The steady increase in my enjoyment of Grayson's presence was becoming worrisome. I had told myself this wouldn't happen. The thought of turning my back on a self-made promise was infuriating. Luckily Grayson had the tendency to be overdramatic which resulted in the questioning of his likability.

     It started in English class. The bell had long rung, but Mrs. Straw had yet to speak a word. The eccentric woman not taking advantage of every possible minute to drill information in our minds, was certainly not a regular occurrence. Usual unruly grey hair pulled into a tight ponytail, and bright, mismatched clothing replaced with a grey knee-length dress, I watched her controlled movements with furrowed brows. Exaggerated look of wonder aimed towards the strange box on her desk, I felt as though I was watching a low-budget film. My friends wore expressions as confused as I, but Grayson... My eyes fell on him, and immediately I grumbled miserably. He showed no indications of thinking the woman's behavior odd, and I was struck with the horrible conclusion that he was responsible for Mrs. Straw's poor acting.

     Lifting a freshly painted red box from the top of her desk, a plastic spider sprung at our teacher. With a horribly fake shriek of horror, she shot a furious gaze at her painted hand. She had truly made a wise decision to choose a career in teaching over acting.

     Everyone but Grayson cringed at her reaction. I shrank in my seat in anticipation, placing my head in my hands as though peeking through my fingers would somehow make me invisible.

     "Which one of you troublemakers did this?" she demanded.

     Her attempt of fury was laughable. Scanning every student, her grey eyes landed on Grayson and me, and I knew with certainty that this was the idiot's doing. As her attention turned our way so did that of everyone in the room. Face still half hidden by my hands; I didn't care that the gesture screamed guilty. This was Grayson's doing, thus no matter how I reacted, the scene would unfold as he wished.

     Acting abilities even worse than Mrs. Straw's, his forced nervous habits of bouncing legs and exaggerated worried glances, caused me such great second-hand embarrassment that I considered pushing him off his chair. He really could not have made it any more obvious that he wished to be claimed as the guilty one.

     "Mr. Ryder!" Mrs. Straw called, confirming my suspicions. "You look awfully guilty."

     Grayson didn't answer, instead he furrowed his brows in a ridiculous manner, as though meaning to claim her accusation preposterous. I thought the expression resembled more one of constipation. I hoped he didn't envision an acting career in his future either.

     "Come here," she ordered, pointing to a chair next to her desk.

     Labelled with a white sign with large black lettering reading interrogation chair, I wondered how I hadn't noticed the chair earlier.

     As though it was an act of upmost courage, Grayson stood from his chair. On his way to do as the teacher requested, he swatted my hands away from my face.

     "Don't hide your eyes," he muttered.

     Partially removing my hands, this time I couldn't swallow back the groan. Grayson sat in the interrogation chair, Mrs. Straw lifted his left hand with a huff of triumph.

     "Oh, no!" Grayson exclaimed dramatically; gazing upon his paint covered hand as if it had betrayed him. "I've been caught red handed."

     While I wore an expression of complete exasperation, my peers snickered.

     "You know the punishment," Mrs. Straw failed to speak sternly. "Get on with it."

     When I thought the situation couldn't possibly become more embarrassing, Grayson took a deep breath and broke into a song. It was in moments like these that I questioned our friendship. I didn't like to be the center of attention, but with Grayson's tendency to be over the top, we often found ourselves to be the room's main focus.

     Singing to the beat of Hickory Dickory Dock, my classmates were highly amused with the way Grayson chose to replace the original words of the nursery rhyme. Assuming the old shrew he spoke of was Mrs. Darcy, and the instant familiarity upon hearing his childish words, I knew that I had, long ago, helped him create the horrible lyrics. I smirked very briefly, unable to deny the comical absurdity of the situation.

     Grayson who finally seemed uncomfortable with his predicament, shot me a stern look. This gaze was not an act. While my expression turned to puzzlement, his impatient look remained. It took many moments to realize that he wanted me to join in. I shook my head vigorously, sending my best you're a fool look. Furrowed eyes softening, he watched me with pleading eyes. As much as my instincts wished to melt into his gaze and cave into his request, I forced myself to remain hard-headed. There was no way I was singing in front of my classmates.

     Noting the maintenance of my stubborn stance, his eyes became firm again. I had become so accustomed to reading his expressions that I had a good idea what he was thinking: I would do it for you. I would share in your embarrassment. I moaned again. I would never hear the end of this. My options were embarrassment or unrelenting complaining.

     "Hickory, Dickory, Dock the shrew is a laughingstock," he repeated for the second time.

     Pointed gaze and tone as he again repeated the sentence, clearly, he would continue to repeat himself until I sang the next part. Surprised that I knew what followed, I had no time to relish in the glory of the short return of an old memory.

     Impatient and curious gazes shot my way, with great reluctance I did as Grayson wished. While I sang the following line with great displeasure, Grayson smiled brightly. Singing the consecutive verses with me, eventually my memory cut short, and Grayson decided we should start from the beginning.

