He liked to play a supporting role, whereas Peter loved to be the star. So everyone always gave the credit, and the blame, to Peter, because he was the scamp and how could an angel like John Ambrose McClaren really be to blame for anything? Not that there was even much blame. People are so charmed by beautiful boys. Beautiful boys get an indulgent shake of the head and an “Oh, Peter,” not even a slap on the wrist. Our English teacher Ms. Holt used to call them Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, which none of us had ever heard of. Peter convinced her to show the movie to us in class one day, and then they argued all year over who got to be Butch and who had to be the Sundance Kid, even though it was very clear to everyone who was who.
I bet all the girls at his school like him. When I saw him at the Model UN scrimmage, he looked so assured, the way he sat tall in his seat, shoulders squared, utterly focused. If I went to John’s school, I bet I would be right there at the front of the pack, with binoculars and a granola bar, camping out at his locker. I’d have his schedule memorized; I’d know his lunch by heart. Does he still eat double-decker peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on whole wheat bread? I wonder. There are so many things I don’t know.
Peter’s car honking out front is what shakes me out of my reverie. I jump guiltily at the sound. I have this crazy impulse to hide the letter, to tuck it away in my hatbox for safekeeping and never think about it again. But then I think, no, that would be crazy. Of course I’ll write John Ambrose McClaren back. It would be rude not to.
So I tuck the letter in my bag, throw on my white puffer coat, and run outside to Peter’s car. There’s still a bit of snow on the ground from the last storm, but it looks shabby, like a threadbare rug. I’m an all-or-nothing kind of girl when it comes to weather, I’d much rather it all melt away or have feet and feet of snow, so deep your knees sink in.
When I get in Peter’s car, he’s texting on his phone. “What’s up?” I ask him.
“Nothing,” he says. “It’s just Gen. She wanted me to give her a ride, but I told her we can’t.”
My skin prickles. It rankles that they still text so much, that they’re in such easy contact, enough to ask for rides. But they’re friends, just friends. That’s what I keep telling myself. And he’s telling me the truth, just like we promised we would. “Guess who I got a letter from.”
He backs out of the driveway. “Who?”
“Guess.”
“Um . . . Margot?”
“Why would that be surprising? No, not Margot. John Ambrose McClaren!”
Peter just looks confused. “McClaren? Why would he write you a letter?”
“Because I wrote him one, remember? Same as I did to you. There were five love letters, and his was the only letter that never came back. I thought it was lost forever, but then a tree fell in John’s driveway after this last ice storm, and Mr. Barber came to haul it away and he brought the letter.”
“Who’s Mr. Barber?”
“He’s the man who bought John’s old house. He owns a landscaping company—that’s all beside the point, anyway. The point is, John only just got my letter last week; that’s why it took him so long to write back.”
“Hm,” Peter says, messing with the heating vents. “So he wrote you an actual letter? Not an email?”
“No, it was a real letter that came in the mail.” I watch to see if he is jealous, to see if this new development gets under his skin even a little.
“Hm,” Peter says again. The second hm is bored-sounding, noncommittal. Not the slightest bit jealous. “How is the Sundance Kid anyway?” He snickers. “McClaren used to hate when I called him that.”
“I remember,” I say. We’re at the stoplight; there’s a line to get into school.
“What’d the letter say?”
“Oh, you know, just ‘how are you,’ the usual sort of things.” I look out the window. I’m feeling a bit stingy about sharing extra information because his ho-hum reaction hasn’t merited any. Doesn’t he have the decency to at least act like he cares?
Peter drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “We should hang out with him sometime.”
The thought of Peter and John Ambrose McClaren in the same space together again is discomfiting. Where would I even look? Vaguely I say, “Hmm, maybe.” Perhaps bringing up the letter wasn’t such a great idea.
“I think he still has my old baseball glove,” he muses. “Hey, did he say anything about me?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Like did he ask what I was up to?”
“Not really.”
“Hmm.” Peter’s mouth turns down into a miffed sort of expression. “What’d you write him back?”
“I just got it! I haven’t had time to write anything back.”
“Tell him I say hey when you do,” he says.
“Sure,” I say. I feel around in my bag to make sure the letter is still in there.
“So, wait, if you sent a love letter to five of us, does that mean you liked us all equally?”
He’s looking at me with expectant eyes, and I know he thinks I’m going to say I liked him best, but that wouldn’t be true. “Yes, I liked you all exactly the same,” I tell him.
“Bullshit! Who’d you like best? Me, right?”
“That’s a really impossible question to answer, Peter. I mean, it’s all relative. I could say I liked Josh best, because I liked him longest, but you can’t judge who you love the most by how long you love them.”
“Love?”
“Like,” I say.
“You definitely said ‘love.’”
“Well, I meant ‘like.’”