My father liked to write. He wrote day and night, night and day. I bet he’s still writing in heaven. He’s probably typing pages and pages of letters at the moment, his small, neat, handwriting sprinkled across off-white pape...
“Hola amigos, como estas? Blah blah blah blah...” The Spanish teacher seems to drone on for hours and hours before I feel a finger stab my shoulder.
“Ow…” I look behind me and glare at my friend, Claire. “What?”
“Can...
