My penchant for mischief began in fourth grade when I learned teachers were not gods with infinite wisdom, but just plain old grown-ups. I no longer cared about earning good grades, so I found self-worth in the attention of my peers. To me, making classmates laugh was like putting on pajamas warmed from the dryer.

           I guess the principal of Holm Elementary School, Mr. Webster, took me for a misunderstood whiz kid with my thick glasses and brown hair parted to the right. He looked at my rowdy classroom behavior and advanced test scores and decided I was not being challenged. He bumped me up to fifth grade with three months left in the school year.

           If any student deserved to skip a grade, it was my buddy Josh. Teachers liked him because he was mild-mannered, earned straight A’s, and even starred as Charlie Brown in the school play. I liked him because he laughed at my jokes. My birthday is just three days after his, and our houses were separated by a five-minute bike ride. Children can build lasting friendships on a foundation of close birthdays and nearby houses.

           Another buddy I left behind was Jason. His house was across the street from Holm, even closer than Josh’s. Jason was born fourteen days after I was, with the same unruly, mischievous streak. The first time I knew he and I would get along was during a classmate’s birthday party. We picked crabapples from the backyard tree and threw them at the girl next door. Another time, we came across wet cement by Holm Elementary’s front entrance; our handprints are still there. But when two boys are too much alike, the relationship eventually implodes. Our parting came in a fistfight during recess.

           Young children value a friend the way they value chewing gum. As soon as it loses flavor, they spit it out and happily wait until the next piece comes along. I did not speak with either Josh or Jason until almost four years later.

           Middle school was one long trip to the principal’s office. Angry teachers banished me from their classrooms for the same reasons Mr. Webster advanced me: I refused to work despite my ability, and I was a genuine smart-ass. I spent more time with the principal, Ms. Betz, than either of us would have liked, so do you think she believed me when I told her I wanted to repeat the eighth grade?

           “I don’t have time for this, Gabe.”“I’m serious, Ms. Betz. I’m not ready for high school.” My attempt to sound confident failed. I sounded like a scared kid.

            She dipped her chin and looked at me over the top of her glasses, her face full of skepticism. “Is that so?” she stated more than asked. Ms. Betz proceeded to lecture me about personal responsibility, work ethic, and the importance of good behavior. As she droned on, I drifted off. I stared at the way her dyed blond hair remained motionless when her head moved, and I looked at her dark brown eyes that glared back from behind red glasses. For months I had tried to identify who she reminded me of, and then it hit me: Sally Jesse Raphael, the daytime talk show host. An unexpected laugh burst out of my mouth, interrupting her in mid-sentence.
 
            I would have received a kinder look had I spit in her face. “I knew you were full of it, Gabe. If you want to talk about this, maybe we should schedule a parent conference.” It was a threat. Parent conferences meant you were in trouble.

           The following week I dragged my parents into her office to discuss my request. I told them all how Mr. Webster unknowingly stripped my confidence by moving me forward. I told them how I started middle school behind and never caught up.

           “Well, our friend Gabe might just be on to something,” she said to my parents with a smile. I was stunned at how much warmer Ms. Betz was in the presence of adults. She presented a contract my parents and I had to sign if I wanted to attend Hamilton Middle School for another year. Every stipulation worried me: maintain a B average, no referrals, perfect attendance, and remain on task at all times. Any slip-up, and Ms. Betz would expel me from the school I knew. I wondered if high school might be better after all, but I scrawled my name on the dotted line.

           I needed to right a wrong.

           That summer I traded glasses for contacts, and shaved my head to give myself a mature, confident look. But by fall, I still felt the embarrassing sting of repeating a grade. The first day back I realized I was a head taller than every student in the school. My body had stretched to six feet two inches, but if I had gained a pound since fourth grade, you couldn’t tell. One of Hamilton’s many Spanish-speaking students gave me the nickname Condorito. Condor. It stuck, and as I walked through the halls, the moniker was hurled at me like spitballs from every direction.

           Lunchtime brought an upsetting moment that first day. I slid my tray down the line, received a stale ham sandwich, and turned to face the cafeteria. My eyes jumped from table to table, looking for someone to sit with. Sitting alone feels like sitting naked. Sitting with the wrong person could bury your reputation in the part of the school garden marked, “LOSERS.” Standing too long reeks of desperation. I pity middle school students who still live this moment.

          “Gabe! Over here!” Josh had his hand in the air, inviting me to sit with him, Jason, and their friend, Evan. I immediately recognized his dark brown hair, thick eyebrows, and tan skin. What a welcome sight! I settled in at the table and quickly sensed they were also anxious about the first day of school. Josh asked me about teachers, and I told them which ones were tyrants and which ones still liked kids. We talked about girls. Jason pointed out the most attractive ones and, of those, the ones to avoid. I got the feeling each of them had had success with girls. Especially Evan. He was a blond soccer player with a mellow disposition that was my opposite.

