I’d always write her back. Sometimes she wouldn’t get them for weeks, after they’d filtered their way through her editor to wherever she was on assignment. Sometimes she was home, and I could hand her the letter on my way out the door. It didn’t matter. We just thought on paper to each other.
When she died, I couldn’t stop. Usually, the instant I get to her grave, I can’t breathe until I’m pressing a pen against the paper, feeding her my thoughts.
Now, after seeing this response, I can’t write another word to her. I feel too vulnerable. Too exposed. Anything I say could be read. Twisted. Judged.
So I don’t write a letter to her.
I write a letter to him.
CHAPTER THREE
Privacy is an illusion.
Obviously you know this, since you read my letter. It wasn’t addressed to you. It wasn’t for you. It had nothing to do with you. It was between me and my mother.
I know she’s dead.
I know she can’t read the letters.
I know there’s very little I can do to feel close to her anymore.
Now I don’t even have this.
Do you understand what you’ve taken from me? Do you have any idea?
What you wrote implies that you understand agony.
I don’t think you do.
If you did, you wouldn’t have interfered with mine.
My first thought is that this chick is crazy. Who writes to a random stranger in a cemetery?
My second thought is that clearly I’m not one to throw stones here.
Either way, she doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know what I understand.
I shouldn’t even be standing here. It’s Thursday night, meaning I’m supposed to be mowing on the other side of the cemetery. It’s not like I have tons of spare time to stand around reading a letter from a stranger. Melonhead gave a glare at his watch when I walked into the equipment shed five minutes late. If he catches me slacking off, there’ll be hell to pay.
If he keeps threatening to call the judge, I’m going to lose it.
After a moment, my initial irritation seeps out, leaving guilt behind. I’m standing here because I felt a connection with the last letter. I wanted to see if another had been left.
I didn’t expect anyone to read what I’d written.
It’s a slap in the face to realize she must have felt the same way.
I dig in my pockets for a pencil, but all I find are my keys and my lighter.
Oh wait. Rev needed a pencil in seventh period. It’s unlike him not to return something he borrowed, even something as stupid as an old pencil.
Maybe this is fate’s way of telling me to stop and think before I speak. Before I write. Whatever.
I fold up her rant and shove it in my pocket. Then I pull on my gloves and go to find my mower. I hate being here, but after weeks of doing this, I’ve found that hard labor is good for thinking.
I’ll work, and I’ll think.
And, later, I’ll be back to write.
CHAPTER FOUR
I don’t think you understand agony yourself. If you did, you wouldn’t have interfered with mine.
Did you ever think that my words weren’t meant for you to read, either?
“Jules?”
I look up. The cafeteria is nearly empty, and Rowan is standing there, looking at me expectantly.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “The bell rang five minutes ago. I thought you were going to meet me at my locker.”
I refold the tattered letter I found this morning and shove it into my backpack, jerking at the zipper. I don’t know when he wrote it, but it must have been last week, because the paper is crinkly like it’s been wet and dried again, and we haven’t had rain since Saturday.
It was the first weekend I didn’t go to the cemetery in a while. A little part of me is irritated that this letter sat for days. His self-righteousness has probably faded, while mine feels fresh and new and hot in my chest.
I’m glad I went this morning. They mow on Tuesday nights, and it probably would have gotten thrown away by the staff.
“What were you looking at?” says Rowan.
“A letter.”
She doesn’t push past that. She thinks it’s a letter to my mother. I let her think that.
I don’t need anyone to think I’m any crazier than they do already.
The late bell rings. I need to move. If I get another tardy, I’ll end up in detention. Again. The thought is enough to add extra speed to my step.
I can’t get another detention. I can’t sit in that room for another hour. The silence hurts my ears and leaves me with too much time to think.
Rowan is right beside me. She’ll probably escort me to class and sweet-talk the teacher out of writing me a late slip. She doesn’t need to worry about tardies or detention—teachers love her. She sits in the front row of every class and hangs on their every word, as if she wakes up every morning thirsting for knowledge. Rowan is one of those girls you love to hate: delicately pretty, with a kind word for everyone, and a seemingly effortless straight-A average. She’d be more popular if she weren’t so perfect. I tell her that all the time.
If we’re calling a spade a spade, she’d be more popular if she weren’t best friends with the senior-class train wreck.
When I found the letter this morning, I expected to read it and start crying. Instead, I want to find this loser and punch him in the face. Every time I read it, I get a bit more furious.
Did you ever think that my words weren’t meant for you to read, either?
The fury helps cover up the little part of me that wonders if he’s right.
The hallways are empty, which seems impossible. Where are the rest of the slackers? Why am I always the only late one?
Besides, it’s not like I wasn’t here. I’m physically in the building. It’s not like I’m going to turn into a model student once a teacher starts doing the Charlie Brown at the blackboard.
By the time we reach the language arts wing, we’re half running, skidding through turns. I grab hold of the corner to help propel me down the last hall.
I feel the burn before I feel the collision. Hot liquid sears my skin, and I cry out. A cup of coffee has exploded across my chest. I slam into something solid, and I’m skidding, slipping, falling.
Someone solid.