The Lost Boy

on the outside I didn’t fit in, so I simply gave up trying. At times I played the role of class clown, but for the most part I didn’t care what my classmates thought of me. Whenever they bragged about their weekend ski trips, I’d think about how I could squeeze in an extra hour of work.
    One Friday, a few weeks before I graduated from Parkside Junior High, a group of rich kids were bragging about their upcoming graduation and plans of going to Disneyland or traveling to Hawaii first-class. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I ran from the bus stop that afternoon and nearly knocked down the screen door to Alice’s home. “What is it?” she shrieked.
    I gulped down a glass of water before answering. I was pushing 16 and did not know how to cook for myself. Alice assured me that she would teach me when the time came. I persisted. I wanted to learn how to cook
now.
I gave her one of my serious looks, the kind I had learned from Mrs Catanze, who always placed her hands on her hips. It worked. Even though Alice had just cleaned her home for their bridge party, which would be held in just a couple of hours, she decided to teach me how to make pancakes.
    Alice’s decision was her undoing. In a matter of minutes I went through two boxes of Bisquick pancake mix, four dozen eggs and two gallons of milk. Every square inch of the gas stove was covered with the thick, white, gooey mix, and the ceiling was splattered with a few well-intended tossed pancakes. The floor looked as if a blizzard had blown through, and every time Alice or I shuffled across it, we nearly suffocated from the clouds of white powder. The strain on her face was quite visible, but she laughed with me – and I didn’t quit until I made the perfect pancake.
    Every day seemed to hold a new adventure. Sometimes after school, I’d play on the living-room floor with my Legos or my Erector set, while other times I was the little big man, returning to Alice’s home after school just long enough to change clothes before zipping off to work at one of my jobs. For the first time, I had a real life.
    By July of 1976 my life took another turn. I grew tired of riding my bike to work every morning, while everyone else was still fast asleep. Then one afternoon, after a frustrating day on the job, I returned from work to find that not one, but two older foster boys had moved in. I took an instant dislike to one of the boys, Bruce, partly because I had to share a room with him and partly because I knew he got away with conning Alice blind. Even though both boys were 17, they didn’t seem too concerned about supporting themselves. I began to resent them both. Whenever I pedaled off to work, they spent the day at the mall with Alice. In an odd sense I felt threatened and violated by their presence. I knew my childlike times with Alice were over, but I just wanted to hang on a little bit longer before I had to grow up.
    After a few weeks, I discovered that my stash of money and some of the things I had bought through my earnings were missing. At first I thought I had misplaced my items, but one day, for no special reason, I had had enough. I marched up to Alice and demanded that either they leave or I would. I knew I sounded like a spoiled brat, but I could no longer tolerate trying to hide my things all the time, wondering at work how to make up for the stolen money. Everything I had worked so hard for slowly disappeared. I hoped Alice would give in, but I soon found myself packing. I felt like a complete fool leaving the Turnboughs. To me it was a matter of honor – if I said something, I had to be responsible for my word.
    I stayed at juvenile hall for a few weeks until my new probation officer, Mrs O’Ryan, placed me with John and Linda Walsh, a young couple in their 20s who had three kids. John had long black hair and played piano in a rock-and-roll band, while Linda was a beauty consultant at the local Walgreens drugstore. They were both very nice, and I was extremely surprised by their carefree attitude. They pretty much allowed me to do as I pleased. When I wanted to buy a minibike, John said yes. One day when I timidly asked John if he could drive me to the local sport shop so I could buy a BB gun, he replied, “Let’s go.” I was stunned. I would have never even thought of asking Mr or Mrs Turnbough, but John didn’t even blink. His only condition was that he had to teach me gun safety, and I could only shoot against paper targets under his