Over the next several days, Joey was escorted into the classroom just before the bell by his mother. He never had a backpack, his book, or even a pencil. He would grudgingly plop himself into his seat, and bury himself in his bomber jacket. The teacher ignored him as much as he ignored her, and each day seemed to be a battle of wills between Joey and the teacher, judging who would crack first. Then the second the recess bell rang, Joey marched over to the fence gate and picked it open as if he held a key instead of a paper clip. He'd disappear in a flash, and I clung to the fence and watched him go.

The rare time he stayed the whole day, or when his mother returned with him at lunchtime, I followed behind him to the diner where his mother worked, and she'd give us almost anything we wanted. We feasted on ice cream and day old cookies and cakes, while drinking enough soda pop I'd feel bloated - if not sick.

The first day I followed him, Joey hopped up from his chair once a couple had left the diner and grabbed the dirty plates left on their table. "What are you doing?" I asked, curiously watching him.

"Math problems," he retorted, sticking out his tongue. He carried the dishes over to the counter, and ducked under the panel that the adults would raise to get into the back. I picked up the used glasses and followed after him, wondering if we would get in trouble. The cook and two waitresses didn't stop us as Joey led me to a large sink along the back wall. He scraped the food off the plates into trashcans and dumped them into the soapy water. I emptied the glasses down the drainer before dropping them into the sink also, making two identical plops before they bobbed merrily like boats. I quickly moved after Joey who didn't wait for me, and we carried three more loads of dishes to the sink before returning to our snacks. Joey's mother came back from serving several booths, and looked surprised at the cleared tables before smiling. She turned to us and kissed Joey's forehead, a sign of affection he batted away with his hand and a grumble of protest, and then mine. It felt strange - to feel a mother's kiss again, even if it wasn't my own.

It made me feel homesick, and at the same time gave a flood of relief, like a breath of air I had been holding for a long, long time.

Upon returning home later than usual, grandmother met me on the porch with an upset glare. "Where have you been?" she demanded. "Sam, you're two hours late!"

"Hanging out with some kids who talked to me at school," I answered her, reminding myself I was really only half lying. Her angry face immediately changed, as a broad smile crossed her face.

"That's wonderful Sam!" she ushered me into the house, beaming proudly. "Granddad, Sam's made some new friends at school. Isn't that wonderful?" She ran her fingers through my hair, as if combing the already short-cropped locks. "Well, I don't mind you playing with your new friends as long as it's not too late, alright Sam?" I nodded, grateful she bought it.

Grandpa, on the other hand, wasn't fooled. "Joey Keys?" he asked the second Grandma left the room. I slowly nodded, afraid of what he would say. But he only smiled and sat back in his chair to continue watching his show.

"How'd you guess?" I questioned quietly, glancing at the doorway in which Grandma had vanished.

"Old men at diners don't have much to do during the day," he teased, and nothing more was said on the subject, although I did become a little wary of who was around when Joey and I were out and about together. We started spending more time outside than in the diner. Joey showed me a dirty old riverbed, the water moving sluggishly along overgrown with moss and weeds. The water was a murky brown and only reached our knees, but Joey promised during spring, the rains would swell the river so deep it'd be up to our chests.

"And even though it looks like there's nothing in the river..." Joey started, before plunging his fist into the muddy river bottom. He came up with a handful of thick, black-brown mud, which hid worms and some strange sort of snail. "There's plenty."

"Where does it go?" I asked, following the river's flow under it disappeared.

"To a lake, over that way. It's stocked fishing, and you need a permit. But I go all the time and rarely get caught. You just claim you didn't know." Joey grinned, and I had to smile also.

"I've never been fishing," I stated.

"We'll have to go then."

The other place we went to a lot was an abandoned car lot, where rusted out shells of old cars that spanned several decades squatted. We climbed through the doors and windows of various cars and pretended we were driving, imagining that the cars around us were moving along a highway going somewhere - although we never knew where. I started up a collection of old keys, taking them home and scrubbing them in the bathroom sink until they were shiny again before stringing them onto a piece of fishline I stretched across the posts at the foot of my bed. We found other, stranger things lying about. A baseball cap with the stitching of a logo torn out, the cover of a thick book but no pages, an old toy train, a magnifying glass with no handle, and a perfectly good picture frame.

"Why do people throw this stuff out?" I wondered as Joey held up the picture frame. "It doesn't make sense."

"Since when does anything make sense?" Joey retorted, holding up the frame to the sinking sun and orange sky, as if he could capture the image and take it home to put on his wall.

One day, Joey showed me an old van, the back doors ripped off and blankets strewn about inside. "The high school kids come here all the time," he stated. "They play music and dance and drink and pretend they're adults." He picked up a half finished beer bottle, and chucked it out the back where it smashed on the hood of a pick-up. "It's gross," he declared. Whether he meant the beer or the actions of the teenagers, I never found out.

Even though we spent very little time anywhere people could see us together, stories started running rampant in the school yard. Being the only one to volunteer to work with Joey, I got bombarded with questions. In fifteen minutes, one kid spoke to me more than the whole class had since I arrived.

"What does he do all day when he doesn't come to school?"

"I don't know," I replied quite honestly.

"My dad says he's good for nothing," one boy quipped. "Joey's going to be a criminal when he gets older."

"Joey has never stolen anything," I hotly defended my new friend.

"What's his dad like?" a girl asked, leaning on my desk with her elbows. "Everyone says he doesn't work enough to support his family."

"No, he does. It just all gets spent on beer," someone retorted, and everyone laughed as if it were some funny joke. I felt horrible that they were talking about Joey and his family like that. I hadn't met his father yet, as Joey always claimed he was away for work, but his mother was hard-working and kind. She reminded me a bit of my own mother, though not much. Later when we were at the diner, I told Joey what had been said about him and was surprised when he just laughed.

