After school, after football practice, every day for three years, John and I walked to the grocery store in our little town and bought candy, potato chips, and soda pop. It was a ceremony. We said hello to the old couple who owned the store, stepped into the walk-in cooler, grabbed our cold drinks, paid for them and our other snacks, and headed to John’s house or mine, depending on what our parents were planning to cook for dinner.

It was an average life for two average kids.

But, one day, in November of our senior year, John and I, as usual, stepped into the cooler and grabbed our favorite cans of pop. But then we looked at each other and we both had the same thought. I don’t know why it happened. Without saying a word, John and I grabbed three six—packs of soda and stuffed them into our duffle bags. Carrying the carbonated loot, we paid for our usual junk food, walked to John’s house, raced into his bedroom and celebrated. We drank all that pop and got wound up and stupid on sugar and caffeine. We could have stolen beer but we were athletes. And jocks did not get drunk in our school.

The next morning, we met up before school, and vowed to never do it again. One time was kind of innocent, but more than that would be criminal.

But after practice that night, we did it again. Then again the day after that. We shoplifted for a week.

The thrill and guilt grew bigger each time.

We joked and laughed with the old people who owned the store. We paid for five bucks of snacks as we stole twenty more.

Then I couldn’t do it anymore.

“John,” I said. “We have to stop. We’re going to get caught. They’ll kick us off the team. They might throw us out of school.”

“Just one more time,” he said. “Come on, Pete. They’re too old to catch us.”

“I can’t do it, man.”

“You’ve always been a wuss.”

I walked home alone while John went to the store. I thought he might text or call me after he left the store. I didn’t hear anything from him.

When I got to school the next morning, I immediately heard the bad news. John had been caught shoplifting. I knew they’d wonder how I was involved. John and I went everywhere together.

Halfway through first period, I was summoned to the principal’s office. He was there with the superintendent, the school counselor, and the football coach. It felt like an interrogation.

“Peter,” the principal said. “I’m sure you know why you’re here.”

“Because of John,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “Did you know what he was doing? Were you involved?”

I wanted to tell the truth. I knew that I should confess. But it felt like I’d destroy my life by admitting to the crime. I wondered if John had already told them that I’d stolen nearly as often as he had. Did he do the right thing?

“Pete,” the principal asked again. “Were you involved in this?”

“No, sir,” I said.

They all studied my face. They knew I was lying. They wouldn’t let me get away with it.

“Okay, Pete,” the principal said. “John already told us he did it alone.”

I could tell they hadn’t believed him, either. But there was nothing they could do. I hadn’t confessed and John had denied that I was a thief, too. He was kicked off the football team, sentenced to community service picking up litter around town, and was suspended from school for a month.

During that month, he and I didn’t see each other. We didn’t call or text. We’d been constantly together for years but things had changed. I don’t know why he didn’t contact me. But I was too ashamed to talk to him. I’d let him take all the punishment. I kept playing football. I didn’t have to scoop up dog shit while my classmates watched. I wasn’t suspended. And my reputation wasn’t ruined. I wasn’t branded as a good kid gone bad. In fact, some people thought John had betrayed me by shoplifting and nearly getting me into trouble.

When John came back to school, he wouldn’t look at me. And I wouldn’t look at him. This silence went on for the rest of the year. We ignored each other at our graduation ceremony. Our parents ignored each other, too.

Late that night, at a kegger down by the river, we stood at separate campfires. I didn’t drink anything. But he got really drunk. I was worried for him. He caught me staring. He threw his beer into the fire and staggered up to me.

He grabbed me by my shirt and shook me.

“You aren’t who I thought you were,” he said.

“Neither are you,” I said.