“Ward of the court,” Marta said right away. “My cousin Vicky did that. Mother beating on her, her dad was hitting on her, the judge put her in a foster home, and then later she got a place by herself. That’s it, I love it!” Jake was already shaking his head, but Marta slapped her hand on the table and raised her voice, looking over at her brother. “That’s it, Jenny! You get your own place, and I’ll come and live with you, and we don’t tell my damn family where we are.”

“My mom doesn’t beat on me,” I said. “She wouldn’t know how.” That made me feel funny, I remember, thinking about Sally and how she wouldn’t know how to hit anybody. I said, “Anyway, I mostly don’t mind living with her. I just don’t want to live with her in England, that’s all.”

Jake said, “You want to avoid stepfathers. Just on principle.” He was on his second then, and his mother was already lining up Number Three. I said, “Count on it.”

“Ward of the court,” Marta said again. “I’m telling you, Jenny.”

We bussed our trays, and then we went off to our special place, where they keep the trash cans, because Jake had one small joint, about the size of a bobby pin. Marta got giggly, but it didn’t do much for Jake or me. Jake said it was a question of body mass.

After lunch, Marta and I had Introduction to Drama together. Jake got off early because he and his parents went to family counseling on Wednesdays. Usually I liked Introduction to Drama, but lately I’d been having a problem with the teacher, Mr.