don’t you ever say anything?” I snapped.
“And why don’t you ever tell the truth, young lady?” he spit back. “The Mosses run one of our finest foster homes, and you were trying to ruin it for everyone.”
My head exploded with a kaleidoscope of colors. For a second my mother’s face radiated sunshine yellow, then it flared into orange and then bright, burning red—the color of fire, the color of hate, the color of my hair. I was a fire child, a furious child, my gut clamped over a molten core radiating my hostility. Mrs. Moss might have gotten away with it this time, but not forever. To quell my feelings of hopelessness and anger, I chewed on the side of my thumb until it was raw. Someday my mother and I would show up and demand the release of Luke and our possessions—and then that witch would be sorry!
As we drove on, I slumped into my seat. Slowly, the red receded, and blurry blues surrounded me. By the time Mr. Ferris dumped me at the Lake Magdalene Children’s shelter, my mood had faded toward gray. The residential campus, which took kids who had no place else to go, had small houses clustered around dismal, sun-parched lawns. I moved into Shelter Three.
A counselor unpacked my plastic bag. “That’s all you have?”
“Oh, no, but they didn’t let me take everything,” I said, because I still hoped there would be a way to get my precious possessions from the sheds.
“We have a clothes room where you can pick out whatever you like.”
“Do I have to share my outfits?” I asked.
She gave me a funny look. “That’s not allowed here.”
I smiled for the first time that day.
Then she noticed my hands. “My word, girl, what’s wrong with your thumb?” My biting had left it looking like raw hamburger. “You wash that with soap; otherwise, it will get infected,” she said in a voice more maternal than angry.
Dinner in the shelter was even better than lunch at school because I could have as much as I wanted. Best of all, the beds had clean sheets with a fresh, floral smell and the air was deliciously cool.
The girls in my shelter were all older. My roommate, Ella, was fourteen and had a baby who lived with off-campus foster parents. Some of the most difficult kids lived in a dormitory, which also contained a padded restraining room. Fortunately, the staff hardly ever reprimanded me. When a caseworker visited, my counselor told her, “She’s not a girl, she’s a little lady.”
I remember watching Sir Mix-a-Lot’s “Baby Got Back” video on MTV. The older girls would mimic the backup dancers’ routine. “C’mon, Ashley,” Ella urged, “you gotta shake your booty, girl. Shake it!”
The girls snickered when they heard me sing along with the lyrics. “You don’t know what that’s about,” Latoya, one of the toughest girls, teased.
“Do too.”
“Okay then, what’s an anaconda?”
A staff member called out, “You’re all going to be late for school!”
“What’s an anaconda?” I asked the counselor when they were gone.
“A big snake, why?”
I attended the Dorothy Thomas Center, the on-campus school. Since most of the students were transient and many had behavior problems, the curriculum was designed more to keep us out of trouble than on grade level. My best friend in class was Tyler. He wore box-frame glasses and had unruly brown hair. One afternoon he asked if I wanted to join the softball game that was about to start.
Someone called out, “But she’s a girl!”
“Maybe she could be in the outfield,” Tyler yelled back.
“I’m a really good pitcher,” I bragged.
“Oh yeah? Prove it!” A lanky boy turned, spit in the sand, and then tossed me a ball.
After a few hard throws and catches they decided I knew what I was doing, but I did not have a glove. When it was my turn to pitch, Tyler, who was on the other team, came up to bat. I threw the ball a little softer so he was sure to get a good hit. Wham! The ball flew straight back to me. I caught it
“And why don’t you ever tell the truth, young lady?” he spit back. “The Mosses run one of our finest foster homes, and you were trying to ruin it for everyone.”
My head exploded with a kaleidoscope of colors. For a second my mother’s face radiated sunshine yellow, then it flared into orange and then bright, burning red—the color of fire, the color of hate, the color of my hair. I was a fire child, a furious child, my gut clamped over a molten core radiating my hostility. Mrs. Moss might have gotten away with it this time, but not forever. To quell my feelings of hopelessness and anger, I chewed on the side of my thumb until it was raw. Someday my mother and I would show up and demand the release of Luke and our possessions—and then that witch would be sorry!
As we drove on, I slumped into my seat. Slowly, the red receded, and blurry blues surrounded me. By the time Mr. Ferris dumped me at the Lake Magdalene Children’s shelter, my mood had faded toward gray. The residential campus, which took kids who had no place else to go, had small houses clustered around dismal, sun-parched lawns. I moved into Shelter Three.
A counselor unpacked my plastic bag. “That’s all you have?”
“Oh, no, but they didn’t let me take everything,” I said, because I still hoped there would be a way to get my precious possessions from the sheds.
“We have a clothes room where you can pick out whatever you like.”
“Do I have to share my outfits?” I asked.
She gave me a funny look. “That’s not allowed here.”
I smiled for the first time that day.
Then she noticed my hands. “My word, girl, what’s wrong with your thumb?” My biting had left it looking like raw hamburger. “You wash that with soap; otherwise, it will get infected,” she said in a voice more maternal than angry.
Dinner in the shelter was even better than lunch at school because I could have as much as I wanted. Best of all, the beds had clean sheets with a fresh, floral smell and the air was deliciously cool.
The girls in my shelter were all older. My roommate, Ella, was fourteen and had a baby who lived with off-campus foster parents. Some of the most difficult kids lived in a dormitory, which also contained a padded restraining room. Fortunately, the staff hardly ever reprimanded me. When a caseworker visited, my counselor told her, “She’s not a girl, she’s a little lady.”
I remember watching Sir Mix-a-Lot’s “Baby Got Back” video on MTV. The older girls would mimic the backup dancers’ routine. “C’mon, Ashley,” Ella urged, “you gotta shake your booty, girl. Shake it!”
The girls snickered when they heard me sing along with the lyrics. “You don’t know what that’s about,” Latoya, one of the toughest girls, teased.
“Do too.”
“Okay then, what’s an anaconda?”
A staff member called out, “You’re all going to be late for school!”
“What’s an anaconda?” I asked the counselor when they were gone.
“A big snake, why?”
I attended the Dorothy Thomas Center, the on-campus school. Since most of the students were transient and many had behavior problems, the curriculum was designed more to keep us out of trouble than on grade level. My best friend in class was Tyler. He wore box-frame glasses and had unruly brown hair. One afternoon he asked if I wanted to join the softball game that was about to start.
Someone called out, “But she’s a girl!”
“Maybe she could be in the outfield,” Tyler yelled back.
“I’m a really good pitcher,” I bragged.
“Oh yeah? Prove it!” A lanky boy turned, spit in the sand, and then tossed me a ball.
After a few hard throws and catches they decided I knew what I was doing, but I did not have a glove. When it was my turn to pitch, Tyler, who was on the other team, came up to bat. I threw the ball a little softer so he was sure to get a good hit. Wham! The ball flew straight back to me. I caught it
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