Chubby Petey lived on Summer Road, right across from Lenape Park and next to the baseball fields that our gang mowed, chalked, and swept ourselves. It was a self-given job that we moaned incessantly over, but all loved. Each guy got a role (I always mowed the outfield) to do every Saturday morning before our games. Our town wasn’t big enough for a little league or wealthy enough to put together a traveling team, so the Saturday group was the best we had. We liked the disorganization. It meant when the games got long and we got tired, we could make up our own rules.
“Roger, for every time you strike out, each kid on our team gets to pull one hair out of your big head.” I laughed. Bull Patterson’s rules always involved some sort of physical pain. Roger and Petey were usually on the receiving end. Petey was sensitive and cried
“Alright Bull. And for every pitch of yours that pegs me, you’ve got to eat a pile of ants,” countered Roger. It was Petey’s job to maintain the pitcher’s mound and rake out the sand around it, but he liked the ants too much to bother them, and we liked Petey too much to bother him about it. Petey was a friend to every ant, fly, and mosquito in our county. We always joked that his glasses made him look like his big-eyed bug companions.
That game, Bull pegged Roger twice (he couldn’t throw straight after his brother broke his arm a year back) and Petey held back tears while Bull swallowed a stream of ants.

It was noon by the time the game was over. Most of the others had gone home. Me, Petey, and Bull were lying in the outfield, waiting for Roger to come in from lining.
“I’m just saying man, it won’t be the same without him next year. We’ve always been the four musketeers-”
“That’s three, retard,” Bull laughed.
“It’s always been the four of us you know? Since back in kindergarten when Bull used to piss himself and Chris had a lisp.” (My lisp was gone, but Bull still lost control of his bladder.) Roger walked over to listen to Petey’s blubbery rant.
“What happens when Roger’s gone... Then it’s the three musketeers and that’s not right. We need him. He’s the one who makes sure everything is okay. He remembers the band-aids when we go out fishing an’ an’ he’s the guy who makes sure we always play fair. Who’s going to keep Bull from getting into fights with the high schoolers. And who’s going to help me find my glasses when I leave them in the grass...” Petey’s face glistened with the effort of not crying. He shut up and shoved his itchy, red sausage hands under his round and rolling ass. Petey was only dumb enough to say what we’d all been thinking. Without Roger, our group fall from glory to be the kind of neighborhood group that any guy could join. Skinny, tiny, soccer-playing Roger. Roger with the too-big, too-straight white teeth, was more of a mom to us than any of our parents. We needed him.
“Come on, Petey. It’s okay. It’s not like that at all. I’ll still come back here for vacations and stuff. During the summer I could stay with you guys and sort of move between your houses. Right, Chris?” I wasn’t going to disagree in front of Petey, but Roger knew this wasn’t true because he would be moving states away. And it would be the kind of move where we’d all start off writing and calling each other at home but after a few months Roger would have a new gang that would bond over vandalizing libraries and our old gang would continue to harass lunch ladies and play Saturday morning games. With a week of school left- and a week until Roger would leave- we needed to do something. To have one of those life-changing, group-bonding, 11- to 14- years old experiences that would shape the adults we would become. And that is why I came to suggest...
“A hike.”

By the time Petey’s mom had made us each a fluffer-nutter sandwich (on the type of white bread that my mother would never buy), and we’d each gathered canteens and sneakers and bug repellent and matches and a radio it was one in the afternoon and we were itching to move. Except for Petey, who was more interested in the worms and beetles that we’d see along the way.
We started off across Lenape and into the woods, picking up branches and comparing which among them was the best hiking stick. We’d stop whenever Petey begged for a water break. When he emptied his canteen we stopped whenever he begged for a breathing break. At the front of the procession was Roger, who sang to keep us all moving.

A peanut sat on a railroad track
His heart was all a-flutterrrrr.
Alooooong came. A big mean train.
Uh-oh peanut butterrrrr.

