Rocked (Rock & Romance II.)

Chapter 11. - Historically Correct

A/N: I'm baaack! Shoutout to cgn_99 ! Thank you for the support and for enjoying the book so far!

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New Year's Eve was fast approaching, and a week after that, my birthday.

Growing up, my parents used to celebrate the two together, since the new year already got the family together. Of course, that was when my mother was still alive.

Back then, every holiday, birthday, anniversary, and milestone was celebrated properly. I received gifts that I actually wanted and the kind of celebration I preferred. Instead of having a kids' party for my birthday, my mother booked me on different trips – to visit a museum or Disneyland. Whatever I was into that year.

And she always made sure to include my two best friends – London and Callie.

My mother's side of the family was Italian. A big, loud group of people who always got together for the holidays, drank wine, and ate pasta and loved each other unconditionally. My mother, Martina, had four siblings, and about a hundred cousins, all living in the Jersey area. While we didn't get to see them in person a lot, they talked on the phone almost every day and kept each other updated on everything that was going on.

My father was of Irish descent. Mick Walsh's parents immigrated to New York after World War II and cut off all ties with the relatives from back home. Dad was born in the States and having no siblings or family to speak of, he spent all his time with his nose buried in a book. He got his Ph.D. early, due to his genius, and after he met my mother – and somehow landed her – they relocated to California when I was just two years old.

I was twelve and sitting in 6th grade when I got the call.

My father was into all the newest technology, and I've had a cell phone long before any of my spoiled classmates did. But being kind of a loner, I only ever got texts from my two friends – both of whom were sitting in class with me at the time.

I remembered my stomach tying up in knots. My cell ringing in the middle of the day was unheard of, and therefore not a good sign. I still recalled how it felt to have to silence it and watch it get dropped into the drawer of my teacher's desk. She should've punished me, but never got to it because a couple minutes later, a note was delivered.

I was called to the principal's office.

I've always liked school, and my grades were the highest in our class. If I got called in to meet Principal Whitmore, it was usually for something good – perhaps a project of mine received recognition, or I was called to be interviewed by a scientific magazine for teens.

My mother always told me that my big brain was a curse, just as much as it was a blessing. I always told her that my brain was exactly the same size as everyone else's, it was my neurons that fired more often.

That day, I understood what she really meant.

Because even as the note was handed to me with a smile, and everyone in class looked at me with envy, I already knew that this was no award. I wasn't going to be asked for any interviews – I was going to be given very bad news.

I quickly skimmed down the mental list of people I loved. My best friends were sitting in class with me, looking healthy and happy. That left only two other people – my mother and father. My father was in Silicon Valley, working on a secret project he couldn't tell us about, and my mother dropped me off at school in the morning, before heading to yoga.

If something happened to my father, my mother would've gotten the call first. She would've been waiting for me at Principal Whitmore's office.

I walked through the door, and Whitmore stood, his secretary right next to him. There was no one else in the room.