“Um … I’ll have to make sure I’m not stuck babysitting again, but sure,” I said hesitantly. “Sounds fun.”
“And maybe we could all hang out after the game?” Isabel added. She was so persistent.
David nodded and tentatively looked at me. I couldn’t read him very well. I wasn’t sure if he wanted me to give an encouraging look or if he was trying to get out of this plan.
I smiled, just in case that would help when really I just wanted to say, Yeah, I’m trying to get out of this too, but you don’t know my best friend very well if you think there is hope for either of us.
“We’ll be doing our marching band performance at halftime,” David finally said, glancing back at Isabel.
“I love watching the marching band,” Isabel exclaimed. “It’s so cool to see all those formations. How long do you have to work on those?”
“Months,” he said.
“Lily likes anything with music.”
Apparently I was still going with the “not-talking” strategy. I finally found my voice. “It’s true.”
David smiled. “Music and chemistry. Bringing people together.”
For some reason, I blushed. Music and chemistry. Why had he said that?
I thought about the Suspects page in the back of my notebook. I had written down two possibilities so far: A guy named George from my composition class who yesterday morning was going on and on about his parents’ divorce and how he was going to write a song about it. When I’d heard him say that, my heart had jumped. George wasn’t that cute, but he seemed smart. I was willing to consider him. The other suspect was Travis from P.E.; I’d overheard him telling his friend that reverse psychology works well on teachers. My letter writer had said something about reverse psychology. I guess I was grasping at straws.
But now, sitting in the library, I wondered if I could add a third name to the Suspects list: David.
Finally, I thought, as I settled into my seat in Chemistry on Thursday. I couldn’t listen to Mr. Ortega for the normal five minutes I usually did before reading. I unfolded the note right away.
I hadn’t realized it was lab yesterday. It surprised me. Maybe I should start paying more attention in class. I blame you for the distraction. The problem is that you’re making me look forward to Chemistry or something. In what crazy world does anyone look forward to Chemistry? Can you stop being so amusing? I think that will help. Did you start on our first song? “Left Behind.” It’s hard to tell if someone is kidding or not in a letter. Are you actually a songwriter?
That last sentence made me pause. I wanted to be a songwriter. But I really wasn’t. I hadn’t even written a full song. I had partial lyrics, and incomplete melodies, but nothing finished. I shook off the thought and continued reading.
If so, I’m impressed. If not, maybe you should be. You seem passionate about music and you have a way with words. Sometimes I wish I were passionate about something real. Something I knew I could succeed in. Right now all my dreams are a little far-fetched. Oh no, Mr. Ortega wants us to complete a worksheet with our seat partner. Gotta go.
I smiled, and checked up to see Mr. Ortega writing some endless formula on the board. I immediately produced a fresh piece of paper and wrote:
You think songwriting is a realistic dream? That was a joke, right? Like you said, it’s hard to tell from a letter. But yes, I am passionate about it. Now, if only I could actually write a complete song, I might feel like I could call myself a songwriter. For now, I’m just a far-fetched dreamer like you. It might stay that way until I get out of my house. It’s impossible to write there.
What is this far-fetched dream of yours anyway? Something your home life prevents, like mine? How are things at home? Any improvement with your mom or dad? You said your dad left and you haven’t seen him in a while, but you have talked to him, right?
Ugh, now Mr. Ortega is asking US to complete the worksheets. Gotta go too.
Twenty-four hours was a long time to think about what answers my pen pal would give to my questions. I found myself worried about him the rest of the day and that night, wondering what his far-fetched dreams were that he didn’t feel he could believe in.
The next day, his reply read:
My dad calls me once a year around my birthday. I think he may have forgotten the exact date. It was hard the first couple years, now it’s kind of amusing. I make a bet with myself about how close to the real date he’ll actually get. His closest so far has been within two days. Not bad. This last year I was a jerk to him. I felt guilty and then I felt guilty for feeling guilty. If that makes any sense. I’ve written him off. Now he’s just someone that used to be in my life. He actually pays child support, which is big of him, right? Maybe that makes him feel better about himself. It felt nice for me when my mom let me buy a car with some of it. The unfortunate side effect of this choice is that now every time I drive, I’m reminded of him.
And that’s enough whining for one letter. You’ll stop writing me if all I ever do is complain. And then where will I be? Stuck listening to Mr. Ortega again? So what about you? I think I need some more complaining on your end.
I frowned down at the letter, my heart hurting. His dad had forgotten exactly when his birthday was? What kind of father did that? The kind that would move five states away and never visit.
Something about the way my pen pal wrote made him easy to open up to. I found myself doing just that as I wrote back.
Complaining? My complaints seem minor now compared to what you have to deal with. And again, I have no sage words of wisdom to offer. Hang in there? Chin up. What are some other cheesy, not-helpful slogans?
My main complaint about my own life is that I have no time to myself, at all. My whole family seems to dictate every second of my day. When I go out, eat, think. I’m living a collective life. Everyone around me decides my fate and sometimes I feel like I’m just along for the ride.
I see what you mean about a maximum quota of whining per letter. I feel like I just reached mine. I need to end with something lighter. Today is Friday. That’s good, right? Although, by the time you read this it will be Monday and Mondays suck. So that’s not a happy letter-ender at all. How about the fact that there are only three more weeks of school before Thanksgiving break, when we get a week off? Happy thought for you, or no? I can’t decide if I were you if I’d rather be at school or at home? I’m sorry, that was insensitive. I’m really not doing well here. Music. That’s the universal language, one I usually can’t mess up. Go listen to a band called Dead’s the New Alive. Track 9 off their new album. That will help. At least, for three minutes and forty-four seconds.
I folded the note, finding myself a little depressed as I stuck it in its place. Fridays were the worst. I had to wait all weekend before I’d get a reply. Was I really already looking forward to Monday? That was backward thinking. I should’ve been excited about the football game that night. The one my mom had said I could go to. David. Yes, I could get excited about seeing David. That would make Isabel happy. And maybe I’d get some more clues as to whether his name belonged on my Suspects list or not.
The night was my favorite kind of night—cool enough for a jacket, but warm enough for it to be a thin one. Now, if only we weren’t headed for a stadium full of screaming fans. Watching a football game wasn’t exactly my favorite activity.