           A certain comfort joined us at the table, a flow of laughter and conversation that implied familiarity. I remember thinking it was too bad lunchtime only lasted twenty-six minutes.

          “ I diligently obeyed the laws of the contract for the first few months of school. My report card made my parents’ faces shine, and my name never appeared on a referral. I’m sure Ms. Betz appreciated our limited contact as much as I did.

            Some of my success belonged to Josh, who never brought his backpack to class and still earned straight A’s. Whenever I whispered for his help during Algebra class, he would whisper the answer back, always correct.

            I was much less productive during Geography and English, where Jason and I pushed each other to new levels of immaturity. As he once put it, “We teamed up to make fun of the world.” And his laugh! It was like a hyena’s, only louder and an octave higher. Jason was living in the phase of puberty where boys’ voices crack at every other word; his laugh even cracked. When he found something humorous, not even the cruelest teachers could keep a straight face. So after I shot a rubber band at a girl’s butt one English class, I expected to hear his laugh. When it didn’t come, I knew something was awry.

         “What’s wrong, man?” “Nothin’.”
         He was antsy, distracted. “Yeah there is, you keep looking at the clock. What’s with you?”
         “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
         “Quit bein’ a bitch and just tell me.” That got him.

He hesitated a moment, turned his head to see if anyone was listening, then slowly leaned toward me.

           “All right, you pussy. Check this out,” he whispered. “Me, Josh, and Evan have this plan. As soon as the bell rings, we’re gonna ride our bikes to Wendy’s. Have lunch there, and ride back.”

          “Are you serious? There’s no way you can pull that off.”

          “Yeah right. Wendy’s is only like a mile away.”

           “Exactly! That’s one mile both ways. Plus waiting in line, and you’re gonna eat there, too? Lunchtime is only twenty-six minutes!” In trying to dissuade him, I was merely hiding my initial disappointment. Why wasn’t I included? I suddenly felt stupid for thinking a few months of camaraderie was enough to make up for the last three years they had together. I was still on the cusp of their friendship, on the outside looking in.

           He leaned back into his seat and looked at the clock. I could see in his eyes that he would not be discouraged. Jason had a pair of sky blue eyes set between long lashes that matched his black hair. Girls had no defense against those eyes. I thought they looked feminine, but at that moment they were resolute and determined. I paused, then tapped him on the arm.
          “Let me come.”

         “It’s too late. We met up this morning and left our bikes at Holm.” Our elementary school is next door to Hamilton, separated only by a chain-link fence.

        “We set the bike lock combinations so they’re only one number off. That way we can just grab ‘em and go.”

         “Well, I can take the LowRider.” The LowRider was a busted old bike Jason and Evan had found the year before. They had attached new handlebars, fixed the broken chain, and replaced the tires. The rear wheel was half the size of the front wheel. The bike had no seat, no brakes, and it was no fun to ride. It was collecting dust in Jason’s garage.

         “I don’t think so, Gabe.” His smugness irritated me, but before I could tell him so, the teacher barked at us for talking in class. I gave him a look that said, I’m coming. He gave me a look that said, I know. 
         The bell rang and we were out the door before it stopped.

         We dashed to our lockers, chucked our backpacks in, raced down the hall, and blew out of the side doors. Evan was already climbing the fence. Josh burst from the adjacent doors at full sprint and yelled, “What are you doing, Gabe?” I ignored the question. We scrambled over the six-foot chain link and landed on the other side with a collective thud. We ran to Holm’s bike rack, and while they unlocked their bikes, I said between breaths, “We gotta get the LowRider.”
          Jason said, “I told Gabe.”

         “Oh, really?” Evan replied as he swung one leg over his bike. “All right, let’s go!” I chased them down the path, between the pine trees on the lawn, through the parking lot, and across the street to Jason’s house. His bike fell to the driveway as he hopped off and rushed to his front door. He lifted a stepping-stone, grabbed the house key, and ran inside to open the garage. The sun was bright, but the sharp November wind reddened my ears with cold.

          “Shit!” Evan cried. “It’s Ms. Betz!” I turned to see a forest green Lexus moving toward us. Panic drenched my insides. Jason swung open the garage door and screamed, “Get in! Get in!” Josh and Evan pushed me inside, and ducked in behind me. We ran into the house and peered out the front window. I was too distracted to notice they didn’t just run inside themselves. They pushed me in first.
          “Did she see us?” I asked. They were silent, as if Ms. Betz would hear them and suspend them on the spot. She slowed down and frowned at the bikes in Jason’s front lawn. It was the first time I thought about the possible consequences of leaving school grounds, and I became short of breath.

