It does not matter. I will see Brigitta again. We will eat boxes of ice cream sandwiches, listen to loud music, and throw rocks at boys. Max was glued to my side as I went to the door.

I purge my thoughts of him and think about seeing my best friend again.

I know that I should be worried if she had gotten all giggly and girly and boy-whistling at, but I don't worry. Brigitta can take care of herself. It showed through her letters. I ran through all of the necessary details.
Jude Law was in.

Brad Pitt was out, and never had a chance in the first place.

We liked to make stupid lists of hot boys because we liked mocking the attention span of our youth. And because Brad Pitt was scruffy and dirty and runs around in skirts.

Russo had already developed an entourage of seniors by the time I found him. Mostly women, of course. Girls were the friendlier gender (right). In prides, lionesses were the ones who hunted and killed. An apt description for these seventeen or eighteen year olds.

Divide, conquer, devour.

I wave at Russo.

I hear a sound.

"Entrée!" About the right tone, high but not too high, hyper but not too hyper. I turn to see a girl clothed in blue tackle me, her dreadlocks hitting me in the face.

"Sidekick!" I yell back. We look at each other. We hug each other again.

Brigitta Rowan stands at five foot eleven, towering over me quite a bit in her hiking sandals. Blue tank, board shorts, and a gigantic backpack that was probably meant for backpacking in the mountains. Blonde hair braided into dreadlocks with white beads, a tan, along with silver sunglasses. She looked like she just stepped off the beach and into pasty springtime at Thomson High.

"What's with the backpack?" I asked her. It was about the size of a small country, and looked like it weighed a ton.

"It's my suitcase, I'm living out of it," Brigitta laughed, "Before me and Russo find somewhere to crash."

"Where's your board?"

"In Russo's car."

Brigitta lowered her sunglasses. Baby blue eyes sparkled.

"Just like old times, Deena baby."

Just like old times…When we were three years old and at the same daycare, finger painting on the walls. First grade, Brigitta saying dirty words that her brother taught her, and got both of our mouths washed out with soap. Third grade, we beat up some bully who was pinching Brigitta's sister, Gwen. Sixth grade, when Gwen drowned, and we sang songs at her funeral…Old times.

Trevor Simon. Eighth grade. Where Entrée and Sidekick made their debut.

We hug each other again. Brigitta stiffened as we pulled away from each other, her nose scrunched up like she smelled something bad.

Max was still there, but he reined himself in and walked the other way. Brigitta tore off her sunglasses, stalked up behind Max and grabbed him by the back of his polo shirt. She reined him in. Max's face had turned a deep, deep shade of red. I had forgotten all about those two.

If there was one person in the world who truly hated Maxwell Howard, it was Brigitta.

"Hi, Max," Her voice was cold, "Or should I call you Tom?"

Russo had somehow found his way out of the horde, and caught that last sentence.

"What?" He asked.

"As in Peeping Tom," Brigitta explained viciously, shoving Max into the wall. Max looked miserable.

"I told you, Bri…"

"Don't call me that, Max Thomas Howard, I still haven't forgotten."

The story of Max and Brigitta, oh yes.

Our apartment building was made up of three wings. The main wing, and two side wings, east and west, respectively. Brig's apartment was across from Max's, on opposite wings. One day, Brig was walking around in the privacy of her own room after a shower, and turns to see Max. Outside. On her balcony. She screamed bloody murder, but no one was home so she called me. By then, Max had hightailed it back to his apartment.

The two wings were connected by a garden, with dying trees and cement walls, but each apartment had their own personalized gardens that was walled off, to form balconies that curved around the building to the side that was not connected by the garden.

Somehow Max was there. Being dirty like Brad Pitt.

Brigitta had slapped Max, and threatened to dangle him over the walls. After she got dressed of course. I was too busy trying to not cry from my laughter.


I almost died watching Brig slam Max into the wall.

"I was twelve years old!" Max sputtered.

Brigitta's eyes flashed fire, "No excuses." She tossed him on the ground. Max ran away.


If we really lived in Rome, he would be fed to the lions. Mm, but I can't imagine him tasting very good.

Brigitta's mood turned a one eighty while Max was gone.

"I'm going to take over your house," She declared, happily. She stopped then, looked around. "Don't tell me that Trevor is still at this school though."

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Ugh," She crossed her arms, "Too bad."

"I'll have to introduce you to Patrick tomorrow," I told her.

"Patrick, eh?" I followed her to the car, got in.

When I glanced out the window I realized that a lot of the people at Thompson had witnessed this scene. Shocking, isn't it? I have friends. Friends who would beat up Max, and know of a senior who drove a convertible (courtesy of stepfather Kane).

Ride off into the sunset? Nah, but it would be nice if the story ended here, wouldn't it?