I tilted my head up and said, as much to myself as to her, “Unfortunate circumstances. Careless actions. Bad luck. Bad decisions.” When I turned to her, she was watching me while her fingers worked her jean crease. “Don’t want you caught up in that.”

“Aaron coulda cut a deal. He would have had to testify against his friends. Be a snitch. He couldn’t do that. They, like, gave him the max.”

“You think that’s honorable and virtuous?”

“Don’t you?”

“Depends on how you look at it. What effect did his time have on his own future? What effect did it have on his family?”

Tara pushed her shoulders back and raised her chin. “I think loyalty and caring about others more than yourself are good character traits.”

“Sometimes.” I nod. “Were they loyal to him? If he really didn’t know the robbery was going to happen, why didn’t they protect him? And now he has a record.”

Tara thought for a moment. “Like a juvie record. But yeah. He was, like, stupid to himself, but good to his homies.” Her shoulders relaxed. “Got his GED in jail and worked on his music. He says sometimes good comes out of bad, and bad comes out of good.”

The Labor Day barbecue was the first time I heard him sing. And the first time I met Sissy and was welcomed by her smile. She wore glossy purple lipstick that day, a color I vowed to try.

We were outside. Someone had pulled out an old sofa, card tables, plastic chairs. Sissy wore a V-neck blouse that showed off her cleavage. Her arms were adorned with sliding bracelets. Large hoops were in her ears. Sissy’s friend Darling was there, in a pink T-shirt and a Pistons hat, helping Sissy turn the ribs. Cooking sauce and sizzling fat from the grill scented the air. Neighboring families brought chicken, macaroni and cheese, and cake and more chairs and blankets. Then, as dusk fell, they pushed Aaron to sing.

Red Dog nodded to Sonny, a kid about ten. “You gotta help. You say, ‘Jail, what is it good for? Absolutely nothing,’ when I point to ya.”

“Come on, Dog. We do it.” Aaron stood beside Red Dog. Tara turned on her keyboard.

If you heard doin’ time
was some cool shit.

Tell you with this rhyme
that’s some bullshit.

Doing 23 in
1 out
stuck in a 9 × 6
nothing but a concrete crypt.

Red Dog points to Sonny.

Jail! What is it good for?

Tara helped him out.

Absolutely nothing.

The rest of us spat back.

Wondering each day
how much sun you’ll get
eatin’, drinkin’, sleepin’
in the same space you shit.

Reminiscin’ and missin’
all that’s near and dear to ya.
When the prohibitions of prison Become real to ya.

Jail! Huh, uh. Good God, y’all

Sissy grunts.

What is it good for?

Everybody shouts.

Absolutely nothing.

“You the dude! Rap and been to jail.” Sonny cleared his throat.