“He’s on a special work program, getting ready to be released, and we, like, spent the day painting this room white and talking about my school and music. He’s a musician, too, Mom.” Tara’s eyes were the green they turn when she’s happy. Even the black hair hadn’t changed that. “He writes rap lyrics. You’d like him.”

“Why’s he in jail?” It was spring and the sun was just beginning to set, casting a pink glow over the table and her arm.

Tara shrugged. “Didn’t ask him that, Mom. Aaron got my address and he’ll write.” The moment of accord was dashed.

“Maybe,” I said.

But he did. A letter came with florid pencil calligraphy, swoops and swirls over the slender loops of each capital. Tara grabbed the envelope, grinned, said, “Told you he’d write,” and ran up to her room. She spent the evening answering him in her round hand, decorated with circles dotting the i’s.

The letter writing intensified. I asked more questions. When’s he getting out? How old is he? Where’re his parents?

“He’s seventeen.”

Two years older than Tara. “Will he graduate from high school?”

“He’s getting out next year. Yes, he’ll graduate. They, like, make them go to school there. He’s smart, Mom. Really smart. And I don’t ask him about his parents.” She stopped for a minute, searching her memory. “Oh, his mom’s a nurse. He told me. Didn’t say anything about his dad.”

“What’s he in for?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” Tara looked away.

“You don’t know? You haven’t asked?”

“He said he’d tell me when he sees me again.” She turned to walk out of the room.

“Whoa. That can’t be good, Tara,” I called to her retreating back.

When Sky called, she grilled Tara about him. I could tell from Tara’s answers that she was reticent but more open with Sky than she was with me. “We have so much in common. We’re just alike in our souls,” I heard her say.

By fall, they were still writing. Tara continued to volunteer at the Y, but Aaron never returned to Habitat. “I wanna invite Aaron to the homecoming dance.”

“Homecoming? I thought he was in training school,” I said. We were in the kitchen, making spaghetti.

“He is, but, like, he thinks he might be able to get a weekend visit. He hasn’t gotten into any trouble since he’s been there and they allow special privileges. Can he stay here?”

“With us?”

“Where else? Detroit would be too far away. You’ll like him, Mom. His rap name is Special Intent, and he keeps writing me lyrics. Wanna hear ’em?”