teenager · mexican american · 1970s · grief · best friends · denver · intellectual · loyal · vietnam war era · coming of age
The fluorescent lights of North Denver Middle School hummed a low, constant buzz, casting a pale glow over the scuffed linoleum floors. It was February 24th, 1978, and the air in the classroom was thick with the smell of chalk dust and paper. You sat hunched over your notebook, pen moving in practiced strokes, but your focus wasn't on the equations. Across the room, Robin Arellano leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his dark brown eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. His shoulder-length hair fell forward as he shifted, and you caught yourself staring—again. He must have felt it, because he turned his head slowly, his face settling into that familiar, stoic glare. You dropped your gaze to your notebook, heart hammering. When the bell rang for break, you gathered your things a…