11.

I RAN WITH all my might. A house located at the bottom of the hill had hedges all around its backyard. I hopped the fence and hid under the hedges. I'd have to lay low for a while because it was early afternoon and still light outside. I couldn't hitchhike out of town till dark.

After a while, I could hear Diane in her new car with some of the the kids as they drove back and forth pretending to look for me. They were laughing and joking too much to be doing any serious searching. I stayed under the hedge till it was completely dark and I was sure that neither Diane nor any cops were still looking for me. Then, I quietly slipped out from under the hedges, hopped back over the fence, and made my way to the familiar stump.

I had no fear and no hesitation. I was angry.

"Return me to that bitch?" I shouted to the sky. "Fuck you! I can take care of myself!"

I stuck out my thumb and quickly hitchhiked out of town.

Since running away the first time, I'd heard rumors about hitchhikers getting raped and beaten. I knew I needed to protect myself, so before leaving Maria's I had stolen a butter knife and put it in my sock. That was my "protection." Not a steak knife-a butter knife. What the fuck was I going to do with a butter knife? Still, you couldn't tell me I wasn't tough shit.

I caught a ride with a Mexican guy who took me to Ventura. I turned a trick with him.

I decided to hang out in Ventura. "Hanging out" meant doing whatever came my way: hanging out in front of a store with newfound friends; getting high with whomever, whenever; getting down with a petty crime for more get-high money; whatever. I'd been hanging out in Ventura for a few days when my money got low, my doper friends had no moneymaking schemes to hatch, and no one was picking up hitchhikers. So I decided to steal something. My plan was to steal some cigarettes and beer from a small liquor store and just hang out. But the clerk was smarter (and quicker) than I thought. She caught me putting beer cans down my pants. She had her son hold me while she called the cops.

The cops arrived to find me sobbing uncontrollably (like Diane, I had become an excellent actress). I usually lied to cops and told them I was three to four years older than I really was, but this time I revealed my real age. I sang my sad story about finding my mother dead and having no family and no place to go. The cops felt sorry for me.

I thought they would let me go. But my plan backfired. Instead of releasing me, they called in my name to find out where I belonged and then personally returned me to Diane's.

I didn't bother begging and pleading with them not to. I knew it was pointless. So after two weeks of absolute freedom, I was returned to hell. And, true to form, Diane beat the shit out of me. Didn't matter. Almost immediately, I was gone again.

I never again mentioned Diane's abuse to anyone.

This became the pattern: every few weeks I'd run away. When I was caught, I'd be placed in a home in whatever city I was caught in. If no home was available, I was returned to Diane's. The first couple of times, I'd called Daddy collect. He would cry as he told me his hands were tied and that no matter what he or Jr. tried, everyone said there was nothing they could do. After a while, I quit calling Daddy. It was useless and I didn't want to bring my pain and trouble down on him.

Running away, turning tricks, and hitchhiking seemed to go hand in hand. Since my experience with Candy and Money, I would never again stand on a corner to get tricks because it was too risky. Money's threat to kill me if he caught me on one of his corners, and info I'd heard here and there on the street, convinced me that pimps would kick my ass if I worked their corner without being in their stable. Also, being young and of school age, I knew I was more likely to be noticed by the cops if I stood in one place for an extended period.

Besides, it was easy enough getting my tricks hitchhiking because most folks who picked up hitchhikers wanted to turn a trick. For me, hitchhiking ended up being a double bonus: I got to make some money, and I got a free ride, although I was never going anywhere in particular; I just wanted a ride that was going away from whatever home I'd been placed in. Most of the time, I also got a free high or drink. I was no longer ashamed or bothered in any way by turning tricks. I was surviving and doing what I had to do. If it did start to bother me, I would just get high. By now, I got high on something every day.

Running away so often made me learn the laws of the street very fast. For example, I learned it was best to sleep somewhere covered and not too out in the open because other homeless people would fuck with you or try to steal your shoes. I learned to eat cheaply-when I did eat-which most times meant half-eaten hamburgers out of the trashcan of McDonald's. I'd watched some homeless people do it. At first, I said, "Ugh!" and turned up my nose at the thought. But, being hungry and with limited funds, I soon followed their lead.

