Black boys like that. Boys who didn’t live with their parents. Boys who idled around parks with nothing to do, looking for trouble. Boys who should be spending time on schoolwork or a job. But what she didn’t know was that Jesse lived with his uncle because his mother had died and his uncle, not wanting him to go to foster care, offered to raise him. His grades were as good, if not better, than Celine’s or Mira’s, and he considered photography his job, and he worked on it whenever he could.

Mira always shrugged off her mother’s criticisms, choosing to ignore them rather than get into an argument, but she’d be lying if they never came to the forefront whenever she hung out with him, especially when he did something she knew would get her in trouble. Jesse caught Mira’s look and apologized for the litter. He went to pick up the plastic wrapper and throw it in his bag. He took out his camera and began snapping shots of Celine and Mira. Celine played it up for the camera—puckering her pink lips and leaning toward him. She pulled on the edge of her T-shirt, showing her tanned shoulder in an attempt to be provocative, but Jesse just laughed.

“Take one of me and Mira this time.”

“Oh, no, that’s all right,” Mira said, a rush of sudden embarrassment overwhelming her. She put a hand to her face in an attempt to hide from the shot, but Celine kept insisting.

“Mira, come on. I want one of both of us.”

“Yeah, Mira, get in the frame.”