Lightning

guilty about that. I tried hard to be a good foster daughter to them, and they were happy with me. What happened was that life dropped a big custard pie on us, and that's not my fault; you can never see the custard pies coming. It's not good slapstick if you see the pie coming."
    "Custard pie?" he asked, perplexed. "You see life as slapstick comedy? Like the Three Stooges?"
    "Partly."
    "Life is just a joke then?"
    "No. Life is serious
and
a joke at the same time."
    "But how can that be?"
    "If you don't know," she said, "maybe I should be the one asking the questions here."
    She filled many pages of her current notebook with observations about Dr. Will Boone. Of her unknown guardian, however, she wrote nothing. She tried not to think of him, either. He had failed her. Laura had come to depend on him; his heroic efforts on her behalf had made her feel
special
, and feeling special had helped her cope since her father's death. Now she felt foolish for ever looking beyond herself for survival. She still had the note he had left on her desk after her father's funeral, but she no longer reread it. And day by day her guardian's previous efforts on her behalf seemed more like fantasies akin to those of Santa Claus, which must be outgrown.

    On Christmas afternoon they returned to their room with the gifts they received from charities and do-gooders. They wound up in a sing-along of holiday songs, and both Laura and the twins were amazed when Tammy joined in. She sang in a low, tentative voice.
    Over the next couple of weeks she nearly ceased biting her nails altogether. She was only slightly more outgoing than usual, but she seemed calmer, more content with herself than she had ever been.
    "When there's no perv around to bother her," Thelma said, "maybe she gradually starts to feel clean again."

    Friday, January 12, 1968, was Laura's thirteenth birthday, but she did not celebrate it. She could find no joy in the occasion.
    On Monday, she was transferred from Mcllroy to Caswell Hall, a shelter for older children in Anaheim, five miles away.
    Ruth and Thelma helped her carry her belongings downstairs to the front foyer. Laura had never imagined that she would so intensely regret leaving Mcllroy.
    "We'll be coming in May," Thelma assured her. "We turn thirteen on May second, and then we're out of here. We'll be together again."
    When the social worker from Caswell arrived, Laura was reluctant to go. But she went.

    Caswell Hall was an old high school that had been converted to dormitories, recreational lounges, and offices for social workers. As a result the atmosphere was more institutional than at Mcllroy.
    Caswell was also more dangerous than Mcllroy because the kids were older and because many were borderline juvenile delinquents. Marijuana and pills were available, and fights among the boys— and even among the girls—were not infrequent. Cliques formed, as they had at Mcllroy, but at Caswell some of the cliques were perilously close in structure and function to street gangs. Thievery was common.
    Within a few weeks Laura realized that there were two types of survivors in life: those, like her, who found the requisite strength in having once been loved with great intensity; and those who, having not been loved, learned to thrive on hatred, suspicion, and the meager rewards of revenge. They were at once scornful of the need for human feeling and envious of the capacity for it.
    She lived with great caution at Caswell but never allowed fear to diminish her. The thugs were frightening but also pathetic and, in their posturing and rituals of violence, even funny. She found no one like the Ackersons with whom to share the black humor, so she filled her notebooks with it. In those neatly written monologues, she turned inward while she waited for the Ackersons to be thirteen; that was an intensely rich time of self-discovery and increasing understanding of the slapstick, tragic world into which she had been born.
    On Saturday, March 30, she was in her room at Caswell, reading, when she heard one of her roomies—a whiny girl named Fran Wickert—talking to another girl in the hall, discussing a fire in which kids had been killed. Laura was eavesdropping with only half an ear until she heard the word "Mcllroy."
    A chill pierced her, freezing her heart, numbing her hands. She dropped the book and raced into the hallway, startling the girls. "When? When was this fire?"
    "Yesterday," Fran said.
    "How many were k-killed?"
    "Not