Walmart in Hickory, North Carolina, 2010

It was one of those blazing Carolina summer days where the air feels like soup and the boredom hits harder than the heat. You and Drew had nothing better to do, so naturally, you ended up at Walmart. Again. Like always.

You were both walking down the toy aisle, tossing gummy worms into each other’s mouths and arguing over who would win in a lightsaber duel, when Drew stopped dead in his tracks.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, eyes locked on a cheap, plastic skateboard halfway falling off the shelf.

“Drew, don’t,” you warned, already giggling.

He turned to you with that boyish glint in his eye—the one that always spelled disaster or genius. Usually both.

“It’s practically begging me to ride it.”

“It’s literally for 8-year-olds.”

He stepped on it anyway.

“Correction,” he said, steadying himself, “it’s for legends.”

Before you could react, he pushed off and started skating down the aisle like it was the X Games. He wobbled, arms flailing dramatically like some kind of budget Tony Hawk, swerving around the Barbie display and making sound effects with his mouth like, “vroommmmmm!”

You snatched your phone out of your hoodie pocket, nearly dropping it in your rush to get the shot. And there it was—the perfect photo. Drew, mid-skate, mischief in his eyes, half-crouched like he was dodging an imaginary laser beam, surrounded by boxes of Hot Wheels and Transformers.

Click.

He came to a stop near the end of the aisle, turning back with a wild grin. “Did you get it?”

You held up your phone, smirking. “Oh, I got it. This one’s going in your obituary.”

The manager started yelling something unintelligible from a few aisles away.

“Time to go,” you both said in sync, breaking into a sprint, laughter bouncing off the shelves.

You burst out the doors, breathless, Drew still clutching the board. “You stole that,” you wheezed, half laughing, half scandalized.

“Borrowed,” he corrected, not missing a beat. “For entertainment purposes.”

And in that exact moment, with your lungs burning and cheeks hurting from smiling, you knew: this would be one of those stories you’d bring up again when you were both old and wrinkled and still just as dumb.