     Soon reaching the last I knew for a second time, Grayson shot Mrs. Straw a not-so-subtle thumbs-up. Shaking away her warm smile, again she feigned anger.

     "Enough!" she interrupted.

     Relieved of the torturous melody, I sighed happily.

     "This was Mr. Ryder's punishment, care to explain your interjection?" she asked. Of course, the relief would be short-lived.

     Eyes boring into mine, waiting for an answer, I looked at her blankly. Turning my attention towards Grayson, I hoped he would be helpful but instead he played dumb. This expression was believable. He required little acting abilities to portray the state of obliviousness. What did they want me to say? I reckoned the answer they were looking for wasn't I hold no memories of my insufferable best friend, and this is his strange attempt to help me remember him.

     As much as I tried to recall the words, I spoke many years ago, my mind was blank.

     Just as I was about to throw my hands up in exasperation, Jack poked my shoulder. Shooting him a frown, he smirked amusedly as he passed me a small piece of paper. Recognizing Grayson's chicken scratch, I read it out loud as I knew he expected.

     "I thought it was only fair," I read, pausing dramatically as the paper told me to. "I was his accomplice."

     Luke, Jack, Shawna, Blake, and Katie, sat next to me, gasped simultaneously. Of course, he had involved them. I covered my face again, but this time I couldn't help but laugh. He had placed so much effort in such a small, insignificant memory. He had turned a simple event into such a drama, that meeting his sly look, my laughter was genuine.

     Struggling to remain serious, a pointed cough from Grayson reminded Mrs. Straw of the act she had agreed on.

     "Detention for you both!" she said.

     "What?" I demanded; feigning uproar as requested by the note between my fingers.

     Act seemingly coming to an end, she looked at me apologetically. "I'm just saying what I was asked too."

     Taking Grayson's reassuring smile as a positive sign, a no real detention sign, I gladly let Mrs. Straw begin with her lecture.

     Futilely protesting as Grayson prematurely pulled me away from the lunch table, half eaten cookie still in my mouth, he dragged me to the teacher's office before I managed to form a comprehensible word.

     "What—"

     "Detention," he said matter of factly.

     "You've got to be kidding."

     "It's not a real one," he promised, barging into the teacher's lounge without a warning. "Per my request, they've left a bucket of erasers at the back door."

     Hand still firmly wrapped around my wrist, I followed him apprehensively, nodding awkwardly to the group of teachers.

     "Do you understand how ridiculous it is that you had to request that we be punished?"

     "It's not so bad," he shrugged nonchalantly. "We used to have a blast."

     I looked at him skeptically, but followed him outside, nonetheless. I had finally concluded that questioning or complaining of his plans was a waste of breath. It would be a long seven months if I dwelled on every questionable thing, he did.

     Holding out the bucket, Grayson urged me to take an eraser.

     "You need two obviously," he rolled his eyes.

     "Grayson," I complained. "You seem to forget that it's hardly ever possible to predict where your plans are heading."

     "I understand the whole amnesia dilemma, but have you really never heard of eraser cleaning, since?"

     "My memory only spans 3 years!"

     Chortling, Grayson finally made himself useful and dropped the bucket. Taking my hands in his in demonstration, before I could complain he clapped the two erasers together, inches away from my face. Inhaling a cloud of chalk dust, I coughed violently. Swatting his hands away from mine, clapping the erasers together again, I held them closer to his face than he had mine.

     Coughing and spluttering as violently as I had, hair dusted white, Grayson didn't look surprised. "Probably deserved that."

     "Probably?" I laughed, hitting him with another eraser.

     It took a few more reciprocated swinging of erasers, for the both of us to finally be considerate enough to clap our clouds of chalk away from the other.

     Midway through the bucket, chalk debris littering my body from head to toe, while I pondered the absurd idea that we had willingly placed ourselves in this position, Grayson sang our parody of the nursery rhyme.

     Biting back a smile, I cocked a curious brow.

     "You forgot a lot of verses," he explained. "We spent much of grade six coming up with the perfect words. After all our hard work, I think you ought to hear it fully."

     "Grade six!" I exclaimed with a tone of surprise. "And you remember every verse?"

     "Of course... We've not all been hit upside the head."

     In spite of the sparkle of amusement in my eyes, with an indignant huff I brought one of the untouched erasers to his head. Large white mark plastered to the side of his face, he swiped the air, trying to clear his view.

     "Rude," he said plainly, before once again breaking into the song.

     "You're starting from the beginning?"

     Voice cutting off abruptly, he looked at me stupidly. He wore a childish frown, as if to say duh!

     "You always start from the beginning," he said, doing exactly as he preached.

     Nose crinkling as I cringed at his words, every bit of mild irritation I held relating to our chosen punishment dissolved. And though when I did so, chalk filmed my teeth, I couldn't help but laugh at his enthusiastic tone.

     He sang multiple more times that night, and the few times he wasn't in my presence, I found myself unconsciously humming the song. In fact, by the end of the night, I laid in bed with a warm smile as I had quickly come to remember every verse of our song.