Lillian didn’t go on a bender with cops the way she did with the babushkas of the Lower East Side. If she had, maybe she would have gotten them out of her system. Instead, they start lurking on the periphery. Take this one: it’s the stone-faced counter guy front and center who first nabs you, his wary face all wrong framed by that jaunty bow tie and paper hat. Only then do you notice the cop and the kid in the leather jacket at opposite ends of the counter. The cop is turned toward the kid; the kid is scrutinizing his empty soda glass; and the soda jerk between them is staring his thousand-yard stare, trying not to tip the balance by looking at either one.

Lillian never talked to me about her weekend in jail, but after she’d been home a few days she sat me down to explain why the cops had arrested her and Nina in the first place. Initially I was skeptical; there were plenty of naked statues and paintings in museums, and those hadn’t gotten anyone arrested. Lillian explained that museums and galleries were not the same thing, especially not galleries in Brooklyn. Once I accepted that, it was only a matter of time before the obvious question arose: did I break the law, too? My mother assured me that I hadn’t. Except I was the one in those pictures, I reminded her. Yes, she said, but I didn’t make them; also, I was just a child.

I didn’t buy it. Since Lillian had been recently arrested herself, her grasp of the law seemed shaky at best. So I decided to start being careful.

Most of it wasn’t dramatic. No jaywalking and no crossing against the light, even if the street was clear. No skipping or running unless other kids already were. I traded my red coat for a less conspicuous dark blue one from the school lost and found. I made sure the coast was clear before heading out the front door. I stopped messing around with the abandoned cars on the blocks between my house and the school. And if I saw a policeman, I ran. This last one wasn’t subtle. Lillian and Grete were willing to wait when I spontaneously ducked into a store or changed directions, but Kaja—the third and last person who knew my true motives—was my sole accomplice. Whenever she spotted a cop or a cop car, she’d say “Ofay” low enough for only me to hear, then nod in their direction so I could head the other way. Anyone else who witnessed my disappearances thought I was weird, but I didn’t care. As far as I was concerned, being unpopular beat being in jail.