Mrs. Smith Brought

her whole family to Sticky’s foster care pad for the pickup: Mr. Smith with his Coke-bottle glasses; Tammie and Jamie, their two well-developed and wide-eyed daughters (seventeen and fifteen); and Johnny, their seven-year-old son with the two missing front teeth. Sticky was fourteen when they pulled along the curb in a sparkling white minivan. When they filed out wearing big smiles and hustled up the driveway together.

This was Sticky’s third try at finding a family that fit. Mr. and Mrs. Smith shook hands with all the counselors. Mrs. Smith placed her hand on the old Mexican director’s shoulder like they were old friends and told him: We both have degrees in social work. She turned and smiled at her husband. So don’t worry, we know what we’re getting into.

All the counselors nodded their heads. They smiled, too.

When Sticky came walking into the office with his bag, Mrs. Smith gave him a long tight hug. She pressed his cheek against hers and told him: Welcome to our family. Then she tousled his hair with her hand.

Sticky bristled under all that touch.

Mr. Smith walked up when it was his turn, wrapped hairy arms around Sticky’s stiff frame and squeezed. We know about the troubles you’ve had finding the right home, he said, pulling his face away and fishing for Sticky’s eye. Well, that search is over now. He placed a soft hand on the back of Sticky’s head and took a deep breath. Young man, he said, I’m going to let you know this right up front, the only way you’re going to see this place again is if you want to visit a friend. Either that or I drop dead of a heart attack.

Honey! Mrs. Smith said, poking her husband in the arm. That’s a terrible thing to say.

Well, that’s how strongly I feel about this, sweetheart.

Mrs. Smith blushed and looked at the old Mexican director. Hopefully it’s just to see a friend, right? she said. I mean, my God .

The director nodded.

Let’s hope, Mr. Smith said, and he laughed.

Tammie walked up and gave Sticky a hug, told him: We’re really happy to have you.

Jamie giggled a little and hugged him next. Nice to meet you, she said.

Mrs. Smith shot a look at little Johnny, and he timidly stepped up for the hug too. Do you like the Dodgers? he asked as they separated, and everybody laughed. Sticky nodded.

Then the Smiths loaded all their own kids, plus Sticky, into the van and drove off toward their home in Oxnard.

The only problem was, by the time the Smiths got their hands on Sticky he’d already started to figure out who he was supposed to be. How he was supposed to fit in. And for the first time in his life he was determined to play the role.

The Smiths tried their hardest to treat Sticky like one of their own. Bought him new shirts, new jeans, shoes and socks. Mrs. Smith cooked dinner every night. But Sticky was trying even harder to be a thug. On the way to those dinners he would cruise past a crowded park and ride home on somebody’s unlocked ten-speed.

The Smiths set up “family hour.” Every night they’d all sit around the living room with the TV off and talk about their days. Something good that happened and something not so good. But the first week Sticky missed a meeting. He was hanging out in a baseball dugout on the other side of town with some kids from school. A pack of black dudes who stayed in a local group home. Two crazy Mexican cats who somehow managed to smuggle beers from their dads’ stashes.

The second week Sticky missed two meetings. One of the black dudes showed up with a stack of old Playboys. One of the Mexican dudes brought smokes. They started setting up meetings of their own after school. Told people they were forming a new gang. Every night, as the sun set over the right-field fence, they’d file into the dugout with new recruits and try to one-up each other. The shadier the show-and-tell, the bigger the impression.

After a month Sticky stopped showing up to “family hour” completely.

He started skipping certain classes to smoke out behind the track-and-field shed. A couple hits off a buddy’s blunt and he’d be flying above the goalposts. Or he’d bail out on school altogether and cruise down to the arcade with his boys. Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat, old-school Mr. Do! and Police Trainer.

Foosball.

One night when Sticky walked into the house, Mr. and Mrs. Smith were sitting at the kitchen table waiting for him. Sticky, Mrs. Smith said, could we talk to you for a minute?

Grab a chair, son, Mr. Smith said.

Sticky took a seat and Mrs. Smith held up his report card: five Fs and a C in PE.

Now, this is just a progress report, son, Mr. Smith said. You have a chance to turn this around if you put forth the effort .

But it’s unacceptable, Mrs. Smith said. We called the school and your attendance is horrific. Why aren’t you going to class?

