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As Stephen recounts the story to us at his birthday dinner, he is by turns furious and laughing as he reconsiders the conversation.

“Did she call DYS?” Trevor asks.

“If she did, I haven't heard about it,” I say. “I don't think there's anything to worry about.”

Indeed, the Department of Youth Services rarely calls and more rarely returns my phone calls. Trevor's advocate, a young man named Will, sounds harried and exhausted when I speak with him. When he makes a date with Trevor to go buy clothes or spend some time together, he usually has to break it.

Once Trevor and I drove out to Springfield for an evaluation. We followed complicated directions to the center, a tired series of low, sixties-style institutional outbuildings, the dead lawns the same color as the yellow brick offices. As we walked across the grass toward an entrance, we were greeted by shouts from the barred windows on the second story, boys incarcerated there, as Trevor once was, who pressed their hands and faces to the wire.

“That's the dayroom,” Trevor said as we made our way up the sidewalk. “Also the classroom, also the cafeteria.”

“Get it,” I answered. “Do you know any of the guys?”

“Probably,” he said. And then, “Let's get this over with.”

But as it turned out, the officials we were to see had either left for the day or couldn't be found.

“We have an appointment with Will,” I'd said to a man, maybe a guard or a cop, who smoked a cigarette just outside the front door. “Here.” I showed him the form with the date and the time written in.

“I don't know what to tell you,” he said. “You could try that building over there.” He pointed across the complex.

One by one, Trevor and I were sent to this building or that. After about an hour, we gave up. “You go ahead to the car,” I said to Trev, who was tired, irritated, and embarrassed. “I'll write a note and leave it for Will.”

Trevor and I were here for this appointment, I wrote on the back of the form. We wanted you to know that we were here and ready for the evaluation. Trevor is doing well. He has just finished courses at Greenfield Community in preparation for his GED… . Please call us when you get this so that we may reschedule

The night of Stephen's birthday dinner—some months after our visit to Springfield—I watch Trevor's worried expression relax as we look at each other and remember our trip to DYS.

“Don't worry,” I repeat and wink at Trevor.

“No, don't worry.” Stephen passes the tacos. “I mean, what's she gonna say?” Stephen affects a woman's voice, pitching his own into a high whine. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Will. Trevor and Stephen are having too much fun … I personally witnessed them rolling around in the leaves when they were supposed to be raking them … I personally witnessed them breaking their rakes … I heard them singing ‘Happy Birthday’ … I saw the configurations …” —Stephen nearly spits food as he laughs—”of their dogs’ bowel movements in my yard …”

“Who you gonna tell.” Charles coins the phrase we've adopted in the event that someone begins to whine.

“Right!” Stephen reaches across the table to punch Trevor on the shoulder. “Who you gonna tell?” He grins, and we answer in unison, “Your guidance counselor?”

At eighteen Stephen loves the girls and the girls love him. He's had a series of girlfriends with whom, in front of all to see, he is affectionate and playful. The school has called to say that he and so-and-so are being much too amorous in the halls, engaging in kissing as one or the other goes off to class, etc. He and the girl have been called into the principal's office.

Stephen is passionate in his defenses to his teachers and to me. He is in love. Why should he behave as if he weren't?

“They're so uptight!” he explodes one night when I report that the girl's parents have called. “Man, I'm from California! Don't forget that, Mom. I was born in California. And don't forget that not so long ago right here they were burning witches. Yep. Just a couple of generations back, the ancestors of