Mom stroked my hair. “Flash will figure it out, Tate, but at the end of the day, you need to worry about who or what’s dictating your life.”
“Well, it’s not her boobs, I’ll tell you that.”
Mom chuckled. “Flash is your best friend, and I’m sure he’ll apologize when he’s ready, but try to remember that both of your bodies are flooding with hormones and—”
“Oh my god, Mom, gross. I don’t want to know about Flash’s hormone flood.”
“Fair enough.”
My phone buzzed on my nightstand, and I glanced at the screen. “It’s Flash.”
“I’ll leave you to take the call. Then come down for some ice cream, okay?”
“Okay, Mom. Thanks.” I answered the call. “Hey, French Fry.”
“Hey, Tater Tot.”
We sat in silence for a few seconds and then I heard his sigh through the phone.
“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you,” he said.
“Sorry you didn’t listen because Madison’s a slu...” I caught myself and channeled my inner kindness, limited though it was. “...um, a not so nice person, or because you got an ‘F’ on your test?”
“Can it be both?”
I shrugged. “I guess so.”
“I don’t want you to be mad at me anymore.”
“I never wanted to be mad at you in the first place,” I pointed out. “If I’m really your best friend, shouldn’t you listen to what I have to say before Madison shoves her boobies in your face?”
“But... they’re boobs.”
I glanced at my still flat chest and wrinkled my nose. “Gross, Parker.”
He chuckled. “Sorry.”
“I have to go.”
“Wait,” Flash said. “Seriously, I’m sorry. I promise I’ll be better about listening to your advice, okay?”
“Actions speak louder than words.”
“I know. I swear at god.”
I sighed.
“Swear at God” was an expression used only between me and Flash. Sacred words born from a childhood pact.
––––––––
When we were little, Flash would come to my house every day to play right after school. Our days were filled with seeing which of us could swing higher on my swing set (usually me) or ride our bikes faster (always Flash). His mother always said Flash was born on wheels. He was only two when he learned to ride a bike and never once used training wheels. His pride and joy, until recently, had been his first 50cc mini-bike. It was a Christmas present and his first step to being a grown-up biker like his dad.
One day when Flash didn’t come around to play like usual, I walked over to his house to find him alone in his back yard crying. His face was covered in a muddy mixture of gardening soil and tears.
“What’s wrong, Flash?” I asked, planting my knee in the dirt beside him. “How come you’re out here by yourself?”
“I have to pull all the weeds in the whole backyard,” he said, pointing to an already overflowing bucket full dirt and dandelions.
