I folded the letter up and put it back. If I stopped writing he eventually would as well. I needed to stop reading, too. I knew I did. It wasn’t fair to give up on my end of the letter writing but still participate in the reading. The part that, despite knowing who had written it, still gave me a thrill. It still had me nodding my head in agreement and smiling in amusement.
I did not want to relate to Cade. I did not want to find him funny. I knew the other side of him. And I didn’t care why he acted like he did in public. He was old enough not to treat people like garbage, regardless of how he’d been treated by his dad and stepdad.
And I was old enough to be honest and tell him that I couldn’t write anymore.
I took out the two letters that were under the desk, dropped them in my bag, and stared at the empty sheet of paper in front of me. I didn’t have to be mean. I didn’t want to humiliate him or anything, even though that’s exactly what he liked to do to me. I was bigger than that.
I wasn’t sick but thank you for the turtle bowl anyway. It was so awfully drawn that it almost crossed the line that made it art again. Almost. I’ve had a bad couple of days.
Tears pricked my eyes as I wrote that last line. I wanted to tell him everything that happened. I wanted to say, “First I found out that you were you. Then my brother broke the one thing that might’ve helped me deal with that fact, then my best friend and I got into the worst fight of our friendship so she can’t even help me through this.” But I couldn’t. I wondered what advice he’d give me about my brother, about Isabel. This was Cade Jennings. He had millions of friends. Backups for his backups. Isabel was my one.
I got in a fight with my best friend. Plus my little brother broke something very important to me. Something I can’t replace and I was so angry that when he tried to hug me this morning to say sorry, I turned my back on him. And I hate myself for doing that, but I’m still angry.
This time a tear fell and I swiped it away quickly. I still felt guilty for turning my back on Jonah that morning. He’d looked so sad and I couldn’t get over my anger to comfort him. And I didn’t think I should’ve been expected to comfort him, though it was obvious my mom thought so by the look she’d given me. That kid got away with everything. Maybe he needed to learn that not everything could be hugged away. See, here I was again trying to justify how I’d acted that morning.
But then I think: it’s just a thing. You know? And my brother is a person. A thing is not more important than a person …
And you, Cade Jennings, are not more important than my friendship. And I hate you even more for coming between us. That’s what I should’ve written. But I didn’t, I finished with:
Anyway, I wasn’t sick.
This wasn’t the note I had set out to write. The note I had set out to write was supposed to include the words: I won’t be writing you anymore. This note did not come anywhere close to including those words. Then why was I folding it up and shoving it in place?
I just needed one more. This last letter. Then I’d end it officially.
I needed to talk to Isabel. We could work through this. We just needed to talk it out more. I’d left too fast the day before, hadn’t acknowledged my fault in anything. That’s what I realized as I left Chemistry. I just needed to tell Isabel that I was sorry for breaking up her and Cade because I was too immature to deal with him back then (and maybe now) and that she had every right to not want me to write to him. I hoped that admission would fix everything.
Only Isabel wasn’t waiting at our meeting spot for lunch. She didn’t answer my texts either. I couldn’t find her anywhere. She was probably giving me space.
I wandered toward the food cart. I’d get some food and find a quiet place in the library to eat and think.
David was leaning against a tree to my right so I cut left and went the long way around. I sensed David had only gone out with me as some sort of favor to Isabel. To keep me from the “alternative.” I did not need pity dates.
There were three lines for the sandwich cart and I picked the wrong one. I didn’t know it at first. But after a few minutes, Cade, Sasha, and crew were in line right behind me.
I wanted to leave but it would be too obvious … and weak.
I pulled out my phone and pretended to read texts.
From behind me came a voice. “Nice shorts.” That was Sasha. I knew she was referring to mine. They were jeans I had cut off and sewn patches on. I didn’t want to turn around and acknowledge that she’d been talking about me, but when Cade laughed, a rush of anger made me turn.
He had his arm around Sasha, which was different than past times I’d seen them together where she was the one hanging on to him. I wondered what changed. I looked him straight in the eyes, like he was the one who made the comment and said, “I’m sorry, what was that? I don’t speak jerk.”
He didn’t flinch, just cocked his head and said, “And here I thought you were fluent.”
It shouldn’t have hurt. I was used to it. I’d heard much worse. But it did hurt, and I didn’t want him to see that. I left the line, not sure where I was going, when I saw Lucas sitting beside his friends, listening to music. Present but not present.
I marched over. When I arrived in front of him I tugged on the cord to his earphones. They fell into his lap and his eyes met mine in surprise.
“You want to go do something?” I blurted out.
“What? Now?”
“No. Friday—this Friday. The day after tomorrow. There’s a concert at the all-ages club in Phoenix. A new band is playing. You want to go with me?” My nerves were catching up with me, overriding the bravado that had propelled me here. All of Lucas’s friends had gone silent and were staring at me. He was staring at me.
“Sure,” he said.
“Sure?”
“Yes, I’ll go. Should we meet there at eight?”
“Okay. Friday at eight.”
I managed not to let out any form of happy yelp or excited jump as I walked away.
The next morning Isabel jogged toward me as I walked to first period, determination in her eyes. When she reached me we both stopped.
“Time’s up,” she said.
I smiled and she handed me some sheets of paper. Had she written me a letter?
“What’s this?”
“The last thing I thought about before I went to bed last night.”
I unfolded the papers. They were ads, printed off of Craigslist. Gently used acoustic guitar. In great shape. New strings. Plays perfectly. $150. Or best offer. There were several more similar to the first for different prices.
I smiled. Those prices were a lot more doable than four hundred, but they still seemed impossible. I glanced up at Isabel tentatively, knowing this was her peace offering, feeling bad for not having one of my own.
“I’m sorry,” we both said at the same time. Then we both smiled.
“Let me go first,” she said. “I should have told you it was Cade.” She looked around and dropped her voice. “I’m so sorry I didn’t. It was wrong of me and I can only imagine how you felt when you learned who you’d been exchanging your thoughts with. And it hadn’t even occurred to me that you might have been telling him things that you wouldn’t want him to know. I really just thought they were letters about music.”