After, as we’re sitting outside on a bench and eating our sandwiches, Carlos explains that the painting is by Frida Kahlo, a Mexican painter whose husband was the famous muralist Diego Rivera. But it’s Kahlo’s work he’s always liked, how she often painted herself and turned her insides out for the world to see. He shows me a drawing he had been working on in his sketch pad using pastels: It’s a portrait of himself. He’s staring over his shoulder, and his two scars are carried up and over his head into a curved horn of birds and twisting branches and streaked sky. “Wow,” I say. He explains that in art class last year they had to do a series that drew inspiration from famous artists.

“Did you know she had, like, twenty-six operations and lived with a metal bar in her body?” He points, as if tracing the outline of the women. “She painted out all that pain and stuff that happened to her. She turned her scars into beauty.”

I want to fling my arms around Carlos’s neck. A ticklish warmth slides through me. He makes me look at things from the inside out, through his quiet gaze. I’m not sure what he is to me, to us, but I’ve never felt something like this. I want to protect him and be protected by him.

“One more round, hermanito. To look at a few things.”

Kamal stamps his foot, exasperated, points to the Frisbee. Carlos kneels down, puts his hand on Kamal’s shoulder, and says softly, “You don’t want to be a disappointment to me, do you?” I’m struck by how formal Carlos can be sometimes. Whenever I thank him for something small, like picking up a ball from the ground, he always answers, “My pleasure.” He sounds like a waiter or a butler in a movie. I even ribbed him about it once. “Is that cultural or something?” He just replied, “That’s the way I was taught.”

The way. What is Carlos’s way? He’s a mix between an old-school gentleman and a street-smart kid, maneuvering through so many harrowing situations. The few times I’ve dared touch him, his muscles were taut, corded with tension. He stands some distance away, keeping a space between himself and others.

Kamal bites his lower lip, and Carlos continues. “Then you’re going to hold my hand and we are going to walk quietly to the place that I want to go to. And you’re going to stay and look with me. And when we’re done—only then—we can go and get an ice cream and find a park and play, okay?”

“Okay!” Kamal grins.

We go to another gallery that has another artist he likes, Edward Hopper. “You’re seeing my whole art class.” Carlos laughs.