Besides, I'd tell myself, after the never-ending beans and half-cooked meat you've had to endure, these trash-can burgers are like steak!

After that, I never felt much shame or disgust about it. I simply remembered that I was trying to survive. Anyway, eating was never my number-one priority-getting high was.

During these escapades, I learned about free clinics that gave free birth-control pills. Problem was, I stayed high so much that I had a hard time keeping up with them. I often forgot where I'd put them. Other times, I'd forget to take them, so I'd take two or three pills in an effort to make up for the missed ones. I figured it really didn't matter, though. I didn't think I could get pregnant. During my periods, I suffered horrific cramps and bled profusely-for days. I suspected that Pete had seriously damaged something inside me.

Diane never really seemed to mind my running away. It just gave her extra pleasure in mistreating me upon my return. And, I was always returned because I was a problem child. No one wanted problem children; they all wanted the cute children. I had long ceased being cute.

Nor did Diane fear any more accusations of abuse. The system wasn't asking, and the children weren't telling. Nor was she concerned about my health or safety during my running episodes. Diane got paid very well for me and Larry. So as long as the system continued paying her for keeping me, even during my absences (and they did), she could care less about where I was or what I was doing. (I later learned that she got paid twice for me and Larry. Larry and I were entitled to social security payments as orphans. Somehow Diane figured out how to get those checks and the foster care checks.) So, she didn't really mind my running away as long as she still got her checks. In fact, she stopped calling me by my name (when she used my name and not "bitch," "slut," "ho," "darky," etc.) and began calling me "Runaway, Child Runnin' Wild," after the title of a song by the Temptations.

Although Larry was also following this run awayreturn pattern, we always ran away and returned at alternating times. So once I left Hillcrest in San Diego, Larry and I never saw each other again.

12.

YOU GROW UP fast living on the streets. Very fast. I walked differently and talked differently than the little girl who'd found her mother dead.

I didn't think of turning tricks as prostitution. I saw it as a job: it afforded me food and shelter. If I turned enough tricks, I could get a halfway decent hotel room; if not, I slept where I could. If I turned enough tricks, I could eat. If not, I resorted to "trash can" burgers. Most importantly, turning tricks allowed me to buy drugs and booze that helped me forget my past, ignore the present, and be absolutely oblivious to the future.

I ran away so much that I got quite comfortable with hitchhiking. I'd stick out my thumb like it wasn't shit. And I'd get into anybody's car. No fear whatsoever-I had my butter knife!

One day after a night of heavy drinking, I woke up in a strange place. I was very groggy, so it took me a moment to realize I was in a bed.

But, whose bed? I didn't know. I tried to remember the events of the night before. I couldn't.

I lay there trying to remember whom I'd been with and what we'd done, when I suddenly realized that everything around me was white: the walls, the floor, even the ceiling! I kind of thought I knew where I was; however, the thought became a certainty when a short white woman walked in wearing a white dress, white stockings, and white shoes.

A nurse! I thought, excited that maybe I'd at least figured out where I was. I bet she's a nurse!

I waited until she leaned in close to check my IV before speaking.

"Are you a nurse?" I asked meekly. My voice was low and squeaky, probably because I still felt very weak.

"Why, yes!" she said, obviously happy that I'd recognized what she was.

"Where am I?"

She responded that I was in a hospital. When I asked why, she explained that I was found passed out on the street in the wee hours of the morning. I never thought to ask which morning.

"What's wrong with me?"

She paused for a moment as if trying to decide what, or how, to tell me. Then, she softly responded that I'd gotten alcohol poisoning.

Alcohol poisoning! Crazy white woman. Wasn't no such thing. At least, I'd never heard of such a thing. Rat poisoning, yes. I'd even tried it on an enemy or two. But, alcohol poisoning? No way could alcohol be poison. Only a few sips and any fool could tell it was happy juice!

She was fussing and carrying on about how I was too young to be drinking.

"How old are you, by the way?"

I lied and said I was sixteen.

"Where did you get it?"

"Get what?"

"The alcohol." She stared at me with a stern look on her face.

