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Valediction

After school, after football practice, every day for three years, John and I walked to the grocery store in our little town and bought candy, potato chips, and soda pop. It was a ceremony. We said hello to the old couple who owned the store, stepped into the walk-in cooler, grabbed our cold drinks, paid for them and our other snacks, and headed to John’s house or mine, depending on what our parents were planning to cook for dinner.

It was an average life for two average kids.

But, one day, in November of our senior year, John and I, as usual, stepped into the cooler and grabbed our favorite cans of pop. But then we looked at each other and we both had the same thought. I don’t know why it happened. Without saying a word, John and I grabbed three six-packs of soda and stuffed them into our duffle bags. Carrying the carbonated loot, we paid for our usual junk food, walked to John’s house, raced into his bedroom and celebrated. We drank all that pop and got wound up and stupid on sugar and caffeine. We could have stolen beer but we were athletes. And jocks did not get drunk in our school.

The next morning, we met up before school, and vowed to never do it again. One time was kind of innocent, but more than that would be criminal.

But after practice that night, we did it again. Then again the day after that. We shoplifted for a week.

The thrill and guilt grew bigger each time.

We joked and laughed with the old people who owned the store. We paid for five bucks of snacks as we stole twenty more.

Then I couldn’t do it anymore.

“John,” I said. “We have to stop. We’re going to get caught. They’ll kick us off the team. They might throw us out of school.”

“Just one more time,” he said. “Come on, Pete. They’re too old to catch us.”

“I can’t do it, man.”

“You’ve always been a wuss.”

I walked home alone while John went to the store. I thought he might text or call me after he left the store. I didn’t hear anything from him.

When I got to school the next morning, I immediately heard the bad news. John had been caught shoplifting. I knew they’d wonder how I was involved. John and I went everywhere together.

Halfway through first period, I was summoned to the principal’s office. He was there with the superintendent, the school counselor, and the football coach. It felt like an interrogation.

“Peter,” the principal said. “I’m sure you know why you’re here.”

“Because of John,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “Did you know what he was doing? Were you involved?”

I wanted to tell the truth. I knew that I should confess. But it felt like I’d destroy my life by admitting to the crime. I wondered if John had already told them that I’d stolen nearly as often as he had. Did he do the right thing?

“Pete,” the principal asked again. “Were you involved in this?”

“No, sir,” I said.

They all studied my face. They knew I was lying. They wouldn’t let me get away with it.

“Okay, Pete,” the principal said. “John already told us he did it alone.”

I could tell they hadn’t believed him, either. But there was nothing they could do. I hadn’t confessed and John had denied that I was a thief, too. He was kicked off the football team, sentenced to community service picking up litter around town, and was suspended from school for a month.

During that month, he and I didn’t see each other. We didn’t call or text. We’d been constantly together for years but things had changed. I don’t know why he didn’t contact me. But I was too ashamed to talk to him. I’d let him take all the punishment. I kept playing football. I didn’t have to scoop up dog shit while my classmates watched. I wasn’t suspended. And my reputation wasn’t ruined. I wasn’t branded as a good kid gone bad. In fact, some people thought John had betrayed me by shoplifting and nearly getting me into trouble.

When John came back to school, he wouldn’t look at me. And I wouldn’t look at him. This silence went on for the rest of the year. We ignored each other at our graduation ceremony. Our parents ignored each other, too.

Late that night, at a kegger down by the river, we stood at separate campfires. I didn’t drink anything. But he got really drunk. I was worried for him. He caught me staring. He threw his beer into the fire and staggered up to me.

He grabbed me by my shirt and shook me.

“You aren’t who I thought you were,” he said.

“Neither are you,” I said.
gpt
Valediction

After the monotonous routines of school and football practice, day after day for three long years, John and I embarked on our ritualistic pilgrimage to the humble grocery store in our quaint little town. Candy, potato chips, and soda pop adorned our baskets, as if offerings to a forbidden sanctuary. It was a ceremony, a familiar dance etched into the fabric of our mundane lives. We exchanged pleasantries with the aging couple who presided over the store, disappearing into the chilled embrace of the walk-in cooler. Our hands grasped the icy allure of our chosen beverages, and with a nod of acquiescence, we sealed our fates. The transaction completed, our pockets weighed down by the weight of our guilty pleasures, we embarked on our respective paths, destined for either John's house or mine, dictated by the whims of our parents' culinary intentions.

In the realm of two average kids, our existence seemed defined by banality.

