It rained this morning, and drops on the bus window catch the sun like a glowing sheet. Then we round a corner and the sparkling fades and I can see the storefronts again. I study them carefully, trying to calm down. Last night Aunt Jessica told my mother she wanted to see me today at her Montana Avenue store. It will be the first time we have talked since Oregon. I get off the bus. As I walk towards her store my hands jitter, the sidewalk still damp from this morning’s rain, littered with dark wet patches that shrink as steam curls off them and glows in the sunlight. There are shoppers here, young people and thin middle-aged women walking with purpose and the crowd of hip-looking people wearing sunglasses at little tables outside the Coffee Bean, studying passersby. I duck my head and hurry past them. Near my aunt’s store, I slow: even through the tinted glass I can see the pretty girls who work for her folding clothing as my aunt talks to them from behind the counter. After the girls carry boxes out back, I hold my breath and push the glass doors open.

She does not see me until I am halfway up, and I worry the browsing customers will think I am here to buy something, but they ignore me.

Gabe, she says coldly. Wait out back and I’ll get to you in a minute.

She looks back down at her ledger and I go to the backroom where the girls pack boxes and they glance at me but say nothing and I wait quietly by the door. Finally they leave. Some minutes later my aunt comes in.

Come on. Let’s go.

The school stands behind a chain-link fence with green canvas that flaps against the wire. The buildings are old houses and warehouses painted pastel colors like light green and baby blue. Aunt Jessica would like me to go here. A weird-looking white sculpture shaped like a roller-coaster rides over the multileveled roofs. It looks like it cost a lot of money. Through a gap in the canvas I can see kids gathered in the parking lot around their cars—many expensive, Jeeps and convertibles, though many of the students dress as if they were from Venice or Compton or Watts.

This is it, Gabe, she says.

We stand on a street so wide it has divider islands of soot-killed grass and parched coral trees. There is an abandoned railroad yard nearby and the freeway overpass has rusted chain-link fences to keep kids from tossing rocks onto cars.

Yeah, I say.

She must sense something weak in my voice because she gives me a hard look. Isn’t it good enough for you, Gabe?

I don’t tell her what I am really worried about. I keep the corner of my vision on a group of kids sitting on the hood of an orange BMW.