"Stupid twittering parrots. They always have to say something," he replied easily, as he maneuvered more debris from the diner floor into the dust pan I held. I frowned as I dumped it out into the trashcan.

"But still...they shouldn't talk like that."

"They're going to whether you like it or not," he retorted easily, putting the broom back behind the counter and running his hand through his shaggy hair. "There's a few stories about you too, you know."

Taken back, I demanded, "Like what? What can they say about me?"

"Why you don't live with your parents," he shrugged. "Why you hang out with me."

"Well..." I paused, searching for an answer to the second one and finding none. He grinned at me cheekily, shoving his hands into the pockets of his ragged brown jacket.

"So, don't listen to them."

His mother came out from behind the counter, holding the broom and pan. She looked at the clean floor, puzzled, before spotting Joey and I. "Thank you boys," she smiled warmly at us. "Joey, why don't you and Sam go home and watch some TV? There's some ice cream in the fridge, I think."

"Alright," he replied easily, while my pulse quickened. After days of avoiding his house, he readily agreed to leading me to it. "Let's go." He headed for the door, not checking to see if I was behind him. I snatched up my backpack and thanked his mother for the snacks before following. His strides, long and confident, were faster than mine and I had to race to catch up and fall in step next to him.

"Hope you don't mind vanilla and strawberry," he stated casually. "I already ate all the chocolate."

"That's fine," I replied quickly.

He led me to the railroad tracks, which he ran along the metal railing for several yards and I ran beside him on the wooden planks. His worn, falling apart sneakers were sure and never failed him, each time landing securely on the rail. We crossed the trainyard where all the cars were parked, then hiked through some trees and jumped over a chainlink fence before landing into Joey's backyard. I knew there were easier ways to get to his house, just from keeping track of where we were going in my head, but Joey's way seemed not only faster, but much more entertaining.

The backyard was mostly hard-packed dirt, and no grass grew except for a few scraggily weeds. Several rusted motorcycle parts squatted on the dirt like old skeletons, and various bits of garbage that had floated their way into the yard lay stuck in the weeds that caught and tangled about my legs. A scruffy, white dog with black and brown splotches started barking at us. "Ahh, shaddup Chevy," Joey retorted, and the dog ceased. He sniffed at my pant legs, and I quickly followed Joey into a sad-looking, squatty house.

"Is that your dog?" I asked as I shut the door behind me, struggling momentarily as it grated and caught.

"Yeah." Joey offered no further explanation and probably wouldn’t give one if I asked. He walked through a narrow hallway, pulling his characteristic jacket off and hanging it on a coat rack. I waited in the room we had entered, hosting the TV and several tired-looking, mismatched couches, separated from the kitchen by a table covered in various junk. He came back through the kitchen, opening the freezer door of an old lime-green fridge and pulling out a box carton of ice cream.

I stepped around the table as Joey pulled down two chipped and unmatched bowls from the shelf. "Vanilla or strawberry?" he offered.

"Vanilla please."

Joey dished out a more than generous portion into each bowl, and dug out chocolate syrup from the fridge. He drowned his serving, and I gave myself quite a lot more than grandma would allow even on my birthday. He hopped over the back of the couch, and as I walked around he dug a remote out from the cushions.

"What's your pick?" he asked.

"Cartoons," I replied, and he grinned. He hit the power button, and I discovered the channel was already at it's destination. We sat on the sagging, creaky couch as we stuffed our faces with ice cream and getting seconds. His mother came home at some point and only teased us about not needing dinner.

“Where’s Dad?” Joey asked, his mouth smeared with chocolate syrup and melted ice cream. “He said he would be home tonight.”

She gave a sad frown, and replied, “I’m sorry Joey. He said he got another run. He promised to take you next time.”

Joey returned his gaze to his bowl of half-finished ice cream, gripping his spoon like a killer in a slasher film would hold their knife. He prodded the pile of melting sugar, suddenly very hushed. I couldn’t see his face, hidden beneath his dyed hair.

“Joey?” I asked hesitantly.

He looked up at me, his face morose for only a moment before the usual appearance returned.

“Are you alright?”

“’Course I’m alright,” he scoffed confidently. “My stomach hurt a bit, that’s all. I ate too fast.” He punctuated his sentenced with a stab by his spoon and shoveled a pile into his mouth at once. He choked on it for a moment, before getting it down.

The phone rang, and I heard Joey’s mother answer it. A minute afterwards she walked over to the two of us. “Joey, I have to go to work,” she told him, moving for her bedroom.

“But you just got home!” Joey started, moving to his knees on the couch as he followed her with his eyes. “Moooom!”

She returned a moment later, wearing a different dress as she brushed her hair. “Well, Carol just called in sick and I need to fill in her shift.” She leaned over and kissed his forehead, which he frowned at. “There’s hot dogs in the freezer. You and Sam have fun and be good, alright?” She picked up her purse and waved as she exited through the door. “I’ll see you later tonight honey!” The door shut, and the only sound was now the cartoons playing. Joey still knelt backwards on the couch, staring after where his mother had vanished.

“Joey?” I tested gently.

He looked at me, making a face. “Work. Ick, huh?”

“Yeah," I agreed warily, unsure of exactly what he was asking. He turned around and slid back to the cushion in one fluid motion. He stirred his half-melted ice cream, until it blended with the chocolate syrup and sprinkles like a gooey mess. The colors ran together, and Joey simply stared at it.

Then he stood up and moved for the kitchen. "I'm never going to be that kind of adult," he announced, before dumping the bowl into the sink.