The thing is, unlike my dad—or Parker’s grandmother, whose death she struggled to cope with—some of Parker remained—the wild bits. She was, always a bit rebellious. But Parker in the after was more extreme, more reckless. And for that reason, Coach deemed her not just a distraction but a threat to my future because of her behavior at school, at least on the days she decided to show up. The same school we broke into the last night I saw her.

“There’s a fence for a reason,” I tell Parker. “To keep riffraff like us out.”

Parker grabs the links and lets out a laugh that’s too loud, considering we’re sneaking onto campus at night. “Riffraff? I thought we were rebels.”

“Same thing,” I offer.

“Not even close, Fitzy. But I guess with the clubhouse gone, we can rebrand.”

It was technically a treehouse Honey had built when Parker and her sister moved in full time after her father’s political career really kicked off when we were about to start Kindergarten. One day, when my ball went over the fence into the yard next door and was returned to me quickly, everything changed.

We played catch without talking that day. The next afternoon, Parker lifted a lose plank of the fence and asked me if I wanted to play on the same side. I crawled under, becoming a dirty mess, and soon enough was a regular in the Montgomery compound and a founding member of the Rebels Only club, established between the summers of first and second grade. It started off as a joke to keep Parker’s sister Madeline out of the treehouse. “Rebels only,” we’d call down to her as she tried to wrangle us inside. “No goody-two shoes allowed.”

I did whatever Parker did, which meant defying bedtime or coming in for dinner, digging holes where we were told not to—all the best kinds of childhood trouble that centered around our clubhouse that was disassembled almost a year ago after Parker’s parents inherited the home when Honey died and her mother deemed it an eyesore.

Everything changed a year ago today.

“Let’s go,” I tell her. “There’s probably a security guard making rounds.”

“Just go home before your mom notices you’re gone, chicken.” Parker bawks at me.

It’s not her words that hurt me—I’m not that much of a baby. It’s the fact that she thinks they’re true, that my mom has tightened my leash, when really, Coach has, worried that Parker might drag me down the wrong path. But sneaking out and breaking into school grounds? This is child’s play. Last month, Parker stole a car.

I take one step back and charge. By the time I run and reach it, I’ve got little left to climb.