We younger brothers were further divided between those families that had escape plans, and those who would be sending their brothers to Vietnam. The majority of us in suburban Menlo Park would have student deferments. Those from closer to the East Palo Alto line would be expected to fight. And then there were those few who had already had their brothers return home in body bags. They weren't a part of any group, but stood off on their own and were only discussed in the most hushed of tones.

Joey and I had come in from different Elementary Schools and met halfway through our first year at New Trier. My brother, Bob, was a senior at Menlo High, hoping to get into Berkeley (and out of the draft) next year. Joey's brother Hal had just left Stanford for a semester abroad in Paris. Sitting next to each other in Mr. P's English Composition class we'd developed a strong friendship from laughing behind Mr. P's back and daring each other to put inappropriate jokes into our compositions. From there we came to be part of the same lunch-time clique, then hanging out together on weekends and spending time at each other's homes.

Lunchtime conversations at our group's table often centered on the war. To some degree we were all fearful, not just for our big brothers, but with the usually unspoken realization that someday it would be our turn to face the draft and make a decision about the war in Vietnam. Some, however, confronted that possibility head on, with a sense of bravado that came from watching too many old movies on television.

"Personally, I can't wait to get over there," George Whiting was saying one day. "While you sissies are all hiding out in college, I'm going to be killing me some Commies." George stood on the bench, knees leaning against the table, and pantomimed gunning down a line of North Vietnamese, complete with spitting sound effects.

Everybody but Joey laughed. I yelled back at George, "Yeah, but at least we'll have women with us at college!" This drew a chorus of "oohs" from the boys and another round of laughter as George reluctantly took his seat.

Later that afternoon, when Joey and I were at his house, he showed me a letter that his brother, Hal, had written to him. Hal said how much he hated college, even in Paris, and that he planned to drop out after coming home in June.

"I'm scared, Freddie," Joey confided in me. "If he doesn't go back to school, they'll draft him for sure."

"We'll figure something out," I assured him. "We're not gonna let anybody shoot either of our brothers." He looked at me and smiled. "Unless we shoot them ourselves," I joked and he threw a yo-yo at me.

Alone in his room, over the next few months, Joey and I made elaborate plans to spirit Hal to safety up in Vancouver, before the Army could find out he was no longer a student. Without verifying it with my family, I'd volunteered my great uncle in Banff as a Canadian contact who could help out once we crossed the border.

At first we also figured my brother, Bob, into the plan. When he finally got his acceptance letter from Berkeley in May, we re-focussed our efforts on a trip for three of us going north and only two coming back south.

We imagined ourselves on a dangerous, top-secret mission, with spies all around us. A direct bus trip, we came to realize, would be too easy for somebody to trace. We'd need to avoid the obvious checkpoints and be sure not to leave any sign of our path. Using maps and guidebooks we'd picked up at the AAA we'd selected cheap out-of-the-way motels. From both Greyhound and Trailways we'd gotten bus schedules and prices for tickets. We carefully plotted out where we could switch from one line to the other, further throwing the government off our track. Joey didn't dare write to Hal about our plans; we couldn't take the risk that the CIA was reading all the international mail.

As soon as we realized how expensive our trip would be we started saving up by doing odd jobs, baby-sitting, and yard work for several families in the neighborhood. We decided we'd give Hal a few weeks to unwind from Paris before springing the details on him. A start date of July 7, we figured, would give us plenty of time to get him out of the country and us back to Menlo Park before September, when he'd be due at either Stanford University or the local draft board, and we'd be due back at New Trier.

The day that Hal came home was the Tuesday after school let out for Joey and me. We waited anxiously in his living room, staring at the television without comprehending what we were watching. Our thoughts were with his mother who had gone to the airport to pick up the subject of our mission.

Hal entered the house looking larger than life, his dark curly hair bouncing atop his six-foot tall, gangly frame. Stepping out of the mid-June afternoon sun into the house he looked to me like the conquering knight returning to the castle. His face beamed as he dropped his bags in the front hall and scooped Joey off the ground into his arms, Joey's face turning a bright, embarrassed red. Only after releasing Joey did he notice me, a brief moment of confusion crossing his otherwise self-assured features. "This is Freddie," offered their mother. I stood mutely in awe to be finally meeting him as he nodded my way and said hello.

A moment later Hal stood by the dining table, opening up a small black carry-on bag. Pulling out neatly wrapped gifts he handed one to his mother and one to Joey. "I've brought gifts from Paris for everybody." Then, noticing me again, he rummaged around the bag and pulled out a small box of Bazooka bubble gum with the packaging in French and tossed it my way. I opened the first piece, popped it in my mouth like manna from heaven, and tried to read the enclosed comic in French, still saying nothing even as their mother ushered me to the door and suggested I head home to my own family now.

That night I lay awake thinking how impressive Hal had seemed, and what a privilege it would be to help him escape the draft. Surely that would qualify as a right of passage, making me big and strong; at least as strong as he. Under the sheets, with my flashlight on, I chewed my gum and tried to translate the adventures of Bazooka Joe from French to English until I finally fell into a deep sleep.

In the morning I slept late, waking only when the phone rang at about ten o'clock. After about five minutes my mother entered my room and sat down at the foot of my bed. "That was Mrs. Burton," she spoke slowly, looking off towards the window. "Joey's brother died last night in a car accident. He was very tired, and he fell asleep at the wheel on the way home from visiting some friends." After another few moments she turned towards me with tears in her eyes and leaned down to hug me. She squeezed tighter and tighter, but I just laid there, limp in her arms. What right did she have to cry? She'd never met Hal. She didn't know anything about how important he was.

All that summer I never called Joey and he never called me. When July seventh came around I spent my share of the trip money on a new bicycle and rode aimlessly up and down the Peninsula all summer long.

I first saw Joey again a few days into the new school year. I was sitting at our usual lunch table with the younger brothers club when I saw him coming out of the food line with his tray. He stood in the middle of the cafeteria and scanned the courtyard for an open table. Our eyes met but neither one of us said a word. We each just held our positions and stared through each other across the widening distance.