And Quan did.

   Feel him.

   So when Trey would come a-knockin’, Quan would always go.

* * *

   —

   While that first arrest did wind up on Quan’s record, no charges were filed.

   With the second arrest, he got lucky (and Trey did too because the boys had just parted ways): he was charged—juvenile possession of a firearm…not that he had any intention of using the .22 caliber he’d gotten from Trey that was about the size of his palm—but it was a misdemeanor. The juvenile court district attorney was two hearings from retirement and wanted “to go out on a restorative note,” so she dropped the charges, gave Quan community service, and told him to get his life together

                    “before it’s too late, young man.”

   The charge attached to his third arrest stuck—breaking and entering tended to do that—and Quan did his first ninety-day stint in a youth detention center.

   He spent his fourteenth birthday there.

   But looking back, it was the fourth arrest that solidified his course.

   He was at the mall. Group of white dudes in suits were laughing all loud and shit in the food court. Which irritated Quan: if it’d been a group of dudes like him, seated in the same positions, talking and cackling at the same volume, they would’ve been asked to leave.

   Once his eyes caught on the two phones in the open bag of the dude seated at the head of the table—Idiot.—the irritation made it that much easier to decide on the bump-and-snatch move he

        (thought he’d)

    perfected.

    Perfect diversion—lady pushing a stroller—went by at the perfect time.

    Bump…

          Quan—

     tripped

   ceremoniously and the single wheel on the front of the stroller hit the table just as he’d planned.

       “Oh my goodness, ma’am!”

   And he straightened quickly, slipping the extra phone in his pocket on his way up.

   “I’m so sorry!”

        Lay it on thick,

   Trey had told Quan.

        Really sell it.

   And he did. He swears he did. The lady was asking if he was okay.

   He made it out the mall and halfway up the hill to the bus stop. But then a small SUV pulled up alongside him.

   Mall security.

   Petty theft was the charge.

        Delinquent was the proclamation. (After career criminal, of course.)

    Twelve months in a regional youth detention center was the sentence.

   And Quan came out…different.

   Enlightened. To darkness. His own, and how it

              affected things.

   There was Antoine (about as dark as him), age thirteen—doing eight months on an aggravated assault charge.

   DeAngelo (a little darker), age fifteen—ten months on “trafficking of a controlled substance.”

   Alejandro (not as dark, but still brown), age twelve—twelve months on “participating in criminal gang activity.” (And he hadn’t actually done anything. Guilty by association.)

       And then there was White Boy Shawn (Black Boy Shawn—sixteen—was headed to a juvenile section of the adult prison for his involvement in a drive-by shooting that left two guys dead).

        Seventeen.

    Stabbed his dad eight times with a butcher knife.

    While the man was sleeping.

   Shawn’s final charge and sentence?

        Simple assault. Sixty days.

    And not even in detention. At a Youth Development Campus.

   There was a part of Quan that wished his awareness had a knob he could just crank down to zero.

   But for Vernell LaQuan Banks Jr., there was no

              not noticing

   the number of brown faces

        that came and stayed

    compared to the number of not-brown ones

          that came and left.

* * *

   —

   Twelve months in before he was out.

   And Trey had also had an interesting year.

   His grandma had passed.

        And his mom hadn’t taken it well.

    (So he hadn’t either.)

       When he tripped over a desk at school and it was discovered that the clear liquid in the bottle he constantly swigged from wasn’t water, they expelled him.

              (He’d been on his final strike.)

     (Not that he really gave a damn about school.)

     (Or so he said.)

   “That was the final straw for Moms,” Trey told Quan as they sat outside the rocket ship—they’d gotten taller and couldn’t both fit inside anymore—passing a vape back and forth between them.

              (That was another thing: Quan had sworn off blunts. Something about carcinogens.)

    “Her ass moved to Florida and wouldn’t take me with her.”

    “Wait, for real?”

    inhaaaale…

          exhaaaaaale.

    “Yup.”

    “Damn, bruh. So where you livin’ now?”

    inhaaaale…

          exhaaaaaale.

   “Here and there. Speakin’ of which—” Trey looked at a watch on his wrist. “I gotta go meet my boys.” It was…sparkly.

   Trey noticed Quan noticing.

   “Shit fire, ain’t it?” He turned the thing back and forth so it caught the light.