There he was as always.

Clad in worn jeans and a denim jacket, with unkempt hair, and a smoldering weed wedged in a conniving grin. And, as always, looking that certain way as if he were just waiting to see how he could get into trouble next. As if he hadn’t been in enough trouble so far in his life.

But, that’s the way he was. That’s the way he chose to live. But what else could you expect from someone like Mark Kenton?

“Hey, Mark. How’s it going?” I asked, as I and my younger brother, Jerry, approached him waiting at the bus stop.

“How should it be going?” He asked, dragging off the last of his cigarette.

I didn’t know what to say, so I changed the subject. “Surprised to see you here.”

“Why should you be?”

“Well, it’s a Friday and you’re not usually in school on a Friday. That’s all.”

He tossed his cigarette into the road. Stepping on it, he said, casually, “And I won’t be today, either.”

“Then why are you waiting for the bus?” Jerry asked.

“I’m not. I was waiting for you two.”