A/N; Please, if you start this story, then read it.

We were in sixth grade.

During math class, the last period we had before we went to lunch, I remember you getting up to grab a tissue, walking towards the box in a certain way so that you passed my desk, and then dropped a neatly folded up piece of paper. It fell onto the floor, but I covered it with my foot and brought it near me, then picked it up and hid it in my desk. Once you sat back down, and the teacher put her back to the class as she explained fractions, I unfolded the note and read what you had scribbled inside with a black gel pen. I remember they were your favorite kind of pen, but you always made a mess with them.

i hav sumthin kewl 2 show u at reces

My head turned to look at you as I stuffed the note in my pocket, and you smiled at me, mouthing the words ‘it really is cool’ before you looked away, just as the teacher was turning around. I began to pay attention as well, writing down the math problems on the board, solving them, checking them, and watching the clock as the minutes ticked by painfully slow, the words of the teacher going even slower. When that bell finally rang, I was absolutely relieved.

Putting my books away into my desk, I began to go into the closet to get my lunch, but you poked my on the shoulder and put a paper bag into my hands, telling me you already got my lunch for me. I smiled, quickly thanked you, and then we headed downstairs into the cafeteria. All I had was a sandwich, some chips, and a juice, but you gave me your granola bar that day since you didn’t like anything that was cherry-flavored. During the whole time, I tried to peek into your lunchbox, but you kept on telling me to wait because it was a surprise.

Finally, at recess, instead of throwing your lunch bag by the fence like everyone else did, you kept it with you and waited until everybody had left, either to talk, walk around, or play handball or tag. And then you brought me by the exit and opened your lunch bag, pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

“Isn’t this cool?” You asked me, putting it into my lap so I could see it. I didn’t touch it, I didn’t even pick it up, but I stared at the pack in front of me. It was blue with a little camel on it, a logo I almost always saw every cigarette pack.

Handing it back, I held it like it was covered it germs, trying to match the smile on your face. “Yeah, just like you said. It’s really cool.” I lied, playing with my hands, listening closely as you told me about how you found it on the counter, along with the lighter, and you were going to experiment when you got home since your parents wouldn’t be there. You invited me to go with you, but I made up some excuse saying I had to finish a report and study for a test. You were too excited to care, but said ‘maybe next time’.

From that point on, I never told you how uncomfortable I felt when you smoked at your house when it was just us. You told me not to say anything; you told me to promise. And then I said something.

“I won’t. I promise.

We were in seventh grade.

At recess, you brought me to the same spot you had a year ago when you first started smoking. You didn’t even give me a chance to throw my new lunch, green lunchbox down by the fence like all the other kids. Instead, as soon as we were outside, you grabbed my wrist and dragged me towards the corner, sitting me down and telling me to do the same. Even though that knowing you smoked on a regular basis made me feel weird around you, I still hadn’t stopped being your best friend. I couldn’t break the pact we had made in pre-K.

You had cast your eyes towards the ground, leaning over your lunchbox that sat in your lap. It was obvious you were afraid to say something, even to me, though you had made it seem urgent by the way you had made me come over to you. It had caught me by surprise, but I was always willing to hear what you had to say. It was my job as your best friend to let you know I always cared.

“Cory,” you finally began to speak, sounding upset, “I almost did drugs last night.”

I blinked in confusion, scooting closer and leaning down so that I could hear you better, thinking you had said something different. My imagination tended to mess around with peoples’ words, making something harmless and innocent seem like something more serious or even perverted. I couldn’t help myself, but you loved those kinds of jokes. “What?”

“I almost did drugs last night. Some kid on my block had them and offered me. It was right in my hand, I touched it, Cory.” You whimpered, turning to look at me, seemingly afraid. I could only guess I was the first and probably the one person you were going to admit this to, but with all the trust it took to say it, you appeared frightened that anyone had found out. “Promise you won’t tell.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

We were in eighth grade.

For that lunch period, my mother hadn’t packed me a drink. When I would ask her later on, she’d say that she swore she had given me a juice carton, but I knew she had just forgotten, like she was doing more often now with my new little brother. I really missed being an only child.

You were more than happy to lend me a drink, so I chose to take the bottle of water. To me, you looked pleased when I did, but I thought nothing of it as I unscrewed the cap and brought the rim up to my lips, taking a drink.

What entered my mouth wasn’t water, but something I found tasted disgusting and reminded me of how it felt to drink orange juice after I brushed my teeth. Even though, I forced down what I had collected in my mouth and then offered it back to you, along with the comment, “That water tastes weird.”

