JEFFERSON CITY • The young man made a dash across the street to the idling bus, a satin tie whipping loosely around his neck and a pair of navy suspenders trailing from his hand.

Jacob Carter, 18, a former foster child who had aged out of state care with the threat of homelessness biting at his heels, was late. But he'd made it.

"What-up?" he said striding down the bus aisle in his new dress shoes. "You all waiting on me?"

It was past 7 a.m. on a recent Wednesday, but time was ticking. He and 20 others had an appointment to keep. They were 120 miles from meeting with Gov. Jay Nixon at 10:26, sharp.

The bus kicked into gear.

For the third year, Epworth Children & Family Services had arranged a trip for teenagers in or already aged out of foster care to travel to Jefferson City. But this was not a school tour. The youths, as young as 15, were going to the cavernous capitol to knock on the heavy doors of their elected officials.

They were asking for three modest changes to make life easier for the state's 9,000 foster children.

First, they wanted a universal school credit system — the same courtesy given to military children who also move a lot. They wouldn't lose prized credits when they transferred to a new high school with different standards.

This had set Lynette Johnson, another teen on the bus, back more than a year from graduation. Johnson, 19, had moved 10 times before running away from foster care. It was mortifying taking courses with kids as young as 12 because her credits didn't transfer, she said.

Then there was Medicaid. Foster children lose this health coverage when they turn 21, regardless of whether they are full-time students. Other students are allowed to stay on their parents' benefits until 23.

And finally, the clothes. Last year, the youths persuaded lawmakers to nearly double their yearly clothing allowance to $480. But the law unintentionally limited the increase to foster children managed by the Children's Division. Others managed by contracted agencies — about 63 percent in St. Louis — are still getting $250.

As the bus rumbled toward the highway, an Epworth board member neatly tightened Carter's tie around his neck. Carter slipped on the $10 suspenders he'd purchased at Kohl's.

"I'm going for the executive look," he said, snapping them crisply on his shirt.

It wasn't just about looking good.

The day presented a psychological challenge.

"We're working with foster youth," explained Kevin Drollinger, executive director of Epworth, "who feel sometimes victims of the system. Who feel like they are not in control or able to, sort of, chart their own destiny. One of the best ways to do that is to teach them to advocate for themselves."

The group had already practiced shaking hands and introducing themselves to secretaries and lawmakers. During the practice, former state Rep. Kathlyn Fares, R-Webster Groves, lent some advice: Wear comfortable shoes, and let lawmakers know you're a voter in their district.

Articulating emotional issues to people in power isn't easy for anyone. On the bus, Carter stumbled on his lines.

"It's kids getting treated equally in foster care," he said.

Epworth Development Director Julie Reed leaned over the back of her seat.

"Say what speaks to your heart," she coached.

Soon the capitol's dome rose above the Missouri River flood plain. Shaelene Plank of Epworth reminded everyone to take their business cards made for the day.

"We are only asking for the same things they would provide their own children. Just relate it that way," Plank said as the bus eased to a stop.

A teen wondered aloud if this was the same building on the back of a penny.

Reed smiled a mother's smile. Over the years, she'd coached such youths on everything from how to bake Christmas cookies to finding emergency shelter.

"Anybody need a lint brush," she called. "Lint brush?"

KNOCKING ON DOORS

The governor was taller than all of them and posed for pictures in his regal office anchored by a desk as big as the bed of a pickup.

He moved to the center of the office and stood on a carpeted circle of stars. He said the youths had important issues, but he warned them: They would have to sway their lawmakers in a year when they were making painful budget cuts.

It was time to get to work.

The teens walked briskly through the vaulted marble hallways to their first office.

"Go ahead, knock," prompted an escort.

They found newcomer Sen. Joseph Keaveny, D-St. Louis. He invited Carter into his office.

"How can I help you?" Keaveny asked from a big leather chair.

"My name is Jacob and I'm a registered voter in your district," Carter said.

Keaveny smiled broadly.

"Here's my card," Keaveny said with a playful wink.

Carter froze. The issues garbled together on his tongue. It took time to get the words out. But as he spoke, Keaveny took notes.

Sometimes it was hard to catch lawmakers. Some said to try later. Some promised to call.

At 2 p.m., a group member's cell phone rang. They were told to gather quickly in the hallway outside the office of Rep. Rick Stream, R-Kirkwood, a member of the House budget committee.

This time Johnson stepped forward.

"They have different standards at different schools," she told Stream, a former school board member, about the school credits. "You work hard for all that credit and you don't get nothing."

"I don't remember hearing this before," Stream said.

He was impressed.

"This is a good change that doesn't cost anything," he said. "I don't see why we can't get this done."

Emboldened, Johnson was given 30 seconds in a hallway to speak with Sen. Joan Bray, D-University City. Johnson told her that foster youth would like an extension in Medicaid benefits.

"That's going to be real hard because no expenditure is happening this year, and I'm sorry about that," Bray said tersely. "What else do you have?"

Unfazed, Johnson traced her finger down a typed list of the requests, stopping on each to explain.

"Here's my card," Johnson finished, then shook her hand. "I'm a voter in your district."

"Where do you live?" Bray asked.

Johnson told her Maplewood, which was indeed in her district.

"Maplewood," Bray said, smiling as she turned to leave. "That's good."

At the final office, it was Carter's turn. He tapped on Rep. Allen Icet's door, turned the big brass knob and let himself in.

Icet, R-Wildwood, the head of the House Budget Committee, was out. But his assistant, Mary Jo Fahrni, listened intently. This time Carter easily said the clothing allowance increase wasn't going to everyone.

Fahrni looked concerned. She knew the legislation, down to the original bill number.

She pulled out her pink highlighter and began marking up Jacob's sheet of talking points. Pink is the color that Icet knows to pay attention to, she said.

"Kudos to you, Jacob, for dressing like you belong here," she said. Carter broke a shy smile.

Outside Icet's office, Johnson leaned against the wall and slipped off the rhinestone flats she'd chosen for the day. She yawned.

Neither she nor Carter had any idea whether the day would amount to anything. When they got back to St. Louis, life wouldn't be much different. Both were learning how to live on their own without stable parents or family. Both were scraping for tuition. Carter wanted to be a chef, and Johnson was preparing for beauty school.

Yet they knew this: In lives where judges and social workers had called the shots, they'd had their say.

Back on the bus, Carter was all smiles, but Johnson was still all business.

"I got a response," she said firmly. "It may not be the response I want, but I got a response and know they listened to what I had to say."