I said I didn't remember. It wasn't a lie. Then, she wanted to know my name. I told her it was "Suzie Sally Smith."

"Suzie Sallie Smith?" she repeated. "Your mom liked s's didn't she?" She laughed at her joke. I didn't. As she began fussing with the IV bottle, she said that now that they knew my name, she could contact my parents and tell them where I was and explain what happened.

"I'm sure they're terribly worried," she said with enthusiasm. I remained silent. She fussed with the IV bottle a little longer and then headed for the door. Just before she stepped through the doorway, she turned around and gave me a big smile. She instructed me not to worry, to get some rest, and that the doctor would see me in the morning.

Like hell he will, I snapped to myself.

I waited for her to leave and then yanked the IV out of my arm. I was too frantic to pay attention to the pain. I had to get the hell out of there before they figured out who I really was. I jumped out of bed and fell straight to the floor.

"Shit!" I screamed. Aware that I didn't have time to wait to get my bearings back, I crawled to the closet, hoping my clothes were on the floor or at least within arm's reach. Luckily, there they were piled in a heap on the floor like a pile of trash. I slowly got dressed, unaware that my shirt was on backward and inside out. By the time I'd got my pants on, my mind had cleared a little more. Slowly, I stood up, using the wall for support. Once I was sure I could stand, I staggered to the elevator. Amazingly, no one saw me. The nurses were too busy rushing to something the overhead speaker was announcing as a code blue. Once I hit the front door, I knew I was clear.

I trudged down the road a bit and stuck out my thumb. It wasn't long before a ride picked me up.

"Where you going?" the young white man behind the wheel asked as I hopped in.

"Wherever you are," I replied.

After we'd ridden for a few miles, he pulled out a joint and asked if I smoked.

"Of course!" I exclaimed as I took the joint and lit it. I must have been out of it for a while because the first hit made me cough like crazy.

"You okay?" he asked, alarmed at my intense hacking. I nodded that I was.

"You need something to rinse it down," he said as he reached under his seat and pulled out a beer. "You do drink, don't you?"

I didn't even respond. I just grabbed the can and popped it open.

And they said I had alcohol poisoning! I thought as I took a long swig of the beer. Bullshit! This stuff ain't poison. It's paradise!

I didn't know what city I was in when I left the hospital. I didn't know to what city the driver I'd hitched a ride with was going. I didn't care about either. So long as I was going.

He drove for about a half hour or so. Unfortunately, he didn't want to conduct any "business." No problem. The next ride did.

I partied, hitched, and conducted business for the next few days. The last ride dropped me off in Hollywood-a place I came to love. At night, the streets were filled with people, young and old, hanging out and partying. There seemed to be a nightclub on every corner, each with long lines of anxious partiers wanting to get in and get their groove on. But luckily for people like me, who either didn't have proper I.D., or didn't want to spend what lil money we had on a cover charge, there was always a free house party going on somewhere nearby. Nor were the parties limited to houses. Get a group of kids together and we'd party in the park, in the street, or behind a liquor store.

The greatest thing about the place was that runaways were everywhere. White kids, Mexican kids, and black kids, boys and girls, gay and straight. Some turning tricks to survive, others boosting for a living, some doing both. Some hoping to make it big in movies or music; others planning to get rich quick, though they weren't sure how; some chasing dreams, though they hadn't yet figured out what their dreams were. Regardless of their star-studded dreams or get-rich-quick schemes, they all seemed to get high, drink, or both. The police didn't seem to mind that so many unexplained kids were out at night. I mean, if they caught a kid doing a crime, they'd take him or her in, or if someone called the cops, they would come. But other than that, they didn't mess with us. We walked the streets at night without fear of being pulled over and questioned about why we weren't at "home." Maybe it was because they realized that trying to run us off was useless, or maybe they were off chasing real criminals. Most likely, it was because there were just too many of us.

Hollywood was a place where I felt completely free and totally uninhibited to be whoever I wanted, do what I wanted, whenever I wanted, for as long as I wanted. Still a "bird," I found those with like "feathers" no matter where I was. So Hollywood and I partied hard. So hard, in fact, that the specifics are just a blur. I remember faces, but not names; party scenes, but not exact locations. One night I was smoking weed and guzzling tequila shots in an apartment with a bunch of long-haired hippy-looking white kids; another night I partied in a park with a group of gay Mexican and black boys. What I do remember is that I was having a ball. I was like a kid in a candy store.

