“Mark Powell has a switchblade -- the kind that the blade comes straight out of the handle.” I popped my thumb across my index finger in the way such a knife is opened. “It’ll be great. When you rush toward me, I’ll turn the blade at the last second. You run into the back of my hand.”

Steven was looking off somewhere, to a place I couldn’t see. He sat on the edge of the stage, cross-legged, and I noticed the dime-sized hole in the bottom of his left shoe. “If you think it’ll work, let’s do it.” We rehearsed until the janitor came into the room four hours later and told us we had to leave.

Thursday I borrowed the knife from Mark. It was an illegal weapon; the blade spanned about six inches, and he wasn’t really convinced he should let me use it. I promised to take real good care of it, and to not to show it to anybody. I gave him four dollars in rent.

I practiced the knife moves at home, in front of my bedroom mirror. I opened and closed it probably a thousand times, pleased with the positive steel click. I can still hear the sound of the thing. Steven and I rehearsed the stabbing scene more than any other part of the play. We had it down.

On the night of our performance, I filled the plastic bag with the stage blood, and Steven held up his white, short-sleeved shirt while I ran strips of masking tape around the bag and then around his chest. He didn’t have any hair there yet, and I never knew if he grew any later.

We had about thirty people there to watch. My parents, Steven’s mom, Principal Gorman, our drama teacher (Miss Trevor), and Steven’s little brother. A lot of other students showed up, too.

By the fourteenth page of the play we had lost our places. We improvised. Sometimes I remembered a line for my character, and Steven would pick it up and we’d get back on track for a while. He had the biggest part; the most lines by far. It’s a good thing Gorman didn’t know the play.

Pretty soon, the bag of blood got twisted open somehow, and a crimson stain silently grew on Steven’s shirt. There was nothing we could do except hurry it up to the stabbing scene. I didn’t think we were going to remember too many more of our lines, anyway. Steven’s eyes widened, shining like the eyes of a stuffed deer.

When we jumped to the last page or two, he tossed the knife to the floor, and I picked it up. I thumbed the release, and the blade appeared, like a thousand times before.

I said, “You’ve got one more chance to leave me alone.”

“So be it,” Steven said. We were practically home free. His shirt was mostly red now, and he ran toward the knife in my hand. At the last moment, I flicked my wrist to the left and felt the wet smack of Steven’s chest across my knuckles. Perfect.

“You won’t be coming here anymore,” Steven said. He was on the floor now. “You’ve lost your bench.”

“Oh my God,” I said. This was my exit line, and I stumbled stage right while he lay there bloodying up the boards.

“Oh my God,” Steven said, and I turned the knob that made the stage dark.

I heard the sound of clapping hands and a few whistles. Steven rose from the floor, wiping the crimson liquid from his hands onto the legs of his trousers. I brought up the lights and joined him on the stage, where we acknowledged the audience’s ovation with deep, thespian bows. Steven had a smile on his face that was as large as any smile I had ever seen. I was smiling, too; enormously happy that the play, and my high-school career, were over.

Pretty soon, the bag of blood got twisted open somehow, and a crimson stain silently grew on Steven’s shirt.