The Lost Boy by Dave Pelzer Page B

and graceful, became chicken scratch.
    At Aunt Mary’s my awkward sense of humor and naive excitability made me popular with the older foster children. Whenever some of them were granted permission to leave Mary’s home for the afternoon, I was allowed to tag along. Sometimes they stole candy bars from the local grocery stores. Wanting total acceptance and having already stolen food for years, I immediately followed their lead. If someone stole two candy bars, I stole four. It seemed so easy to me that after a few afternoon trips, I became a legend within the group. I was fully aware that what I was doing was wrong. I also knew that some of the bigger boys were using me, but I didn’t care. After years of isolation, I was finally accepted within a group.
    My stealing was done within the foster home as well. Waiting until everyone was outside, I’d sneak into the kitchen and take slices of bread and stash them under my pillow. Then late at night I’d sit up on my bed and nibble on my prize, like a mouse nibbling on a piece of cheese. One Sunday afternoon I grew tired of bread and decided to steal Dolly Madison cupcakes from the freezer. In the early morning hours I awoke to find an army of ants leading to the head of my bed. As quickly and quietly as I could, I tiptoed to the bathroom and flushed my goodies, along with the ants, down the toilet. The next day, as Aunt Mary prepared our lunches for school, she discovered the missing desserts and blamed Teresa, one of the other foster children.
    Even though Teresa was severely scolded and grounded to her room after school that day, I remained silent. I didn’t steal from Aunt Mary’s home for the thrill of it, but only to have a ready-made storage of food in case I ever became hungry.
    It didn’t take long for Aunt Mary to discover that I was the one responsible for the missing food. From that moment on, Aunt Mary eyed me carefully around her home and did her best to restrict my afternoon adventures. At first I felt ashamed because I had betrayed her trust and kindness. But on the other hand, I simply didn’t care what “Old Maid” Aunt Mary thought of me. My only concern was total acceptance by the older foster children.
    My welcome at Aunt Mary’s was probably worn out even before the first week of July, when I was placed in my first permanent foster home. Just as before, when the police officer had driven me to Aunt Mary’s for the first time, I couldn’t wait to see the new home. My new foster mother, Lilian Catanze, greeted Ms Gold and me at the door. As I followed Mrs Catanze and Ms Gold up the wide, open stairs that led into the living room, I tightly clutched a brown grocery bag containing all my worldly possessions. The night before, I made sure to pack my bag and keep it close to my side.
    I knew from experience that if I left anything behind, I would never see it again. I was shocked when I first witnessed the foster children who transformed into frenzied piranhas whenever a child left Aunt Mary’s home. Within seconds of the child’s departure, the others would swarm through the room, checking under the bed, in the closets and through the clothes hamper – everywhere – searching for clothes, toys or other valuables. The ultimate prize was to find a stash of money. I quickly discovered that it didn’t matter whether the thieves needed or even desired the items. Possession of an article, any article, meant trading power for other things -household chores, late-night desserts or an exchange for money. As usual, I adapted quickly, and joined in the hunt whenever a child left. I learned that rather than walking a child to the car and wishing him or her good luck, I would instead say my good-byes in Aunt Mary’s home … and then stay close to the departing child’s room so I could have a head start on the other kids. But as a sign of respect, we all knew to never enter a room until the child had left. I also learned that deals were usually made the