The freshest moment of that day happened during one of Petey’s breaks. He’d found a little white moth, the kind that swarmed everyone’s backyard barbecues a month earlier. Bull always liked to pull a wing off and watch as the moth struggled with its earth-bound life. A few steps, it would try to flutter up, and then fall lopsidedly to its heavy side. To a twelve-year-old boy, it was fascinating. The moth would comically fling its wing over, trying in vain to center itself over its tiny body. After a few dizzy swings, it centered and planted its tiny legs and stood somewhat straight. Its antenna would rub together, preparing for flight, and it would try to fly. Then he’d be flat on his side, and we’d be flat on our backs, laughing at the plight of this moth. Even Petey got a kick out of it.
After a few rounds of the bug scene, Roger stood up to lead us on. Petey got up next to follow him, and Bull stopped to lace his shoe. I could hear Roger chanting up ahead.

The ants go marching two by two
Hurrah! Hurrah!
The ants go marching two by two
Hurrah! Hurrah!
The ants go marching two by two
And the little one stops to tie his shoe
And they all go marching on...

I looked back at Bull, to make sure he was still with us, and saw that he was sitting over the moth. With a small breath, he blew the moth over and flattened him under a small stone until the moth was dead. I never asked him about it. But I was always wondered if it was Bull being Bull, or if he knew the moth was better off dead than crippled.

The trail we followed was my favorite. I picked it because it went out for six miles before it hit a river. There used to be a plank bridge that crossed the river- a bridge that some of our older brothers had made when they were in high school- but its long washed away now. The scrap wood has definitely rotted into the sediment of the river, but I’d bet you that those long carpenter’s nails are still rolling around the bottom somewhere. Swallowed by fish and overgrown with rust or algae.
Roger always loved to jump off that bridge. And this would be the last time he got to do it. Where he was moving, he’d told us, there was river, no camping grounds, no old alleys behind bars. There was school, office buildings, and neighborhoods with sidewalks. His mom liked it because she could sit on the porch and get to know her neighbors as they walked by. She could have food in her house that our gang wouldn’t run up and steal. She could have a screen door that slid all the way shut, not one that banged close and still let the bugs in. The driveway was paved, so she wouldn’t have to hear gravelly crunching when her husband went out to walk the dog at night. It was a good move for her. But for Roger, it meant this would be the last bridge jump. The last hike.
That’s why he was first to have his pants around his ankles and shirt stuck over his head, tripping quickly over to the bridge. I was right behind him. I folded my clothes into a stack and took off after him. Bull ripped his stuff off, kicked over my pile, and jumped from the bank into the river.
Roger turned to me. “Mother, mother may I please take a step towards the edge.”
“Yes. One small baby step. Mother, mother may I please take a step towards the river.”
“Yes. One yeti-sized step. Mother, mother may I please...” and he laughed and sprinted towards the edge. I hit the water a second after he did. The first shock was the impact, second was the squish as my feet touched the bottom, and third- when I’d fought my way back up towards air- was the temperature. I shrieked when I felt a hand grab hold of my ankle, and laughed as I saw Bull’s head pop up. Last to jump in, naturally, was Petey. He stood fully clothed on the bridge, looking down at us in his bug-eyed, concerned way.
“You oughta be careful. My mom says there are water snakes in these rivers.”
“Pu**y. Petey. Pu**y. Petey.”
“And the water- That cold water- Mom says cold water swimming makes your lungs stop openin’ and then you can’t breathe and then you fall under.”
“Mom says Petey is a pu**y. Petey. Pu**y. Petey. Pu**y.”
“Well I’m fine up here. I’ll just watch you all. I’ll make sure that everyone is okay. There are some ants up here guys. That’s better than swimming with you all.”
“Okay Petey. It’s okay. We just want another twenty minutes in here,” I called up. Petey had started to cry.
“Boys, I drank too much a this river water. I gotta take a leak.” Bull frog-swam over to the muddy bank and stumbled his naked way up to the top. We laughed as we tread water, because the climb to the top of the bank was knit with old, dirty roots. And to get to the top you had to grab roots, about half of which would come loose, and drag yourself up.
“Heyo Chris.”
“Heyo Roger.”
“When I’m gone next year, we’re going to be going different paths.”
“Jesus, Roger. You’re moving. Not dying.”
“No man, I’m serious. In a week I’ll be out of here, and you’ll be back in school. It’s going to be a whole new year for you, and for our whole gang. And you’re going to have to take over.”
“Aw come on...” I whined.
“No man. You’re going to have to keep an eye on Bull. When his brother comes back to live with them and he starts coming into school with more bruises than usual, you’ve gotta ask him over for a sleepover. Or when he stops coming to school with lunch money again, you gotta tell your mom that you’re going through a growth spurt and make sure she packs you an extra sandwich. And for Petey, it’s going to be your job to help him through the rough days. The teacher thinks he’s a lost cause. She’d let him stay in the hallway for all of math. She thinks he’s a lost cause and that he’ll end up drunk and dumb like his dad.”
“Roger, you gotta stop talking like this. It’ll all work out-”
“This is the most important time for them. If someone doesn’t look out for them, they’ll end up like their parents. You’ve gotta watch out for them now. No matter what goes on, good or bad, this is the most important time-”
That is when Petey screamed. And we looked up. As our favorite chubby, wide-eyed friend spiraled and then flailed before us. And Bull stood behind him, laughing loudly and then not laughing at all when Petey hit the water and didn’t come up.

