Chapter 10

“It’s a yes or no question,” I said.

“I’ve got to get going,” he said.

He stood, held out a hand to me, fist pumped mine, twice, and then we locked our fingers together.

“I miss hanging out with you,” he said, taking me off guard.

“What are you rambling on about?”

“I want to hang out with you more.”

He reminded me of a derelict, someone who had lost his dog, or been abandoned by his parents.

Then I thought of my own parents: “I want you to find different friends,” my mother told me during a screaming match a few months ago. “Rocco is bad news.” I fought to defend my friendship with Rocco. I liked the introverted, odd, pot smoking eighteen-year-old I had known most of my school life. The day we sat next to each other in third grade lunch period and swapped each other’s bag lunches, the rest was history. I hated bologna and discovered newfound taste buds in Rocco’s almond butter and banana triple-decker sandwich.

I turned back to him. “We could catch a movie.”