“Doesn’t matter. I can paint better here in my room, away from those assholes. And another good thing is, I’m taking psychology instead and it’s fascinating. We’re studying the Myers-Briggs thing? It’s this mother-daughter psychologist team. The mom met the daughter’s boyfriend and probably hated him, so she got all compelled to make up these trait and personality categorizations based on Jungian philosophy. I have learned that I put the J in INFJ.”

She was so smart. Hard to keep up. She obviously wanted to change the subject, so I followed. “What?”

“INFJ. Introverted, intuitive, feeling, judging. I judge the crap out of people and situations, which I used to think is a bad thing, but, truthfully, human existence essentially consists of going through each day making a series of value judgments. I judge that eating salad is better than scarfing cake. Not getting wasted is better than being a worthless drunk. Katiana are a pair of shallow bitches who lack self-esteem and empathy, so they work hard to make other people feel scared and miserable, which makes them feel better. I judge it, and it is so.”

Her candor was so refreshing. “What other kinds are there?” I asked. “Myers-Briggs, what am I?”

She tipped her head at me. “I need to know you better. But I’ll figure you out. Francine is an ISFJ: introverted, sensing, feeling, judging. It’s a good one. Beyoncé is an ISFJ.”

Fascinating. “Is there a JJJJ? Because that’s probably me.”

She laughed. “We’ll make it one. But I have to say, it doesn’t seem like you.”

“No, it is. I’m the worst. I get mad when people decide who I am before they know me, but then I Judge Judy them all day long. I try so hard not to, but people. Adults.”

“Well,” she said, “you’ve probably earned that.” She treaded carefully. “Were they all awful? The foster parents?”

“No,” I said. “No, not them, it’s just—everyone. The parents, the foster parents, the social workers. They all want to help, but then a lot of them act like it’s their job to treat us, treat me, like…My Joellen, my social worker, she says they treat us like ‘unreliable narrators in our own experience.’ Like they know better and we can’t possibly understand our own lives as well as they do.”

She sat there. Still listening.

“I’m so close to being out. I’m good and obedient and understanding year after year just so I have some leverage to have the tiniest bit of choice in what happens to me, but all this time is, like, whittling my patience away. It’s sort of sharpening a…like, a stick of judgment that I use to stab anyone over the age of thirty.”