A grin broke out on your face as you drank from the bottle, making about half of its contents disappear without taking a break. Leaning forward towards me, you spoke, telling me what was really inside as soon as I figured it out. It was alcohol, and that was exactly how your breath smelled like. I knew from when my mother drank at parties, whenever she kissed me the scent from her lips remained, and I had to go through the whole night smelling like a beer bottle.

“It’s wine.” You whispered quietly, so that no one near us could hear, and then pulled away to take another innocent sip of your ‘water’. “I’ll let you have the Gatorade instead. It’s grape. Your favorite.” You told me, digging through your lunchbox, the pack of cigarettes you had stored in there almost falling out as the bag nearly tipped over. Once you got the drink, you slid it over to me, turning next to pull out a bag of Oreo cookies.

“Try not to get addicted.” I said, as softly as I could so that the boys behind us couldn’t listen on, but they seemed too interested in talking about last night’s baseball game. I could hear them arguing playfully about stats and coaches the salaries those men got paid to hit a ball. Because of this, we had no reason to not talk at a normal level.

“I won’t. It just relaxes me.”

Just like when you started smoking, I never said how uncomfortable I felt around you when you drank at parties, at gym, even during class time when the teacher wasn’t looking. And, one day when we were hanging out at the park, you made me promise not to say a thing to anyone.

“I won’t. I promise.”

We were in 9th grade, our first year of high school.

You had invited me to go over your house that day, and I gladly agreed. We were lucky to get no homework since our teacher was in a good mood, and with only one test to study for, a spelling one, that was a week away, I was eager to relax with my best friend.

Of course, you’re parents weren’t home. They both worked a full hour day, and had left you with a baby sitter until fifth grade. After that, they decided you were old enough to take care of yourself for a couple of hours while they were away. We were both fifteen now, and had been fortunate enough to go the same high school, so we got out at the same time, and you didn’t have anything to do that I didn’t have. That’s why I loved we had both gone to the same place after middle school.

We dropped out bags by the door as we immediately headed downstairs to the basement, our hangout for as long as we had known each other. It had gone through a series of transformations to coincide with our new interests as we grew older; first it was full of action figures, then a couch was added with a television, soon the toys were given away and replaced with posters of our favorite bands along with a radio, and the television was upgraded with an Xbox, a Game Cube, and a PS2. Games scattered the floor around that area, and many of the games weren’t in the right covers, but we knew by heart where each one was unless one of us decided to switch it. Putting them back where they belonged would probably mess us up rather than help us.

“Let’s play that new game you got.” I said excitedly, looking through the pile for its cover. You agreed, but said that you wanted to tell me something before we started. I listened as I continued to look, but you grabbed the game off the shelf, along with a bag, and handed it to me, watching as I put it in. “Okay. What’s up?”

You crawled onto the couch, patting the spot next to you so I could come, and the bag was already opened once I had sat down. At first, I blinked stupidly at what was inside when you showed it to me, but then I realized what is was quickly after you removed it. A syringe, filled to the top with a yellowish liquid. A drug.

“I got it for free.” You told me, sticking the tip into a vein on your arm like it was a common thing to do in a conversation. You did it so casually, so easily, without a thought, it looked like it was part of your nature. The vein bulged as the liquid emptied into your body, and you put the syringe inside the bag, looking at me. “Do you want to try?” you offered, a somewhat dazed look on your face. I shook my head and watched as you did it again, listening when you talked about our past. About sixth grade, seventh grade, eighth grade, about how I had been such a good friend, that he had never told his parents anything. You talked about your teacher and the dog you used to own, about the girl you had a crush on in first grade, about your favorite movies and shows, and you told me this story about when we had gone to three different amusement parks in one day, though that never happened. And then, once you were done, you turned to me, smiling, speaking, making me promise not to tell anybody, even if you died from this.

“I won’t. I promise.”

And now, what I see is you, Andrew.

I still see you when you were a little kid, back in pre-K, always smiling and laughing and making jokes. And I see myself, someone who was quiet and laidback and shy. And then I see us, being best friends through all these years, never letting our personalities or opinions get in the way, always willing to put our neck out for each other, to take the blame or stand up when the other one was getting beat up.

I can still see your innocence even as you lay cold and still in that casket. I can still see you smile, and I can hear you laugh. I can hear the excitement in your voice as you near the punch line of a joke. And I only have one thing to say to you.

“I’m sorry I promised.”

A/N; I'm somewhat proud of this story, and that's why I wanted you to read it. Because I'm actually somewhat satisfied. I thought of this idea in school, wrote the outline on a piece of paper, and typed it up. I like the whole idea of writing the outline, though. It's working out great for me.

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ily all bai

- Forwards, Bandit