At school that morning, I found Rocco in the library during third period study hall researching our essay project and presentation, his face buried in piles of history books.
I pulled out a chair across from him, but he didn’t look up. He scribbled in his notebook, his nose to the grindstone. I whispered his name, to no avail. He wouldn’t acknowledge me.
I unpacked pens, notebooks, and chicken-scratched notes for our presentation from my backpack, and somebody near me, a girl with choppy blonde hair and braces two tables down from us, shushed me and told me to be quiet.
I rolled my eyes at her and leaned into Rocco who was still ignoring me. “Look, Roc, I’m sorry if I haven’t been in touch. But I’ve had things to deal with. My Grams died. I had to go to the funeral.”
Slowly, he stopped
