I remember, just after I turned eleven, I slept over at their house. On that particular day, Lottie was doing her thing, just had her headphones on in her room, and I was sitting at the kitchen table, fiddling with a pad of Post-its.

“How do you feel being eleven, Stevie?” Pete asked me, pulling up a chair.

I thought about it. I felt weird, kind of.

“Nine felt like ten,” I said. “And ten felt like eleven. But eleven feels like ten did … and I think that twelve … twelve will feel like one.” I meant that it felt like a galaxy away, a lifetime. Because I knew that I was on my way out of being a kid.

But he knew what I meant. He took the Post-its out of my hands and wrote down what I said and put my name and the date. He folded it in half and put it in the case of his phone to carry around with him. He was always doing stuff like that. We cooked dinners together, made birthday cakes, laughed about how solitary Lottie was sometimes while she just sat at the table reading while we gabbled away together. He was my friend, of a completely different kind.

Look, I have my own mom and dad. Lots of people do. But not many people ever get to have a Pete. And at least I did, if only for a time, even if that’s over. Now he doesn’t know how I feel; he doesn’t know what’s going on with me or Lottie or anyone else. And I’ll just add him to the list.

“I’m fine, kiddo. Thanks for asking.” He rapped my desk with his fist and told me I’d better get the lead out so I wouldn’t be late for class.

*   *   *

Dee and I are rounding the corner, and I can see, from the end of the street, that Reg’s car is in the driveway. Dee loops her arm into mine and gives me a buck up, soldier squeeze.

She comes in with me like a shadow, and I feel stronger.

I can hear them in the kitchen, laughing and flirting.

“Hey! Stevie!” Reg calls out as we try to go past. “Come try my world-famous barbecue chicken!”

“No thanks,” I mumble, glancing at Mom and wondering why our little family of two wasn’t enough anymore, and why he seems more comfortable in our kitchen than she does. I look at her face—beautiful, overly made up, her mascara making stamps on her eyelids—she’s a bowling alley queen, a mall debutant, and I love her and miss her. I’m always missing someone.