That was the last hike our whole gang took together. We’d expected to be one less by the time school came around, but not because one us died. We were twelve. Twelve year olds don’t die.

Roger swam after Petey. He swam hard and fast to the bottom, while I flailed helplessly. He groped for Petey’s shirt in the dark. He grasped at the plants that grew at the bottom and pulled himself along the rocks at the bottom of the river. He was down there for a minute before he came up for a breath, and only came up long enough to let a cracked cry and dive back under. He swam around the bridge’s supports, floating up only to sob and dive back under. Petey. Where was Petey?
Petey had cried his way out of every swim lesson his mom had ever signed him up for. She’d bring him to the YMCA, get him into a bathing suit, and give up from embarrassment as his wails echoed through the locker room. Roger had tried summer after summer to teach Petey to swim. But Petey had stolidly refused.
Now Roger was up again for air, and screaming. Screaming because he had a fist of Petey’s shirt in one hand, and a fist of Petey’s big belly in the other. Blood ran over the two of them, and I think it’s the red that shocked me into usefulness. I swam over and calmly pulled them both to shore, up to the muddy bank, and lay them both out. I could hear Bull crying from the top of the bridge. Petey vomited water as I rolled him to his side and took a breath. That was the best sound I ever heard.
“PETEY IS OKAY. PETEY IS ALIVE. EVERYTHING IS GOOD AND OKAY,” I screamed, half for Bull to hear and half to remind myself.
“Roger is a hero! A modern day Superman. Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall-” and as I turned to face our Superman, our real-life hero, all the happiness and relief and beauty of that moment dissolved. The blood smeared across the two kids was coming from Roger’s neck, from where he had dove and cut himself on the rocks next to the bridge’s pilings.
“-fights a never-ending battle for truth, justice, and the American-”
“SHUT UP BULL SHUT UP. You idiot. You f*ing ass.”

Roger was dead.

In many ways, the summer ended as we expected. The three of us went back to school in September, to the middle school where sixth graders went. Roger’s parents sold their house and moved to the neighborhood with sidewalks. That was the last hike the four of us took together, but the three of us went back every year after we got into middle school. I guess for some people it would be too painful, but it was the only way we could remember him right.
When we went together, we’d sit and talk about the afternoons we spent playing four square in Roger’s driveway and the fights we had over things like no-pass-backs and chicken feet and cherry bombs and was the line in or out? Roger wouldn’t ever be able to laugh along with us at those stories. And eventually as we went down to the bridge more and more, we realized that the number of stories we had without Roger could only grow. I think that’s why, despite what he wanted me to do for Bull and Petey, I couldn’t hang out with them after he died. I didn’t want to think about how we’d keep growing up and he wouldn’t.

I could give you an epilogue. And tell you whether or not Petey turned out to be a lazy s*** like his dad. Or if Bull beats his wife or if he’s killed himself from the guilt. I don’t think I will though. That’s one of the few parts of Roger that I feel is still here: how he made me and Petey and Bull who we are today. During that most important part of our lives, that time between 11 and 14.
Like I said, I know I’ll forget a lot of stuff as I get older. But I hope I never forget the beginning of that day. When Petey, Bull, and Roger were still whole, before I’d suggested the hike. When we were overcome by the mix of crickets and cartoons. The last good moment.