On the bus ride to New Orleans, the nuns reviewed our schedule: light breakfast at Café Du Monde, walk around Jackson Square, the buddy system was in effect here, go into the cathedral and light a candle and pray if we were so inclined, and a late lunch at The Court of Two Sisters. If anyone snuck off alone, or set one foot on Bourbon Street, we would be loaded back onto our bus and whisked home in disgrace. Donna Brown was my assigned buddy, and I was happy for this because I was hoping we could be friends.

New Orleans is full of disturbing ripe smells. Down in Jackson Square, the chicory coffee fought against the heavy wet tang of the river, the shrimp boil coming from little French houses, yeast bread, cherry tobacco from someone's pipe. The waiter at Café Du Monde had a black moustache and lines around his eyes, and he gave me a sip of black chicory coffee and then laughed at the look on my face. "Black is too bitter for a young girl," he said. "Try it with the cream and sugar." And he poured a cup from a steaming pitcher held high. The little square donuts were just out of the fryer, sprinkled with powdered sugar, and the coffee smelled so dark and rich, it was all so rich, the donuts and the river and the thick sweet air, it was all I could do not to bury my face in the plate and eat it all up like a dog.

Donna Brown told me she wanted to go into the cathedral and light a candle for her grandmother, and she showed me the fifty-cent piece she was going to put in the box. I told her I wanted to walk around Jackson Square and look at the pictures and the artists. We agreed on one circuit.

The boy had skin that was strangely golden-colored, with black eyes shaped by someplace besides America. He was nearly naked, smooth golden chest, long golden arms, wearing a pair of dirty white shorts and some flip-flops. He was sketching, a pad of paper against his crossed thigh, a cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. I must have stood there for a moment too long, staring at him, because he started smiling, glancing between me and the paper.

"Look at this," he said, and held up the sketch. A little kid in a plaid skirt and white blouse. He thought I looked like a baby. "You can have this for five dollars," he said.

I shook my head, put my hands behind my back. "I don't have five dollars."

"I'll just have to keep it, then." I looked at his face, strange smiling eyes shaped like a quick curved line of charcoal, that beautiful skin. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, held the filter toward me between two fingers. "Taste this."

His fingers smelled like smoke and oil pastels, and I took the cigarette between my lips, held it there, felt his fingers touch my cheek, and he smiled at the smoke rising in the air between us.

Donna grabbed my arm, pulling me away. "I'm telling Sister Maria Goretti what you did," she said, and I jerked my arm out of her hand, looked back at the golden boy. He was sketching again, but he looked up and winked at me, the cigarette back in the corner of his mouth.

We went straight to the Cathedral, knelt in front of the votive candles, and Donna's fifty-cent piece would not fit in the box. I closed my eyes, tasted chicory coffee and cigarette smoke, felt his fingers touch my cheek, and I prayed and prayed and prayed.

Sarah Black is a fiction writer.