It became a unspoken ritual to spend most of the day in each other's company. Fighting through the hallway crowds, scrambling for textbooks and backpacks, running while being told not to until we found the other, still trying to remember what homework was assigned (not to be done). I usually got to him first because I didn't even try to remember. I would grab his books for him, knowing what he'd need more than he did, to hurry up the process. The faster we got out of those hallways the better.

Sometimes we'd walk, sometimes we'd drive. Usually we went to his place, where the pitter of feet over spotless floors and shouts over lost video games were commonplace. The clean tile made me feel out of place, so we always went to his room. It was carpeted and slightly messy. The carpet and soft blankets insulated me against the rest of the house. It insulated me against his mother who was always watching with a policeman's judging stare. She would go through my backpack before I left, I knew.

Sometimes, when I was feeling brave, we would go to my place. I would lose my courage every time we got to the broken fence, went through the place where a gate should have been, tripped over the weeds in the concrete. I never let him inside. I would usually say it was because I lost my key, sometimes because my family was busy inside, and sometimes, when the truth was lodged nasty in my throat, because it was a mess in there. I just never wanted to answer "Why does he look at you like that?"

So we would sit in the brown backyard, backs against peeling fence posts, the crackle of the radio playing after a few kicks. The first few times I worried a lot about not having nearly as much to do, but that wasn't really the point. He never talked about any of it, never mentioned even the dirt patches in the lawn. My worry subsided.

When he got picked up he'd walk down to the nicer neighborhood first, tell his mom that's where he'd been. I went with him sometimes, though I got the same feeling there as I did with the tile. I didn't really care about the farce, sometimes I got a thrill out of the deceit (though now I realize she probably saw right through it). As long as the ritual stayed intact.