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“Start at the top,” Lorenzo suggests as I settle cross-legged on the floor.

I reach for the manila folder on the top of the pile but hesitate before I open it. I know exactly what it is. The material has softened with age, and the center bears the shield-shaped logo of our private school. This is a report card folder. Hardly the memento I’d look to for happy memories.

I gaze quizzically at Lorenzo, but his eyes are on the folder in my hands, a tiny smile on his face that tells me it’s okay to keep going.

I open it to find a stack of loose papers inside. On top is a page with elegant, teacherly handwriting, sections of it underlined with a purple pen. It’s the teacher comments that were always included in every report card, signed and dated by Mrs. Falk, my fourth-grade teacher.

“I didn’t think you’d mind me marking it up with some highlights,” Lorenzo says.

I stare up at him, then return my eyes to the folder, trying to figure out what he’s done. The next sheet in the stack is similarly handwritten, but this one signed by Mr. Miller, my middle school science teacher. Lorenzo’s underlined it in the same pen. It goes on that way, a dozen or so pages from various teachers with Lorenzo’s handpicked highlights, words likediligent,joyful, andremarkably bright. A flush creeps up my chest, a mix of surprise, pride, and sadness. I can’t look up at Lorenzo, partially because I feel untethered by what I’m reading, far from this moment and this house. And partially because I don’t have the words for what I feel for him right now. No one else would ever do this for me. No one else would even think of it—including me.

“One more thing,” Lorenzo says quietly when I finally close the folder and run my fingers over the faded school logo. He hands me the little book he’d been holding. He looks ... nervous?

“What’s this?”

“My old di—I mean journal.”

“Journal?” No way Lorenzo ever kept a journal.

“It was doctor’s orders, okay? Remember I told you when we first moved here my parents made me see a therapist because I was having trouble adjusting? She made me keep one.”

“And you stashed it in my attic?”

“I went home and grabbed it while you were sleeping.”

I don’t know what I’m in for, but I smile at the thought of him sneaking around planning whatever this is. “So you want me to read your elementary school journal?”

“Dog-eared pages only.” He lifts an eyebrow. “I’m serious. For your own good.”

I give the journal a quizzical look.

“One of those pages may or may not contain an early jack-off fantasy. And, yes, I’ll be burning the whole fucking thing before this night is over.”

I smother a giggle. “Dog-eared pages only,” I say, skimming through until I find the first one with a folded corner. “Yes, sir.”

At first, it’s just cute—messy handwriting, boyish exclamations about how journals are stupid, Lakeside is stupid, everyone at his new school is stupid. And then there’s a single sentence about the one kid in his class who isn’t stupid—the tall, unnamed girl who chased off the jerks at recess who’d surrounded him.

I smile. “Who’s this anonymous badass chick you mention on page two?”

“Sorry. Didn’t get your name that day.”

I turn to the next dog-eared page a few entries later. At the sight of my name written in his childish scrawl, I feel a wave of nervous excitement—which quickly gives way to something new when I read about the Ruby of his childhood: how brave she was, how he couldn’t believe the way she stood up to the mean kids in class when she had no friends to back her up. I swallow and move on to the next page. It’s a short entry written in bold lettering and outlining his three-step plan of action the next time he’s cornered on the playground. The third and final step, entitled “Do It the Way Ruby Does,” summarizes my apparent method: Make a mad face, step toward the bullies, and yell “Get the hell away from me!”I don’t know if it’s the notion of angry young Ruby or timid young Lorenzo that makes tears prick the backs of my eyes.

There are more pages, the dates passing and the handwriting evolving—Lorenzo kept this journal for a few years—but the theme of us is consistent. Me as Lorenzo’s backbone, the one who stood up to bullies and encouraged him to go out for football in fifth grade. Lorenzo as my confidant, the one who understood instinctively the hurt I carried around. Us as best friends.

Emotion wells up inside me, a mix of nostalgia and longing for that full-of-fire girl who never questioned who she was. Then I look at Lorenzo, who’s watching me with those warm, dark eyes, and the emotion turns to pure gratitude.

“Lorenzo.” My voice catches on his name. I don’t know how to say the rest.

“I wanted to,” he says, understanding.

“Why?”

“Because you’re not okay.”

I exhale deeply, so grateful that I don’t have to explain. Grateful to have someone who just knows. I want to give up on everything except him. I look around at the papers and foldersand the open journal. “I don’t really know what to say. Thank you.” I feel ready to cry.

He opens his hands to call me over. I get up from the floor and settle myself on his lap, wrapping my arms tight around his neck.