The popularity of Sublime amongst boys between the ages of eleven and seventeen was not something any of the boys could explain. It was all about the logo, which was big and basic and just plain cool—the word SUBLIME in Futura Bold Oblique font, white text on a purple background. The clothes and accessories were hideously ugly, or weirdly complicated, or so simple they were simply not at all special, but that was part of their appeal. A black T-shirt with a bloody squirrel printed on it. A hat with tusks. A brown hoodie with eight rows of felt shark teeth around the hood. A red leather wallet with eleven zippers. Gold velvet boxer jock underwear. A plain white T-shirt. A plain gray T-shirt. White tube socks. An itchy black wool ski hat. Joggers with purple camouflage print on one leg and red and white stripes on the other leg. A black sleeveless T-shirt. A light pink skateboard.

Liam examined the shop’s website infrequently but somewhat eagerly, not because he wanted or needed anything that could be found there, but because all the other boys at school were always wearing Sublime or talking about what they were going to get at Sublime. He thought he should be able talk about it too, and maybe even wear something he’d bought there, if it wasn’t too expensive or ugly. Some of the kids at school had bots that bought the stuff for them and when they got it they sold it through their social media for way more than it was worth. That was too time-consuming and involved for Liam. And thus the rich got richer and the poor got poorer.

From what Liam had garnered from the talk in school, attending the drop was more about standing in line and being seen in the line than about actually buying anything. This particular drop was a collaboration with Silenciaga, with prices starting at ninety-five dollars for an iron-on patch. A T-shirt cost three hundred dollars and a hoodie cost seven hundred dollars. There was no way anyone could be buying much, except maybe Bruce, who had a black AmEx card. Another reason to hate him.

Liam and Ryan got off the F train at Broadway-Lafayette and wandered east on Houston, looking for the line of bored-looking guys staring at their phones. They didn’t have to look far. It was getting dark. Illuminated by the Bowery streetlights stood a hushed and orderly throng that spanned the four blocks to the store. They walked alongside the line of boys, compelled to check out the store itself before heading back to wait.

“Hey, assholes.”

It was Bruce, a third of the way down the line. He’d left school early, claiming he felt sick. Now they knew why.