Once they got outside, John's eyes locked on to Whompy.

"Race you there!" he shouted, sprinting across the small lawn.

"No fair! Your legs are way longer!" Alex complained, running after him.

Whompy wasn't actually a willow tree; it was a large maple. Climbing Whompy was relatively easy because of a thick branch that bent downwards like a ramp until it touched the ground. The ramp branch had several large knot holes that served as sturdy footholds, making it easy to reach the branches above.

John was three branches above the ramp branch when Alex reached the tree, giving him an excellent view of Alex's arm muscles as he pulled his way up. How does a kid that spends hours in the library and typing on a computer get that muscular?! Hang on, where did that thought come from? Stop checking out your best friend.

He mentally slapped himself and continued climbing. He'd always loved climbing trees, feeling the rough bark beneath his fingers and the cool leaves against his face.

He kept going until he reached his sit spot. It was a nice sturdy branch about two-thirds of the way up the tree, with a view of the street almost as good as his fire escape's. Alex's sit spot was a few feet above his, because of course Alex had to climb the highest.

When he finally caught up, Alex hoisted himself into his sit spot and leaned back against Whompy's trunk. His right leg dangled down over the side of the branch he sat on that went over John's head. Alex inhaled deeply.

"I wish I could live up here," he said wistfully. John nodded in agreement. Being up in Whompy felt like he was elevated above all of his problems. The tree had been their safe haven for years. It was the first place they went whenever something went wrong.

If one of them had had a rough day, the other knew where to look. John had come up here every day for weeks when his mom had passed away. Alex had been there every step of the way during that terrible endeavor. That was two years ago, when they were just fifteen.

"Yo! Alex! Johnny!" shouted a deep voice from below.

"Lovebirds! Down 'ere!" chimed in a thickly accented French one. John would recognize those voices anywhere. He grinned down at the sidewalk.

"'Sup, Herc? Hey Laf!" he called down. Hercules Mulligan, known as Herc for short, was tall, dark, and an excellent tailor. He had a different beanie for every day of the week. Lafayette was slender, freckled, and had a mass of frizzy dark hair he kept tied back in a tight ponytail. He'd come from France when he was eleven.

Herc took one look at Alex and John nestled in Whompy's branches and began to sing in his booming voice,

"Hamilton and Laurens, sittin' in a tree, K-" his singing was stopped abruptly when a Nike shoe hit him in the stomach. John turned to see Alex missing a shoe, his arm still extended from the throw, looking as surprised as everyone else.

"That was dramatic," John said, and everyone burst out laughing. He couldn't tell for sure, but Alex didn't look like he was laughing as much as everyone else. Is he okay? Did Herc really embarrass him that much?

John felt a disappointed twinge in his stomach, but he wasn't quite sure why.