Cathy ~ You liked Paul, but he didn't like you. That made you angry. You wore flaming red hair from a box and went heavy on the eyeliner. You were a bitchy little thing, often argued with our foster mother while insisting that you'd slept with Paul "lots and lots of times" and she argued that you hadn't, that you were "full of it." I still don't understand why you'd say that. You died of an overdose before you were twenty.
Shelli ~ Standing at more than 6 feet tall, your blond hair spent the summers sprayed with Sun-In and you cut it nearly every week. You gave yourself tattoos with a needle wrapped at one end in thread, and you said the eff-word in nearly every sentence. You smoked Marlboro reds. You dressed like a rocker chick and heated your eyeliner pencil with a cigarette lighter before drawing it along your lower lids. Every once in a while you'd sneak a jumbo into your room after visiting with your mother for the weekend. Using liquid makeup and a Q-Tip, you could alter your ID so that you could get into bars and drink, even at sixteen. You tried to intimidate others. You threatened me once, but I told you that if you ever hit me, I'd make sure I'd hurt you and I meant it. You responded only by laughing, but you never bothered me again. I didn't know that drinking would end up claiming you and I'm sorry for that.
Angie ~ Our foster mother loved you because you were like a chubby little cherub. You made her laugh like none of us could, she said. You had curly blond hair, jaunticed skin with acne and a little lisp for which we affectionately nicknamed you Winnie the Pooh. You loved Journey, "Street lights. People. Ohhh." You became a single mother at 15 years old, but our foster mother wanted to adopt you. That confused the heck out of us.
Tina ~ Dark brown eyes and bleach blond hair with split ends, and you thought you were fat even though you weighed 108 pounds. I'd teach you how to sing harmony parts to songs like Human League's "Don't You Want Me" and if we had kitchen duty together, we'd immediately abandon the bubbling pot of goulash or dicing green peppers for the spanish rice. We'd face each other, cooking utensil in hand and sing the crap out of those songs when they were on the radio. We always finished with our eyes closed in bliss followed by a hearty round of laughter especially if the harmony was spot on. Drugs. Again.