Lidia Ruiz was dressed in a T-shirt screen-printed with photos from each year of Junior's life -- babyhood to teenager. His friends from high school, packed into two booths, were wearing their own T-shirts with his face on the front and the words "RIP" or "Chango," his childhood nickname, which means "monkey" in Spanish.

As they dug into their pizzas, 18-year-old Blanca, who just graduated from Sunnyside High, asked a classmate named Shawn why he decided to drop out.

"Why not just finish that one class and get your diploma?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "It doesn't matter."

Now that high school was over, none of Junior's friends had a plan. Another dropout named Juan laughed and said he'd work for anyone who'd hire him -- good boss or bad boss.

They summoned 13-year-old Anthony to their booth, calling him "Ranchero," or farm boy. The attention from Junior's friends lit him up.

Sequoia Middle School had placed him in a special class for troubled kids, but he was refusing to take off his ball cap, refusing to open a book, refusing to write even his name atop sheets of schoolwork he never finished. He was adamant about not meeting with a psychologist. "We can't talk to them, Mom, they'll tear us apart." He said a friend had seen a shrink one day and the next day was plucked from his house.

Over the previous two years, school records show, Anthony had been suspended from school on eight separate occasions -- once for tripping fellow students and cussing in class and twice for threatening to beat up his teacher.

Fresno Unified, citing student privacy, declined to comment for this story. Superintendent Michael Hanson turned down numerous requests for an interview about the dropout and truancy crisis in general.

Even though Anthony qualified as a "habitual truant," missing 46 days of school with no valid excuse over a three-year period, Fresno Unified never referred Anthony and his mother to the School Attendance Review Board, records show. This process would have triggered an initial meeting with school officials to address his truancy and then a follow-up meeting with representatives from the superintendent's office, county probation, mental health and law enforcement to come up with a corrective plan.

The pizzas had vanished, and Ruiz reminded everyone that they needed to hurry to the cemetery if they were going to make it to the church on time. "We'll have the cake there," she told them.

They drove past the vineyards and orchards and ball fields to a cemetery on the outskirts of Parlier. As they walked up to Junior's grave, his aunts told the young men to take off their ball caps. Ruiz had handed them 3-by-5 cards and balloons.

"I want you to write down what you didn't have a chance to tell Junior when he was alive," she said. "Then tie the cards to the balloons."

They sang "Happy Birthday, Chango" and added the part that "he looks like a monkey and smells like one, too." Anthony lingered on the periphery as the balloons slowly made their way skyward over the orchard, and everyone cheered.

Staring at Junior's grave, Ruiz seemed paralyzed. Out of nowhere, Anthony popped up and began spraying Silly String in her face. "It's time for you to get a life," one of his aunts yelled at him.

They placed 18 candles in the ground and set out the cake. Ruiz had forgotten to bring a knife to cut it. No problem. One of Junior's crew reached into his jacket and pulled out an 8-inch blade. They cut Junior a big fat piece and left it by the candles.