Fighting wasn’t a regular thing at our school. Sure, everyone wanted to show off their strength, but most knew where to draw the line. Rash, Dan, and I? We never got into the whole “who’s the strongest” nonsense. Rash might not have been the toughest guy around, but he had talents that made up for it—and then some. The only thing he wasn’t exactly gifted at was his writing. But everything else? Man, he was like a one-man talent show.

I remember the first time Rash showed me his art. We’d just met, and he pulled out this sketch of Marvel characters. At first, I thought he’d printed it off the internet. It was that good—so real it could’ve walked right off the page and into a movie. Up until that moment, I thought I was pretty decent at drawing, but Rash’s work? It was on another level. Naturally, I was jealous. I asked him to teach me, hoping I could somehow match his skill. But, like most of my fleeting interests, my enthusiasm fizzled out pretty quickly.

But Rash wasn’t just an artist. He knew history like the back of his hand, could sing like he was born with a mic in his hand, and spoke languages I couldn’t even pronounce. French, Spanish, you name it—he had it covered. He was a walking encyclopedia, a jukebox, and a storyteller all rolled into one. I’d often ask him to sing a song or tell me about some random historical event, just to see what new gem of knowledge he’d drop.

One time, I suggested, “Hey, Rash, you should perform on Children’s Day tomorrow.” He nodded, “Sure, why not?” The next day, we both showed up for our usual early-morning coaching classes. The teachers were in a rare, laid-back mood, just chatting with us instead of cramming equations down our throats. Even the opt. math teacher, who was known for being a bit of a hard-ass, broke out into song a couple of times.

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As the coaching session wrapped up, I reminded Rash, “You better not chicken out. You promised you’d sing today.” He grinned and said, “I’m on it.” We both headed home to get ready for the big event. I raced back, scarfed down breakfast, and rushed to school, eager to see Rash perform on stage. But when I got there, Rash was nowhere to be found. I waited and waited, but he didn’t show. Not even Dan was around that day. They both bailed on me, leaving me stuck at a dull, lifeless school program that felt like watching paint dry.

The school had this ironclad rule: no one leaves until 1 p.m. But let’s be real—who’d want to stick around for a boring program? Certainly not me. So, I hatched a plan. Our school had five buses, and they all came through the back gate. The trick was to time my escape perfectly. When the bus rolled in, the gate would open, and that was my window to slip out unnoticed. By then, I was a seasoned pro at this. I’d done it twice before, and this time, I had a new partner in crime—a boy I convinced to join me. If things went south, he’d be my decoy. If not, we’d both escape. Fortunately, we made a clean getaway.

Sports Day was another excuse to ditch school. Rash, Dan, and I would never bother showing up. We all knew it was just another snooze fest in disguise.

Then there was this one day—a regular school day, nothing special—when a random question popped into my head. Rash, Dan, and I were sitting in the front row, goofing off as usual, when I turned to Rash and asked, “You know how when people eat food, they take out… you know, the waste, right?”

Rash gave me a weird look but nodded. “Yeah… why?”

I grinned, ready to drop my bombshell of a question. “So, what happens if someone eats... waste? What do they take out then?”

Rash paused, genuinely stumped, before asking, “What?”

I leaned in, barely containing my laughter, and said, “You.”

We both burst out laughing, nearly wheezing as we tried to keep it together. The teacher gave us the stink eye, but by some miracle, we didn’t get caught.