly to herself. She used her little stethoscope to listen to my chest, periodically moving it here and there while instructing me to inhale, and exhale. When she removed the paper dress to listen to my back, she gasped.

"Where did you get these marks?" she asked.

Diane's recent whipping was fresh in my mind.

"My foster mother," I replied matter-of-factly.

"Oh, my God!" she exclaimed.

Her outburst startled me. I hadn't expected her to care.

The nurse said she was going to call the police and instructed me to put my clothes back on.

When the police arrived, they spoke with the nurse while I waited in another room. I couldn't hear, but I could see them. The policemen were studying the nurse very seriously as if trying to decide if she were lying. I wondered what might happen-and whether my life would be any different from before.

Then, one of the policemen approached me and said that they were going to take me to Diane's to "get my stuff."

"Cool," I replied, still unsure of what was going on, but a little pissed to be missing the coke party.

As we pulled into Diane's driveway, I could just imagine what was going on inside. I was nervous because I remembered how she'd reacted the last time a cop brought me home. Oblivious to my uneasiness, the cops walked me to the door and rang the bell. Diane opened the door and laid on her best "mother of the year" charm, but I could tell she was nervous. She looked scared. One of the cops escorted me to my room to get some clothes while the other stayed up front, talking to Diane. The other children stayed in the den-scared to move. Connie was standing next to her mother, hands on her hips, visibly annoyed and glaring at me.

I don't think the cops ever noticed the lock and chain that hung around the refrigerator.

It wasn't until we left Diane's that I was informed of the plan. It seemed that the nurse suspected some type of abuse. The cops said policy required me to be removed while they investigated. So they were taking me to a shelter home.

The shelter home was in Simi Valley and was headed by a pleasant little Mexican lady named Maria who spoke broken English. Maria had four small children who also spoke broken English.

I didn't care about being at the shelter home. I had become desensitized to different homes, different cities, and different people. I had learned to make the best of where I was. Maria gave me half-cooked eggs for breakfast. At the time, I didn't know they were called over easy. All I knew was that they reminded me of Diane's half-cooked meat, and I just couldn't bring myself to eat 'em. Maria was nice about it and never forced me to. She was a great cook, though-she made the best chicken enchiladas I'd ever had.

Maria never hit me, and since she couldn't speak English very well, if she ever did curse me out, I didn't know it. I left the house every day telling her I was going to school, and then I'd hang out and get high.

One day a social worker came to see me. She told me her name was Cindy, and she was quick to inform me that she wasn't my assigned worker; she was just helping out with the overload. Maria had agreed to allow her house to be used only on an emergency basis, meaning she wanted to keep children only for a few days-a week at most. As I'd been there more than a month, she couldn't keep me any longer. Unfortunately, there was nowhere else to take me, or no one who was willing to take me. So Cindy said they had decided to return me to Diane's.

I literally gasped.

"What? Y'all just took me from her! Remember the marks on my back? Remember?"

Why was I the only one that could remember stuff? And I was the druggie! I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

Cindy had the saddest look on her face as she explained that their hands were tied: I had to be returned to Diane's because the nearest other available home was in another county, and for some unexplained reason, I couldn't be placed there. She said Diane had admitted to hitting me and supposed she might have been "a little rough" when doing so, but strongly denied any abuse. With that half-assed admission, together with her foster-mother-of-the-year persona and her "impeccable" record, they believed her. As far as I know, no one mentioned Hillcrest and the previous investigation or accusations of abuse.

"But," Cindy said sternly, as if to make me feel better, "we've told her that we'll be watching her."

Y'all ain't been watching her! I wanted to scream. But I said nothing. I just hung my head in despair.

The next day, Cindy and a cop drove me to Diane's. I felt like I was going to the electric chair. I knew how much Diane hated the police, and thanks to that dumb-ass school nurse they'd now been there, again, because of me. Now, she'd get to make me pay for it; I'd get beat good for sure.

As Cindy and the cop sat with Diane in the formal living room, informing her that they would be watching her, and as the other children sat scared to death in the den, I slipped out the bedroom window.

I never saw Cindy again.