Mr. Smith took his wife’s hand and told her: All right now, sweetheart, this is about turning things around from here. We have to remember to look forward.

I know it, honey. OK.

I think the boy needs to know that we believe in him. That we love him.

And that we’re here no matter what.

Exactly.

They both turned to Sticky.

You do know that, don’t you, son? Mr. Smith said. That we love and support you one hundred percent?

The following Saturday Sticky was brought home by the cops. He got caught swiping a pair of binoculars from Kmart by undercover security. (This was back when he was still refining his skills.)

Mrs. Smith was stunned when she opened the front door and found her foster boy in handcuffs. Oh, my God, she said, and yelled for her own kids to hurry upstairs.

Mr. Smith tried tough love after that situation. Restriction. Extra chores. An early curfew on Friday and Saturday nights.

Son, Mr. Smith said a couple nights later, as he moved Sticky’s bed, piece by piece, out of little Johnny’s room and into the sewing room. I want you to know that I understand what you’re feeling inside. He lifted one side of the single mattress and Sticky picked up the other. They moved awkwardly through the door frame and into the hall. I’ve seen it all before, you have to realize. They leaned the mattress against the sewing room wall and walked back into Johnny’s room, picked up the headboard. I know how awful you must have felt after what happened with your mother.

Sticky dropped his side of the headboard after that comment. Just dropped it on the rug and walked out of little Johnny’s room without a word. One mention of Baby and he was gone. He cruised straight down the stairs and out the front door.

At around four in the morning, Sticky staggered back into the house through the side door. He was so high he passed out in the middle of the kitchen floor with an open half-gallon of orange juice in his hand.

Jamie found him like that when she walked into the kitchen for a drink.

Sticky? she said. Oh, my God. Sticky!

Sticky lifted his head to look at her. There was blood all over his face and hands, and he was smiling.

Jamie dragged him into the upstairs bathroom and gently cleaned his face with a warm washcloth. What happened to you? she said.

Sticky shrugged his shoulders.

You’re, like, on drugs, aren’t you?

He reached up and touched her face. You look good, he said, and ran a finger through her long blond hair.

Well, you better go back to your room and act like you’re asleep, she said. I’ll tell them you’re home. They’ve been, like, freaking out all night. She wrapped Sticky’s arm around her neck and helped him walk to his room. She put him on his bed, pulled off his shoes and socks and covered him with a blanket.

Sticky was asleep before Jamie even left the room.

This prompted a big family meeting the following night before dinner. There were discussions about hard-core counseling and antidepressants. Mentor programs and outpatient drug rehab centers.

But Sticky talked his way out of everything when Mr. and Mrs. Smith brought it up again over dessert. I’ll change, he said. I swear I’ll change. He put down his fork and gave them both his most honest expression. I wanna be better now.

Mr. Smith turned to Mrs. Smith, told her: You know, honey, I think he means it.

I do too, Mrs. Smith said.

I think it’s about trust right now.

It’s a trust issue.

I wanna be better, Sticky said.

Mrs. Smith turned her attention back to Sticky and reached over the table for his hand. All right, son, we’re going to trust you on this one.

Mr. Smith nodded his head and smiled at them both.

But two weeks later, Sticky took things to another level.

It was a Sunday afternoon and Mr. Smith was putting in extra hours at work. Mrs. Smith was out running errands. Sticky flipped off the TV and headed upstairs. Knocked on Jamie’s door. Hey, Jamie, he said, and knocked again. You in there?

Jamie pulled the door open and waved him in. Of course I am, she said. She was listening to Incubus and filing her nails. There were posters all over her walls: Bob Marley, Blink-182, Pearl Jam. Sticky was standing at the door, looking around the room, when Jamie told him: Um, you can, like, come in, you know. I’m only doing my nails. She stood up and pulled him by his arm, closed the door behind them. She sat Indian style at the edge of her bed, and Sticky lounged into the big purple beanbag on the floor.

Jamie handed Sticky a photo album of all her friends, told him he could look through it if he felt like it. While Sticky turned the pages, she excitedly played parts of all her favorite songs. I love Rage, she said, pointing to a series of posters on her wall. But I love Radiohead and Coldplay, too. I think there are, like, times you wanna hear slow songs and times you wanna hear fast songs. I like any type of music that inspires me.

