Most of our days followed a simple pattern.
Mornings began with Andrea rushing into the classroom at the last minute, her bag barely hanging onto her shoulder, her ponytail bouncing as she slid into her chair.
"You're late again," I'd say.
"It's not late if the teacher isn't here yet!" she'd argue, catching her breath.
Lunchtime was spent either at our desks or in the cafeteria, depending on our mood. Andrea had a habit of trading food with me, even if we brought different lunches every day.
"If you didn't like tomatoes, why did you bring them?" I asked one time as she pushed her plate toward me.
"My mom made me," she admitted with a sheepish grin. "But you like tomatoes, right?"
"Yeah."
"Then it works out!"
That was how it always was—Andrea handing me the things she didn't like, and me taking them without a second thought.
After school, we usually walked together to the bus stop.
Andrea talked about everything—her favorite songs, her sister's annoying habits, the stray cat near her house, her struggles with history class. I listened. I always listened.
And when she tripped on a crack in the pavement, I reached out without thinking, grabbing her wrist before she could fall.
She looked up at me, surprised. "Whoa. That was smooth."
"You should watch where you're going," I said, letting go quickly.
Andrea blinked at her wrist for a moment, then laughed as if nothing had happened. "You're really like an old man."
She said that a lot. I never asked why.