Back in 2006, there were seven of us, and we really believed we would stay seven forever. That sounds childish now, but at eighteen, it felt like a fact.
We were the kind of group that teachers rolled their eyes at because we were always together. Me, Amelia, Kennedy, Sharleen, Drew, Tasha, and Marcus.
We ate lunch in the same corner of the courtyard every day, passed notes in class, piled into the same cars on weekends, and made those dramatic teenage promises people only make when they have never yet lost anything important.
“We’re going to come back here when we’re old and wrinkled,” Sharleen had said the night we buried the time capsule.
We buried it behind the high school under the big oak tree near the old baseball fence.
We used a metal art supply box we had stolen from the classroom with the full intention of returning it 20 years later.