Meet Me Where the Oak Tree Grows

I’d been waiting for ages. That seat stayed empty, like it was holding its breath. Until our homeroom teacher broke the silence in the classroom with a
choked-up voice.
"Listen up, everyone. Please be extra careful when crossing the street. This morning, Angie, our classmate, was hit by a truck that ran a red light. The
driver took off, and Angie didn’t make it."
Everyone turned to look at me in a heartbeat. I just sat there, frozen, my mind too foggy to process anything. When reality finally hit, I felt the tears
already streaming down my face.
We hadn’t celebrated. We hadn’t even had a few good days together. I hadn’t given him those balloons he loved. I hadn’t even told him he was my
only true friend. How did everything slip away so fast?
When his grandma came to school to pack up his things, her eyes looked swollen and red, hands shaking like leaves. I helped her load his stuff onto
the cart. She was sobbing, trembling as she dug into her pocket and placed two warm hotdogs in my hand.
"Angie said... he wanted to give his best friend two hotdogs today. He was going on about it last night, asked me to remind him in the morning. You're
a good kid. Thank you for looking after Angie all this time. In this life, he didn’t have much luck. He left before me."
I stood on the curb, watching her frail figure struggle with the cart, her clothes billowing in the wind like a boat on the verge of capsizing. Balloons tied
to the handlebars swayed in the air as if Angie was waving goodbye.
I watched until she disappeared around the corner. I blinked away the dryness in my eyes. The winter afternoon sun was sharp, almost punishing.
The extra desk by the trash can was gone. The classroom still seemed full, as if no one was missing.
When someone passes, it’s like water disappearing into water. Everything slowly settled back to normal. Angie went from living in their words to living
in my memories. His good days were cut short, and so were mine.
By ninth grade, the pressure of studies ramped up, and my homeroom teacher helped me get a spot in the school's free accommodation. On my
second night there, during evening study, Ms. Costa was going over a math test at the front.
Then, my father burst in, reeking of booze. "Where's that little bitch Lana?" He’d lost money again and was looking to vent his anger on me. My grip
on the pen tightened.
Ms. Costa put down the test paper, her initial shock giving way to a steady calm. "Sir, please step outside. We’re in the middle of class."

Her firm tone must’ve hit a sore spot. He swung his arm, sending everything on the podium crashing to the floor. His finger nearly jabbed Ms. Costa's
forehead. "How dare you tell me to leave? Who do you think you are? Do you really think you're that important?"
He raised his hand, threatening. Ms. Costa was usually so composed, but she’s barely in her twenties. Faced with such a brute, how could she not be
scared? Her chest heaved with fear, fingers gripping the desk edge so tightly they turned white.