Sticky laughed at her energy.

They were both quiet for a while, listening to the first few tracks off the Toadies album. Jamie pulled a glittery pink nail polish from inside a drawer and started applying careful strokes. When Sticky was done looking at all the pages of pictures in her photo album, he started at the front again.

So, you got a boyfriend? Sticky said, studying a picture of Jamie posed with some guy at a dance.

Not really, she said. That guy, like, thinks we’re together, I guess. His name’s Ricky. But I’m over it. She blew on her wet nails and said: What about you? You have a girlfriend?

Nah, Sticky said.

Jamie screwed the nail polish cap back on and tossed the bottle behind her on the bed. She stretched out on her stomach and faced Sticky. Have you ever, like, been with somebody, though?

Huh? Sticky said. He set the photo album on the floor and sat up in the beanbag.

You know, have you ever . . .

Yeah, I been with somebody.

Who?

This girl Maria.

Was it before or after you started living at our house? Jamie leaned her chin in the palms of her hands and stared at Sticky, fascinated.

She used to stay at the same place I stayed, Sticky said.

Did you like her?

I mean, we was friends and all that.

Jamie covered her face with her hands and giggled. She looked at Sticky and told him: God, that’s so weird if you think about it .

Sticky stood up from the beanbag and sat next to Jamie on the bed. What about you? he said.

No. Never.

You’d probably like it.

I’ve never even been to second base. Jamie rolled her eyes and laughed at herself.

Sticky reached over to the stereo. He turned off her Nirvana and tuned in his favorite hip-hop station.

Jay-Z filled the room with rhyme.

Mrs. Smith arrived home in good spirits.

She walked into the house leafing through a stack of junk mail and humming under her breath. She tossed the mail on the end table by the couch and headed upstairs. When she opened the bedroom door, singing out Jamie’s name, she found Sticky and Jamie half naked on the bed. Sticky’s hands all over her daughter. Shorts and skirt thrown recklessly on the floor.

Mrs. Smith freaked out.

She slapped her daughter across the face and called her a whore. She reached over the bed and punched Sticky in the back, in the neck, on the shoulder. When he ducked out of the way she got him in the leg.

She swung a few more wild fists at Sticky and then ran out of the room holding her hands over her face. She rumbled down the stairs, picked up the phone and called Mr. Smith at work. Through hysterical tears, she told him to come home right away. Then she hung up the phone and rumbled back up the stairs to slap her daughter again and try and hit Sticky some more.

Jamie was crying too. She screamed at the top of her lungs when she caught another one of her mom’s hands across the face.

Sticky managed to dodge most of Mrs. Smith’s flailing while at the same time pulling on his shirt and shorts.

An hour later, Mr. Smith came rushing through the front door and immediately locked Sticky out in the garage with the dog. Sticky spent that night sleeping on a cold cot next to a rusty tool bench.

The next morning Mr. Smith packed up Sticky’s bag and stuck it in the back of the van. He opened the passenger door and let Sticky in. Then he took his seat at the wheel. He stared out the window for a few minutes before starting the motor. For this leg of the trip it was just him and Sticky. There would be no more big family affairs. No more upbeat conversations. No more hugging and talk of trust.

Sticky sank into the passenger seat and hung his head. He had succeeded in playing a role.

Mrs. Smith stayed inside with her kids. She watched her husband through the living room window as he turned the key, flipped the car into reverse and rolled down the driveway.

Tammie and Johnny sat at the kitchen table eating oatmeal with their heads down. Neither said a word.

Jamie watched from her bedroom window with glassy eyes as the white van made its way down their street, stopped at the stop sign and then turned out of sight.

When Mr. Smith pulled up outside the foster care pad again, not even a year after he’d come to pick Sticky up, the old Mexican director was once again standing out on the curb, waiting.

We’ve got young children, Mr. Smith said after he shut off the engine and hopped out of the van.

I understand, the old Mexican director said, and he crossed his arms.

You know how it is, Mr. Smith said, and he stood there a second, slipped his hands in his pockets. They’re impressionable. He watched Sticky walk around the van, then pulled open the sliding side door and reached in for Sticky’s bag. Set it down on the sidewalk and shook his head.

The director picked up the bag.

I have to think about my own kids right now, Mr. Smith said, and then he climbed back into the van and drove away.