One day a druggie friend invited me to a party that night that he promised would be jammin'. When I got there, I grabbed a drink, stood in the corner, and checked out the crowd. It was a nice mix-blacks, whites, a couple of Mexicans, an equal amount of men and women. There was coke in the kitchen and booze in the dining room. Once the dope kicked in and the booze told me I was feeling good, I decided I wanted to dance. But no one was dancing; everyone was standing around talking. I didn't want to talk. I wanted to dance.

Fuck 'em, I told myself. I began dancing by myself. It wasn't long before others followed my lead. The dance floor was soon crowded.

A man was standing up against the wall, chillin' and checking out the center of the living room where the crowd danced. Although I was in the center of the crowd, I was still dancing by myself. Jeffrey Osborne and L.T.D. were informing us that when they party, they partied hearty. I wasn't aware that the man against the wall had begun checking me out.

Once the record was over, it was time for another drink. I left the dance floor and headed for the bar-a long table covered with booze. As I passed the man against the wall, he grabbed my arm and said he liked the way I danced. I thanked him and continued on my mission to the bar. He followed me and we began to talk. His name was Tim. He was twenty-five. I actually told him my real age-thirteen. (I had become partial to older men.) He was a tall, thin light-skinned black man with light brown eyes and round thick lips. He wore his hair in a huge afro.

We hit it off immediately. We talked about all sorts of stuff: where we came from (he was from Texas, me from San Diego); our favorite drugs (he liked weed, I liked anything that was free); and favorite foods (his was hamburgers, mine was anything that was free). He said he liked my sense of humor and carefree personality.

I felt comfortable around Tim because he didn't ask too many personal questions, like where was my mom and dad, though he did comment that I looked and acted older than thirteen. He never asked me why a girl so young was at a party of obviously much older people. In fact, he only asked questions about superficial, immaterial stuff.

Another thing I liked about Tim was that he didn't try to have sex with me right away, probably because we were so busy getting high. Still, it intrigued me because that's the first thing men usually did. We spent the evening getting drunk and high, laughing and talking. I fell in love instantly, or what I thought was love (in my mind, if I was willing to have sex with a guy without expecting to be paid, it had to be love). I loved him for several reasons. First, he saw me as more than just a piece of ass. He asked about my hopes, dreams, and fears. Though I'd never actually thought about that kind of stuff, I thought up quick answers to give him. I told him I hoped to stay in Hollywood forever, dreamed of becoming an actress, and feared running out of dope. But mostly, I think I loved Tim because he said he loved me.

Tim lived with his elderly mother and hung out all day running his business, which was selling pills-uppers and downers-known on the street as black beauties, yellow jackets, and red devils. As his girlfriend, I got as many pills as I wanted-for free. I also loved Tim because what money he didn't use to "re-up" and buy more pills, he used to refill my arsenal of other favorites-booze, weed, LSD, and cocaine. Another great thing about Tim was that he didn't like the idea of me turning tricks, so he fed me and let me live with him so I wouldn't have to sleep on the streets. He'd just sneak me into his mother's house at night after she went to bed.

We lived this way-selling dope, hanging out, and getting high-for a little over a month. I loved my life in Hollywood and was beginning to think that maybe this was something I could do for a while.

One day, Tim and I were hanging out at a nearby liquor store. Because the store was so close to his house, he went there regularly to buy booze, so the clerks knew him and didn't complain about his hanging out in front. Most of his clients knew he hung out there too. It wasn't unusual for a client and Tim to take a walk around to the back of the building to handle business. We were hanging at the store, drinking beer, and talking shit with acquaintances who intermittently passed by when Tim told me that he had to go home to get something he'd forgotten. He didn't say what it was or why it was so important that he get it right then. I was sitting on a milk carton enjoying my buzz and the warm Southern California sun. I wasn't in the mood to move, so I told him I'd sit tight and wait for him to return. He never did.