          “Dammit, Gabe! We just lost about three minutes!” Jason complained, after she eventually drove away. “We gotta hurry, come on!” Nothing was said about returning to school. I wasn’t about to suggest it, especially since I was the reason they were almost caught.

          Evan’s bike glided into first place. Years of playing soccer had turned his legs into proficient bicycle motors. Josh, who was a decent athlete himself, was not far behind. Jason was a close third, and three school buses could have fit between him and me. I was almost grateful I wasn’t closer, because if they had seen my skinny legs struggling to pedal that ridiculous little bike, they would have laughed at me the entire ride.

         We rode through bike paths and side streets that eventually spit us out onto Hampden Avenue, a six-lane street too busy to cross without a green light. They were waiting for the light to change when I finally caught up. Cars blurred in front of us.
         “Gabe, you are really draggin’ ass,” said Evan. Years later, if I ever need unfiltered honesty, I call on Evan.

        “Hey, maybe I can ride your ten-speed and you can take this piece of crap.”

        “No, thanks.” The light turned green, and we rode across the street, alongside a cemetery, and into Wendy’s parking lot.

         As we walked inside the fast food restaurant, we let out a moan. Six people stood in line in front of us; none of them seemed as pressed for time as we were. The menu reminded me that I had not brought my wallet to school that day. Even if I had, there was no money in it. I nudged Jason with my elbow and said, “Can you spot me?”

         “Are you serious?” He sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.

        “What’s the big deal? You know I’ll pay you back.”

        “You still haven’t paid me back from the last time I loaned you money. I’m not giving you a dime.”

        “You’re a punk, Jason. You know that? That’s why I beat you up in fourth grade.”

        “Yeah right, I killed you!” Josh and Evan chuckled as we bickered back and forth. I’m sure the other patrons heard us, and thought round two was imminent. Before it came, Josh handed me a five-dollar bill. Jason and I still debate over who won that fight in elementary school. We have always had a sibling-like rivalry. I suppose that’s why, years later, he is my daughter’s godfather.

         We finally got our food and sat down to eat. The bright red vinyl seats were thrones compared to the backless metal benches our classmates were sitting on. The four of us joked about all the other students stuck with bland cafeteria food. You would’ve thought we were eating gourmet meals.

         I savored every morsel of my Junior Bacon Cheeseburger and Biggie fries. For months I had strived to abide by the countless constraints adults place on children, and breaking away from that was like stepping outside for the first time. With every bite, a sense of free will and independence grew inside of me. I wanted to lock the feeling in.

         “We have to leave,” said Josh, after he emptied his tray’s contents into the trash bin.

         “We got time, man. Let me finish.” I was the only one still eating. I chewed slowly, enjoying every bite.

         Jason slammed his fist on the table. “Dammit, Gabe! You wanna get caught?”

         “Put your booger in your pocket and let’s go!” Evan’s accidental mispronunciation of the word burger took the attention away from me. Jason let out his cackle of a laugh, and we began to tease Evan ruthlessly. I was thankful for the distraction, because I could finish my food without any hassle.

        We were still laughing at Evan when we stepped outside and hopped on the bikes. I asked what time it was, and the three of them looked at each other blankly.

        “Great. None of you geniuses brought a watch?”

        “Shit, we better hurry. I think we’re late,” said Jason. His words threw fear and reality straight to my stomach. I grabbed the LowRider and took off. We blazed past the cemetery, caught a green light, and crossed Hampden. Even with the head start, I dropped into last place again. The distance between them and me kept growing, and I began to picture Ms. Betz smiling wickedly as she kicked me out of school. Just as we reached the bike path (the halfway point), Josh slowed down until I caught up to him.

        “Here, take my bike,” he said. “You shouldn’t have come, Gabe.”

        “Why do you say that?”

        “Because you have a lot more to lose than we do. That’s why we didn’t tell you.” I paused and watched him pedal off atop the LowRider. To this day, Josh has never wavered in his loyalty and altruism. I was as grateful for his friendship then as I am now.

         I was still in last place as we sped past Jason’s house, through the parking lot, and skidded into Holm’s bike rack. We clambered over the fence and sprinted to the schoolyard.

        What I saw then made me want to sing. Students were still outside, waiting for the bell to ring.

        Josh, Jason, Evan, and I slowed our pace to a walk, which turned into a swagger. No words were spoken on that dirt field leading to the school. We simply glanced at each other’s faces, trading congratulatory nods and satisfied smiles.

       The four of us had taken control of our own lives, if only for twenty-six minutes. We felt like men. Masters of our fate. Owners of our destiny. Men. Men who laugh at the word booger…