I’d known Elen since sophomore year of high school, and we’d kept in contact through college. After school, our calls waned, our interests shifted. I have a child, and she has a career. One night, out of the blue, my phone began ringing at eight o’clock. I grabbed it off the pedestal quickly, praying that it didn’t wake the baby.

Elen warmed the other end of the line, “Guess what I’m looking at right now.”

“I don’t know, something completely inappropriate.” We were instantly in stride, and could practically read each other’s voices.

“Senior yearbook!” She crowed. The tradition began. Every Saturday night, we would call each other and go through the yearbook, remarking on classmates’ futures as we predicted them. Then, this week, it changed.

“Oh, Craig Martin!” I laughed, “He must be so successful, getting all the younger girls.”

“Actually, B, he’s dead.”

I stroked the black and white photo, remembering unrequited love. Even now, in this faded picture, he was excruciatingly lovely, and always seventeen.