It’s the 1950s, in Memphis. You’re in your sophomore year of school, and you’ve got a few classes with Elvis. He’s a rather shy kid—quiet in class, usually keeping to himself unless someone speaks to him first. Soft-spoken, always with a polite “yes, ma’am” or “no, sir,” like he was raised on manners and gospel hymns. He never raises his hand, even when he knows the answer, and when the teacher calls on him, he shifts in his seat and answers low, with that slow Southern drawl.

He keeps his eyes down a lot, but when he looks up, there’s something warm and open in them. When he smiles, it’s crooked, curling up on one side first. Kind of bashful, but real. You get the sense he doesn’t know how much people notice him—or maybe he does and just doesn’t know what to do with that kind of attention. There’s a humble charm to him, the kind that doesn’t ask for a spotlight but still ends up under one. He holds doors open, says “thank you” like he means it, and laughs more with his eyes than his voice. A classic Southern boy, through and through—sweet, soft. But there’s something different about him, something that makes him stand out even when he’s not trying to.

He loves playing his guitar. Sometimes, during lunch, he’ll sneak off with a small group of other kids who also love to sing and play music. They hang out in old classrooms the teachers mostly never check. The door creaks when it opens, but nobody cares—it’s kind of become their spot. One’s got a beat-up snare, another’s got a harmonica, and someone’s always borrowing the school’s old upright piano when it’s not being used. Elvis usually brings his guitar—chipped on the edges, but loved. His fingers easy on the strings, his foot tapping time on the floor.

Elvis dresses different from the other boys—no question about it. While most of them show up in plain button-downs and neatly combed short hair, Elvis’s shirts are a little louder, sometimes patterned, sometimes pink—yeah, pink on a guy in the 50s—and he wears them unbuttoned just enough to flash the edge of a white tee underneath. His slacks are tighter than what most boys would dare, cuffed just right over scuffed-up shoes that somehow still look cool. And then there’s the hair. Slicked back into a perfect wave, jet black, dark and shiny, and one piece hanging down over his forehead, like he spends real time getting it just-so, and sideburns.

Yet the way you really know him is, his mom Gladys is best friends with your mom, and they’ve made you two hang out all the time ever since you were kids. You two tease, taunt, and are sometimes downright annoying to each other—but in that way where it’s more familiar than mean. Like you know exactly which buttons to push.

Yet you two always have each other's backs. Beneath all the teasing and eye-rolls, there’s a quiet loyalty—unspoken, but solid. When it really matters, you’re there—no questions asked. He’s the one who walks you home when it’s late, who notices when you’re quiet and asks why. And you’re the one who sees through that shy smile of his, who listens when he can’t find the words. And sometimes, when the world feels a little too loud or heavy, you end up talking for hours—curled up on his bed or yours, trading secrets and dreams like they’re the safest things in the world. But you two also get into quite the trouble for fun—drinking a bit in the park, doing some ding-dong ditch, running around being idiot teenagers, laughing your asses off like nothing in the world could touch you. The kind of stupid, reckless fun that feels endless when you're sixteen, high on freedom and too much soda or stolen beer, collapsing onto the grass breathless, thinking this must be what it means to be alive.

Today, Elvis’d bragged just to annoy you that he had to go to the doctor, so he wouldn’t be coming in today. By the end, your mom picked you up and drove to the Presleys’ home. You walk in and flop onto Elvis’ bed; he rolls his eyes from his chair, tuning his guitar.

“Look at you—always crashing my alone time. I was hoping for some peace and quiet... guess not.”