Sometimes I just crave to be wild, I said.

He nodded.

That’s called being a rebel, he smiled.

We were sitting—just the two of us—in the hollow glow of the classroom light, laptops propped open. Mrs. Bloom had left us to work there—doors locked, janitors tucked in for the night. Her kid was sick, or her cows were calving, or some sort of emergency at home. She always had an emergency at home. And we were rebels.

He and I had been friends for years, neighbors since we were born. Our parents did business together, we started kindergarten the same year. I’d always felt like our hearts were connected by an invisible telephone wire. We sent secrets back and forth to each other that no one else would be able to understand.

Even though our hometown was a farming community, we were the only two in our grade who understood what it was like to do chores on a Sunday morning at 6 a.m. We were the only ones who had callused hands from carrying buckets of feed and spent our weekends working cattle.

Our hearts were connected because we both knew how it felt to grow up learning that the earth was sacred, how to respect it, how to soak it up into the soles of our feet. And we were rebels.

He was a cowboy, competed in rodeos. Drove too fast in his black Camaro with the T-tops down. Listened to rap music too loud for our little town. Snuck out at night, drank too much.

And I lied to my parents, wore things that looked more like art and less like clothing. Snuck out at night to look at the stars and listen to classical music. Drew road maps and escape routes on the back of my hands. Memorized them. Memorized how I would leave, how I would get out.

He stood up, circled the room. Smiled. Propped his knee up on a chair, rested his chin on his fist.

You know what I mean, though, I continued. I just wanna be wild.

He smiled again.

Yeah, I know.

So, when I miss him too much, feel guilty for never saying goodbye, blame him for leaving too soon, hate him for escaping without me—I just close my eyes.

And I can still see him there—looking like Aristotle, looking like he had all the answers. Chin propped on fist, and oh so wild, wild, wild.