We're Going to Be Friends

September 1926

Steve stood awkwardly in the street, peering through the school gates at a teeming crowd of children. He would have bet his freshly blacked boots that he was the only eight-year-old coming here for the first time. Of course it wasn't his fault he had been sick so often that he missed the first two years of school.

The bells chimed from a nearby church and his mother started. "Sure, I'm going to be terribly late." She bent to kiss his cheek, and brush the blond hair off his forehead. "Sorry I can't take you in, but I must run. You'll be alright; I told the teacher to keep an eye out for you. Love you, laddie boy."

"Love you too, Mama," he whispered, kissing her back.

She gave him a gentle push in the direction of the big front doors and then she was gone, dashing across a busy street on her way to work at the hospital. Steve watched until she vanished around the corner, her coat a bright blue flash against the red brick buildings. He sucked in a deep breath, turned, and marched up the walkway.

Unfortunately he was so focused on the front doors that he failed to notice a foot stuck out in his path. He tumbled down on his face—thankfully on the grass not the pavement—losing his grip on his books and lunch pail in the process.

"Hey, Shrimp," chirped a voice. "Look where you're going." The words were followed by a chorus of laughter.

Gingerly Steve rolled over, spat out some grass and grit, and stared up at a big, rather ugly boy, whose eyes narrowed into a glare. "You'd better watch out, baby boy."

"I am not a baby," Steve said, scrambling to his feet. "And I did not run into you. You tripped me."

The bully's face was turning a deep red and as Steve finished speaking he stepped forward, rage distorting his features. "You little piece of horse–"

"Watch your language," Steve blurted, then instinctively threw his fists up to ward off the blow.

The first one knocked him sprawling and he gasped, sheilding his face with one hand. His mother would not be pleased of he got blood on his new shirt. He clenched his jaw, waiting, and trying to find the strength to get up again.

But no more blows fell. The bell was ringing, and another boy was brushing the bully aside. The bully turned to face this new disturbance, but someone hollered, "Linwood!" and he turned away.

"Well, that's that," said the boy who had just saved Steve's neck. "And I didn't even get to take a swing. Here, grab my hand."

Steve let himself be pulled up, and caught his breath.

"Gee whiz, wish I had your guts," the other boy went on. "Talking back to Mr. high-and-mighty Georgie-porgy. You must be new here. You'll have to watch out now. If you ever need a hand just yell." He stuck out his hand. "You can call me Bucky, everyone does. Well, 'cept for my dad; he calls me JB, when he's in a good mood anyway. And the twins of course. They're just babies– But never mind what they call me. My mother calls me James, of course."

Hesitantly, Steve shook Bucky's hand. "Steve," he said, suddenly shy.

Bucky was almost a head taller than Steve, with a strong grip. His dark hair flopped over his forehead, and at first glance he looked quite serious. But Steve could see the mischief dancing in his eyes that matched his bright grin.

"What grade are you in?" Bucky asked, seizing his coat sleeve and towing him up the steps.

"Three," Steve said quietly.

Bucky stopped dead and stared at him. Steve knew what was coming: the ridicule and taunts about how small he was, how skinny. He steeled himself, lifting his chin just a tad.

"Seriously? That's great. Same as me, though I'm in fourth; third and fourth are in one room. I can show you all the ropes. Maybe Teacher will even let you sit with me. Come on."

Dizzy with surprise, Steve let himself be dragged along. By the time they reached their classroom, Steve was feeling happier than he had in a while. Maybe he would be able to fit in here.

And maybe, just maybe, he had made a friend.

February 1927

"What'cha doing?"

Steve did not look up, but he shifted his hand enough for Bucky to get a glimpse of his paper. He grinned inside with satisfaction, hearing Buck's soft, "Ohh!"

Instead of math problems, Steve's notebook contained a large cartoon sketch of Mr. Delbert Parsons, with his mustache sticking out a foot on each side of his head and legs so short he could rest his chin on his desk.

