Living Rough Read Online Free

plastic container with cabbage rolls in it. I realized I should have grabbed something from the breakfast program. I sifted through my backpack and found a mangled-looking granola bar. It would have to do.
    â€œYou like?” Inna held out the lid of a plastic container with a cabbage roll on it.
    â€œCool. Yeah, I like cabbage rolls. How do you say this in your language?”
    She wrinkled her nose at me. I tried asking the question again, with my index finger pointing first at the food, then at her. “How would you say this in the Ukraine?”
    â€œAh. Holubtsi . Ho…lub…si.”
    â€œHol… butt …si,” I tried.
    She laughed. “Holubsti. Ya. Is good. Holubtsi. You like?”
    I took a bite. I remembered having warm cabbage rolls, but never cold. They tasted great anyway.
    Inna smiled as I downed the food way too quickly. She took small bites of her cabbage roll, then placed another one on the lid I was using as a plate.
    â€œWhy did you have to go home yesterday?” I said each word slowly, to give her time to absorb the meaning.
    â€œHome.” She reached into her backpack and pulled out a piece of crumpled paper. She passed it to me, while rummaging in her pack again.
    I read the paper she offered me. It had her street address and phone number scrawled in tiny letters with purple ink. As I stared at the note, she handed me a blank piece of paper and the purple pen.
    â€œYou give me…home?” She nodded.
    â€œI…I…” I couldn’t think of a response and felt my pulse quicken. My eyes searched the ground for something to focus on.
    She took my hand and opened my tight grasp. I had crumpled the sheet in my fist. Inna took the blank paper and replaced it in her bag. Then she put her fingers through mine and leaned her head on my shoulder.
    She smelled like a summer picnic, like flowers and watermelon.
    I loved that she didn’t ask me more questions and pretended nothing happened. I loved that her quiet breathing was so hypnotic.
    Twenty-four breaths—in and out. Then the bell rang.

Chapter Seven
    In social studies, Mr. Brock began the class by telling us we were going to preview the social justice course. At our school, social justice classes were only for grade eleven and twelve students. As Mr. Brock circulated around the room, he handed various newspaper stories out to each table of students. My table got the story that he’d projected onto the screen yesterday.
    I felt my knees wobble.
    â€œI want one member of each group to read the article aloud to your table. Then I want you to talk about what you’ve read and what it means to you. I hope you understand the importance of what we’re discussing today.”
    Mr. Brock was a blur, and his words just as fuzzy. I kept trying to count the number of branches on the fir outside the window, but I couldn’t keep track. “Sean, your table will look at the statistical information, and Kelsey, your group will look at the global picture.”
    Mr. Brock stopped pacing as he reached our table. He placed his hand on my shoulder. “Edgar, your group will look at our local scene.”
    I felt like I might black out. I needed to chill.
    â€œAny questions?” Hearing none, Mr. Brock urged us to begin.
    My group looked at me. What? Did Mr. Brock make me the leader when he said my name? I wasn’t about to read the story.
    I had managed to keep my secret since the beginning of the school year. I wasn’t going to blow it now.
    â€œWell? Aren’t you going to read the article?” Janie was eyeing me. Shane looked bored, and Paul was snickering.
    â€œHey, if one of you wants to read it, I don’t care.” I hoped someone would bite. It would be easier to get through the next forty minutes if I wasn’t the focus of attention. But no one offered to take my place. The knot in my stomach seemed to be reaching up to my throat. I had to swallow several