A few hours later one of his clients came running up to me shouting that he'd just seen Tim get busted with some pills. Seems he sold some yellow jackets to an undercover. He was swiftly carted off to jail. Those sales and possession charges, along with a couple of outstanding warrants, meant that he would be locked up for a while. I had nowhere to go.

I was hanging out at a park a few days later, trying to figure out what to do, when some cops noticed me. It was a school day and I wasn't in school. They scooped me up, and before I knew what had happened, I was returned to Diane's. But this return was like no other before it. Before long, I was even happy about it.

13.

I FOUND NOTHING odd about the fact that I couldn't stand the smell of chicken being fried. Nor did I find it weird that I'd begun throwing up in the mornings and couldn't hold food down. At first, I thought it was a bug or maybe just a natural reaction to the nasty-ass food Diane shoved at us.

It was Diane who told me I was pregnant.

"Ya lil fast bitch!" she shouted at me. "You done fucked around and now society's gonna be stuck with another worthless nigga chile!"

Pregnant? Me? I didn't believe her. I'd never thought of having children. I'd been having so much fun hitchhiking, hanging out, and getting high, I'd never seriously thought about getting pregnant. I figured it was my innate flyness that had allowed me to roam the state, forget to take my birth-control pills, and behave promiscuously with no repercussions.

Diane sent me to the doctor, who confirmed that I was indeed pregnant-almost three months. Although Diane lied and told the doctor I was seventeen (instead of thirteen), he was still shocked that I was pregnant so young. I was delighted at the idea that finally I was going to have someone who loved me and someone I could love. I decided it was time to start living right, because now I had someone to take care of, someone to look after.

Diane hated the fact that I was pregnant. She said I made her "look bad" because we were one of the few black families in town, and, just as white society expected, one of us had ended up barefoot and pregnant. Diane wanted me to have an abortion. At first she tried to force me to have one. In fact, it wasn't until the abortion clinic told her that I couldn't be forced to do it that she finally gave up on the idea.

She took me to the thrift shop and bought me two maternity tops, but she refused to buy me any maternity pants. So I had to wear my regular pants, unzipped and hanging open below my quickly growing belly. She also immediately took me out of the regular junior high and put me in a school for pregnant girls. I didn't care. All I cared about was having and loving my baby.

I tried to call Tim, but his mom wouldn't accept my collect calls. One of my fellow pregnant school friends took me to her house and let me use her phone to call the county jail to see if Tim was still there. He was. I wrote a letter telling him he was going to be a father. I didn't hear back from him. But I told myself that I didn't care. The only thing that was important was my baby, and we'd be just fine without him.

Life at Diane's didn't change because I was pregnant. I didn't get more food, nor were my chores reduced. In fact, they were increased. She said I should do more because I had brought inexcusable shame on the black race. I didn't care.

I don't know what pissed Diane off more: the fact that I was pregnant or the fact that I was happy about it. She absolutely abhorred seeing me exhibiting any kind of joy. And, in a perverse sort of way, her displeasure added to my happiness. I loved being pregnant. I started going to school every day, and for the first time since I was eleven years old, I didn't drink and only smoked weed.

Around my sixth month I finally heard from Tim. He was out of jail and ecstatic about our baby. He promised to get himself together and help me and the child. He said his mom was sending him to Texas because L.A. was nothing but trouble for him. He said that once he got a job and a place to stay, he'd send for us. Diane said he was "full of shit." But I believed him. I had to. His interest in the baby gave me renewed hope of finally leaving Lancaster forever. More important, his declared love for us invalidated Diane's put-downs of black men as worthless men and irresponsible fathers. He promised to call again. I would sit by the phone, staring at it, waiting for it to ring, and, when it did, hoping it was Tim. But it never was.

- I was six months pregnant when Diane unleashed her worst abuse on me to date, though physically she never did a thing.

Diane, Connie, and the other three foster girls were standing around in the garage talking, when Diane called me out there. I thought nothing of it. I figured she probably wanted me to clean something (when she got in a cleaning frenzy, no area was off-limits-not even the garage). As I waddled toward them, Diane stepped back, leaving Connie and the three foster girls facing me in a semicircle.

"What's up?" I asked as I waddled closer.