“Not him. You don’t know him. Besides, he’s in a special program.”

“I’m concerned about you. You, my darling daughter.”

TARA ADDED BLUEBIRD-COLORED chunks to her black hair. She pierced three more holes in her ears, one in her eyebrow, and one in her lip and filled them with silver hoops.

When I saw her, I said, “That looks like shit. Like you want to be garbage.”

“All the kids are doing it.”

“Not all.”

“All the artists and musicians.”

She’s just trying her wings, I told myself. Always pushing at the margins of everything. At least she hadn’t started putting plugs in her lobes. Her grades were straight As and she spent most of her time at the piano practicing, composing music, and singing. It hadn’t been easy with Stephen’s and my divorce and he hardly saw her.

A few weeks later, I asked. “When’s that Aaron kid coming?”

Tara shrugged. “They read the letters, and when they saw the map, they thought he was planning an escape and so he lost his minimum-security status, was removed from the special program, and now there’s no way he’ll be here for homecoming.”

“That’s too bad, honey.”

My voice was so monotone that Tara checked my expression to see if I were sarcastic or relieved. I felt genuinely sad for Aaron but had hoped that when they saw each other again the passion and fascination would have dissipated.

“Aaron says it’s the stupid institution. I shouldn’t feel bad,” Tara said.

“Did he tell you why he’s there?”

“I haven’t seen him, Mom. Don’t you, like, ever listen to my answers?”

“What are you going to do about homecoming?” I wiped the kitchen counter.

“Me and Jennie and Robin are going with Shorty, Ted, and Kevin. No dates. Just friends. Going to rent a limo and go out to eat at Macaroni Grill. They’re all disappointed they won’t get to meet Aaron.”

“How’re you going to afford that?”

“Mom. I saved it from my birthday money this summer. Aaron and I knew we wanted to go.”

She surprised me. She switched from the annoyed, seemingly impetuous teen to a young woman who planned and made sacrifices to achieve her goals.

I was wrong about Aaron. He didn’t peter out like a teenage romance. Instead Tara became a twenty-first-century hip-hop statistic. Unwed pregnant eighteen-year-old white girl and black, fresh-out-of-prison, wanna-be rap star. Single mom. A patchwork of jobs barely supporting them. Dreams of fame and money. It would be funny if it weren’t so sad. Meanwhile, my daughter and her boyfriend met in a space of their own creation.