Back before Christmas, Miss Simpson had left for Boston to take care of her ailing sister. Mr. Parsons had taken over the grade 3/4 classroom. As Bucky put it, he was 'all bark and no bite'. But still, his tirades over someone calling Benjamin Franklin a former president, or mixing nouns and adjectives, were impressive, with the way his mustache would bristle and he would sometimes even jump up and down. Especially over the Benjamin Franklin thing.

Quickly Steve added a little bubble above Parsons's head, to make him say something, then paused, sucking on his pencil and wondering what it should be.

"Let me," Bucky whispered. He grabbed for the notebook, and a moment's scuffle ensued. Thankfully their teacher was paying no attention.

Bucky won, though Steve hissed indignantly, "Fine. I'll see you outside. Later."

Bucky merely grinned and scribbled on the drawing, before presenting it with a flourish.

I tell you, Mr. Franklin WAS the 1st president of the United States. Why, I rode his kite, and saw the lightning.

Steve choked, and had to stuff his fist in his mouth to hold back the laughter.

"Genius, huh." Bucky looked entirely too pleased with himself. "I'm keeping this, thank you." He tucked the paper into his own notebook.

Steve shrugged, and started another picture, this time a good one of Bucky leading the charge in yesterday's snowball fight. He had finished his math problems in no time, and drawing was more fun. He knew his father had been a good artist; one of his sketches was framed on the wall of Steve's mother's bedroom.

He did not think of the Parsons cartoon again, until the next day.

Mr. Parsons was not in the classroom when the children came in. Steve slid in after Bucky, stuffing his books into his desk, and letting the lid drop with just a little more energy than usual. He heard the teacher come in and glanced up.

Mr. Parsons glared back. "Steven Rogers?" he rapped out, his mustache practically shooting off of his face.

Steve shot to his feet, heart hammering. "Y-yes, sir?"

"Did you draw this?" He flashed a piece of paper, just enough for Steve to glimpse the cartoon he had made yesterday. "It has your name on it," he added.

"Applesauce!" Bucky hissed at Steve's elbow.

Steve's knees were actually shaking. "Yes, sir," he choked out. What sentence would a crime like this earn him? A whipping? A suspension?

Bucky jumped up beside him. "It was my idea, sir."

Mr. Parsons's eyebrows seemed to go so high they disappeared. "I don't see your signature on this, Master Barnes."

"I know, but- but I egged him on, sir. And I- I- I put it in your desk, sir." The last words were barely audible, as Bucky's courage seemed to fade. The entire class held its breath, waiting for the explosion that was sure to follow.

Steve's hands clenched into fists, the combination of terror over his punishment, and fury at Bucky for getting him into this mess, sending adrenaline surging through his body.

"Principal's office. Both of you." Mr. Parsons sounded like he was biting the tail off each word. "Miss Jefferies?"

A fourth-grade girl sprang to her feet. "Yes, sir?"

"Start singing the anthem. That should keep you occupied until I return."

Marching down the hall behind Mr. Parsons—not that Mr. Parsons could march, his was more of a trot—Steve leaned in to whisper in Bucky's ear, "I hate you! Don't ever do anything like that again, or you'll regret it!"

"All right." Mr. Parsons stopped so abruptly they almost ran into him. He turned and both boys gulped. But what was this? Was he… smiling?!

"Master Rogers, next time you engage in such capers, do not sign your name on it and make me go to the trouble of punishing someone. Or at least the appearance of punishing someone. Your penalty will be art lessons three days a week with Miss Hastings. As for you, Barnes," he rapped his knuckles on Bucky's head, "for misleading a child younger than yourself, you shall stay in from recess on those days and keep your friend company. Writing lines. How about 200 a day? Good? Good."

There was a moment's silence as the two boys gaped at their teacher. He gave a sudden guffaw. "I would love to see a sketch of your faces. Ha, ha!" He caught himself, and frowned at them. "Now back to class, both of you."

Steve did not wring Bucky's neck that day.