“No,” Isabel said. “I have it fourth period, and David has it second.”
“And I have it sixth,” I said, almost to myself. We were each in one of the three junior Chemistry classes. The only three that existed. So my mystery pen pal was in one of their periods. One of them knew exactly who sat in my seat. All I had to do was open my mouth and ask … and forever ruin Chemistry. This was the one thing I’d been looking forward to for the past week and a half. I was not going to ruin that with my curiosity. I’d already told Isabel I didn’t want to know who my pen pal was. And I really didn’t.
The late bell rang then. David, Isabel, and I all went our separate ways. I smiled as I hurried toward the main office. I was one step closer to Chemistry class.
I didn’t have to look under the desk to find the note anymore. My hand went straight to it. I’d even become an expert at unfolding it quietly and placing it just so under my single sheet of notepaper. I didn’t even think Lauren realized what I was doing. I held my breath and read:
Track 4 is my favorite too. And also, Track 8 on Blue is amazing. You were right, not depressing at all. (I’m not just saying that because the cool guitarist in my new band said she likes it the best.)
By the way, I don’t play guitar so there will be no stealing your solo time here. That means it’s official, right? We need a band name now. Something overly sweet like Rainbows & Roses. Then all our songs should be angry. It will make for a good contrast. I have a lot of angry material right now—awful stepdad, distant mother, and absent father. That’s some solid fodder, right? Here, I’ll come up with a good first line right now … Parents (a pause in lyrics for a dramatic guitar solo for you) are (pause for drum solo) lame. Hmm … maybe I shouldn’t be the lyricist either. My musical skills don’t translate to a band. Where does that leave me? I can stand in the background and dance. Oh, also, if Mr. Ortega catches me writing you this letter, I am committed to shoving it in my mouth and swallowing. I hope I can count on the same commitment from you.
I smiled. After the buildup of the whole weekend and all morning anticipating this letter, I was worried it would disappoint. It did not. It was cute and funny and a little sad. I wished there was something I could do about the sad part to make him feel better.
I took out a fresh sheet of paper because now that we were saying more personal things, I didn’t want someone to find a long exchange under the desk. If discovered, it was better to have less.
We’re already to the swallowing-paper-for-each-other commitment level? You may be moving a little fast for me. And yes, your lyrics could use some work. What are these other musical skills you mentioned? Maybe we can integrate them somehow.
That is some serious material for lyrics. It will make a great song. Capitalizing on your sad life is cool, right? But seriously, I’m sorry. I don’t know if I can help much, but feel free to vent. I’m a good listener. Especially in letters, because I have no other choice.
You want to hear about a sad life? My best friend brought a guy to my house, kind of like a setup, and he basically ran away screaming. That’s how crazy my family is. Has your family ever accomplished such a feat? I doubt it.
I wasn’t sure that making light of his situation was the way to go, but he seemed like the type who appreciated humor. And it felt good to get my frustration about the weekend off my chest. I couldn’t vent about it to Isabel because I knew she’d just tell me that it was fine and that nobody thought my family was crazy—even though I was sure they all did.
I folded the letter and carefully placed it back in its spot. Now I had to wait twenty-four hours for a response. This was so much less gratifying than texting.
No, that wasn’t true. There was something about the secrecy and the anticipation and the possibility of getting caught that made it much more exciting than texting.
The next day I was just as excited when I pulled his response from beneath the desk.