But then, one fateful day in the cold embrace of November, during our final year of high school, something inexplicable occurred. As we stepped into the cool haven of the store, our eyes met, and a silent understanding passed between us. The origin of that shared impulse eluded us, lost in the labyrinth of our subconscious minds. Without uttering a word, John and I seized three six-packs of soda, secreting them within the depths of our duffle bags. Laden with our ill-gotten carbonated treasures, we surreptitiously paid for our usual assortment of junk food, hastening to John's sanctuary or mine. In the sanctum of his bedroom, we reveled in our audacity. We consumed every drop of soda, surrendering ourselves to a tempest of sugar and caffeine-induced euphoria. We could have pilfered beer, yet our status as athletes forbade such indulgence. Jocks were not meant to succumb to inebriation within the halls of our revered institution.

The following morning, we reunited before the dawn of a new day, pledging to renounce our transgressions. One instance of juvenile innocence, perhaps forgivable, but beyond that threshold lay the realms of criminality.

And yet, after that night's practice, we succumbed to temptation once more. And again the next day. Our shoplifting spree spanned an entire week.

With each passing theft, the intoxicating blend of thrill and guilt swelled within us.

We bantered and chuckled with the elderly store owners, masquerading behind the facade of innocence. We paid for a paltry sum of five dollars' worth of snacks while surreptitiously pocketing an additional twenty.

But then, a breaking point shattered the fragile equilibrium.

"John," I mustered the courage to speak. "We have to cease this madness. We're risking everything. We'll be caught, expelled from the team, and potentially expelled from school."

"Just one more time," he retorted, his voice laced with reckless bravado. "Come on, Pete. They're too feeble to apprehend us."

"I can't do it, man," I confessed, my resolve faltering under the weight of impending consequences.

"You've always been a coward," his words pierced my heart.

Alone, I trudged the path homeward, while John ventured to the store. I anticipated a text or a call, a desperate plea for solidarity, a lifeline amidst the chaos. But the deafening silence persisted.

As I entered the hallowed halls of our educational institution the next morning, a gust of foreboding news greeted my ears. John had been apprehended, caught in the act of shoplifting. The inevitable questions followed. How was I involved? John and I were inseparable, two sides of the same coin.

Midway through the first period, I received a summons to the principal's office. There, an assembly of authority awaited me— the principal, the superintendent, the school counselor, and the football coach. The room bore the weight of an imminent inquisition.

"Peter," the principal's voice reverberated, brimming with knowing authority. "I'm certain you're aware of the reason for your presence here."

"Because of John," I answered, my voice a mere whisper.

"Yes," he affirmed. "Did you know of his actions? Were you complicit?"

The truth beckoned, a gnawing urge within me. I understood the necessity of confession. Yet, the repercussions loomed, threatening to obliterate the life I had known. Did John already divulge the extent of my involvement, implicating me in a web of guilt? Did he do the honorable thing?

"Pete," the principal pressed, his gaze probing the depths of my soul. "Were you an accomplice in this crime?"

"No, sir," I lied, the words a brittle facade stretched across the chasm of my deceit.

They scrutinized me, their piercing gazes unmasking my falsehood. They refused to let me escape unscathed.

"Very well, Pete," the principal declared, his tone laden with reluctant acceptance. "John has already confessed to acting alone."

I sensed the lingering doubt that clung to their minds, their unspoken suspicion of the truth. But in the absence of my confession and John's denial of my involvement, their hands were tied. John was banished from the football team, handed the penance of community service, and suspended from school for an agonizing month.

During that interminable period of separation, we became strangers to one another. No calls, no texts. The unbreakable bond forged over years of camaraderie shattered. The weight of shame held me captive, preventing me from reaching out. I let John bear the brunt of the punishment, while I continued to play football, blissfully untouched by the spectacle of picking up litter under the scrutinizing gaze of our peers. I remained unsuspended, my reputation unscathed. Yet, an insidious undercurrent of betrayal crept through the whispers of some, as if John had betrayed me with his theft, nearly ensnaring me in the mire of his actions.

When John finally returned to school, he averted his gaze, an impenetrable wall erected between us. And I mirrored his silent rejection. The void of our unspoken words persisted throughout the year, casting a palpable shadow over our graduation ceremony. Our parents mirrored our silence, their connection severed by the echoes of shame.

Under the cloak of darkness, amidst the revelry of a riverside kegger, we stood at opposite ends of separate campfires. Liquid courage coursed through his veins, while I abstained from its siren song. Intoxication marred his faculties, and in his altered state, he noticed my gaze fixed upon him. With a vehement motion, he hurled his beer into the fire, staggering toward me.

His fingers clenched my shirt, his grip a vice.

"You are not the person I believed you to be," his voice trembled with disillusionment.

"Nor are you," I retorted, our words a whispered lament in the abyss between us.