Armstrong and Charlie

“Guys, we should go in. It’s a school night.”
“Shut up, Charlie.”
“Why’d you have to mention that?”
“Yeah, Killjoy Charlie. You just ended our summer vacation.”
Like it’s my fault the earth spins? I brace for a tornado of punches. Instead I hear Keith say, “Charlie Ross is right. It’s getting dark.”
Capture-the-flag ends in a tie and we all head for home. You can hear air conditioners humming from side yards and crickets chirping from trees. Someone kicks an empty Coke bottle into the street. It sounds like a ringing bell.
You can’t hear much talk, though. We’re all thinking about you-know-what starting you-know-when. Most summers I look forward to you-know-what. But this year I’m starting sixth grade. If I start sixth grade, chances are I’ll finish it. And when I do, I’ll get older than my older brother.
“See you guys at the bus stop tomorrow,” I say.
“Won’t see me,” says Bobby Crane.
“Won’t see me,” says Mike Applebaum.
“Or me,” says Brett Deitch.
“Why not?” I ask.
“I’m going to Buckley.”
“I’m going to Carpenter.”
“I’m going to El Rodeo.”
Buckley is a private school in Sherman Oaks. Carpenter’s a public one in Studio City. El Rodeo is in Beverly Hills. That’s three out of my four friends in the neighborhood
changing schools. I turn to Keith, the one I look up to most. “I’ll see you at the bus stop, won’t I, Keith?”
Keith has sandy blond hair, fair skin with freckles, and sea blue eyes. He carries a pocketknife in his jeans, started wearing puka shells way before they were popular, and lives in the pillow thoughts of practically every girl in Laurel Canyon. He calls us by our first and last names, which can make even a short kid like me feel tall.
“Fraid not, Charlie Ross. I’m going to Carpenter this year. We gave my aunt’s address in Studio City so I don’t have to go to Wonderland.”
“What’s wrong with Wonderland?”
“My mom says it’s going downhill.”
“She say why?”
“Nope. Just that it’s a good time to be movin’ on. But don’t worry, man. I’ll still catch you around the neighborhood.” “Cool,” I say, as in ‘No big deal’. But what I feel is cold.
Like they all just ditched me.