Joey from next door says he broke his arm skateboarding. Says he was trying to jump the creek.

I ask him which creek and he says, uhhh that creek, the one over there. He points to a narrow spot between the baseball field and someone’s backyard.

Joey from next door kicks his backpack into the ferns and says when it happened, his mom freaked the eff out. Came into the house, dirty and wet with his arm all broken. He’s got this big cast and everyone signed it, even the girls, he says. Even the teachers, even Ms. Gibson. She’s the one who suspended him last year for the whatever. The urinal cake thing. He shows me where a girl named Susie dotted her i with a heart. Joey from next door tells me she’s the only girl in class who wears a real bra. He sits in the desk behind her and can see the straps.

Says he’s gonna get surgery next week when he stays at his dad’s. They’re gonna replace it with a robot arm, he’s pretty sure. His dad is a scientist and also plays minor league hockey, by the way. He’s really excited even though he’s gonna have to do indoor recess for a year. Joey from next door says that his robot arm will be able to shoot lasers, but it won’t hurt, not really, just sting a little.

Like this, he says, pinching my arm.

Hey quit that, I say.

Joey from next door says sor-ryyyy. He goes over to where he kicked his backpack in the ferns and pulls out a long and skinny cigarette from one of the zippered pockets. He puts it in his mouth in a way where it dangles on his bottom lip.

I don’t even like to smoke them, he says. This is enough for me.

Joey from next door says he’ll give me a cigarette if I let him kiss me. Just for practice, he says.

I think about it and say okay and he puts the unlit cigarette behind his ear and kisses me. He says not like that, make your lips like this. He shows me how. Darts his tongue into my mouth a little.

Hey quit that, I say.

Joey from next door says okay. We go over to the creek and throw rocks in the water.

Why don’t you go to regular school, he asks me.

I don’t know, I say.

Are you dumb?

I don’t think so, I say.

What? Are you jesus freaks or something?

My mom is, I guess. I pick up a big stone and hold it out. Hey, this one looks like a frog, kinda.

Joey from next door takes the frog rock and chucks it with his good arm. It travels in a small arc to splatter near the creek. He says that with his robot arm, he’ll be able to throw a football into the outer stratmosphere so that it’ll basically be going forever, spinning and falling for all time.

I almost forgot, Joey from next door says. He pulls the cigarette from behind his ear and puts it in his palm, but when I go for it, Joey snatches it away.

Ah ah ah, he says, wagging a finger.

Joey from next door closes his eyes and tilts his head. His pink boy lips are shiny from the tongue that just wet them. He leans in to kiss me, but I’m not there. I’m already rematerializing somewhere above. He whips his head around and before he can even feel confused, he too, starts to disappear.

They will look for us all summer, helicopters and search parties, but never find a trace. I don’t know where Joey went, but me, I became the football thrown, spiraling in orbit around that moment, even after everything else is long gone.