And she was gone. I went to get Mrs. Noodle from the closet and curled up on Mama’s bed.

She came back and woke me up the next day, smelling like she had been in a forest fire. She’d brought me cold french fries in a greasy napkin for breakfast.

The state’s Child Protective Services removed me from my squalid little life when I was six years old and placed me in foster care. Jocelyn was the only child of older parents who’d died years earlier after retiring to the Mobile area, so there was no alternative. My father was an unknown quantity, though I was sure he’d been an addict, too. Let’s just say my family crest would’ve featured bottles.

I had no memories of my first foster home, but the second was too present in my mind. I lived with the Randalls and their five other revolving fosters from the age of six until I was ten. They had two biological children as well, daughters named Heather and Danielle who were dark-haired beauties; tall, popular, skinny and highly favored over the rest of us. We were there to generate a monthly check for the Randall Family Foster Farm. I learned not to get too close to the ever-changing roster of kids who came and went. I prayed a lot for the day I’d go.

Heather was sixteen and in another world altogether, but Danielle was my age. She and I were usually in the same classes in school and she did everything possible to avoid me. Heather and Danielle got their clothes from the mall while mine mostly came from Mrs. Randall’s Goodwill forages.

The Randalls were very involved in their Baptist church. We attended services Sunday morning and evening as well as Wednesday night. Mr. Randall believed strongly in discipline, usually carried out via willow switch on bare legs. Cursing might get you a whipping, but taking the lord’s name in vain made one a certainty. I learned early on to substitute the “Jesus!” I’d learned from my mother with Danielle’s slightly less punishable “Jeez Louise.” To this day I might say a really nasty word here and there, but Jeez Louise is usually my reflexive response to surprise or disgust.

When we were eight, Mrs. Randall decided we should join a local Girl Scout troop. She even accompanied us to sell cookies in front of the grocery store to fund a summer trip to camp. It was the first time I felt included in any fun family activity and I sold more than my share of Thin Mints. Danielle treated me nicely in front of her mother, of course, and other girls from our troop did, too. When we were alone, I was shunned.