“From your aunt,” I said. “She dropped them off a couple months ago. Said you would probably come by here more often than there. And anyway, she had bought a bunch of new stuff for you, in case you did come by her place. Those might be a little small.”

He dressed in front of me, utterly unashamed.

“She’s worried about you,” I said.

“I know. It’s just so crowded there, and she works so much so she’s hardly ever even home. And her boyfriend is . . . not so fond of gay people.”

“Sounds like she needs a new boyfriend.”

He smiled, like he wished it was that simple.

Downstairs, the door slammed. Solomon flinched. “Your dad?”

“Probably,” I said.

But it was both of them. I could hear my mother and father heading for the kitchen, arguing about something.

“It’s okay,” I said, seeing how Solomon’s breathing had sped up.

“I want to go,” he said.

“Wait. I know you’re hungry,” I said. “Stay for dinner. He won’t say anything. I’ll make sure of it.”

“I want to go,” he said, and his voice sounded smaller this time.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll go downstairs first, and make sure the coast is clear.”

I tiptoed down the stairs, and checked to make sure Dad was in the kitchen. I beckoned to Solomon, and he descended.

I knew we were caught by the way Solomon came down the stairs. His tread was so heavy, and the steps were old creaky wood.

“Solomon?” my father said, coming fast out of the kitchen.

“Sir,” Solomon said, without turning around.

“Ash, you know you’re not allowed to have boys over when no one is home,” he said.

“Solomon is my friend, Dad.” You fucking idiot, I added, in-brain only.

“Have a good night, Solomon,” my father said. He moved to open the front door.

They hadn’t always been like this. Dad had no problem with Solomon, back when we were little. I couldn’t understand what had changed.

“Wait! Stay for dinner, Solomon!” Mom called from behind Dad. “We brought home spaghetti from the church fund-raiser over at Grace Abounding. There’s plenty!”

“No,” Solomon said, and hurried outside.

“Solomon, wait,” I called out the door. I grabbed one of the Styrofoam spaghetti containers, and a metal fork, and some napkins, and brought them outside and handed them to him. My dad reached out his hand to stop me, but I swatted it away.

“Thanks,” Solomon said, standing there awkwardly in clothes that were slightly too small for him. He shifted the food into one hand, to wave goodbye. I tried not to think about him eating it by himself in the dark somewhere, down by the train tracks or on the bumper of someone’s pickup truck.