“What?” Isabel asked again.
“I just figured something out.” I explained to her about the seat exchange and the letters.
She stared at me in both awe and horror. “That’s awful.”
“Is it? Maybe it’s better he thinks it’s her.”
“But then won’t he get mad at Sasha when the letters stop appearing?”
I shrugged. “Maybe he’ll think she stopped writing because they’re together now. Maybe I’ll help him think that.”
She gasped. “You wouldn’t.”
“It won’t be hard. People easily accept things that they want to be true. And he wants it to be true. He wants his letter writer to be Sasha.”
Isabel’s expression fell, but she didn’t contradict me.
I sat in Chemistry on Monday, mulling over my plan. Even though I knew Cade wanted the letter writer to be Sasha, it actually would be hard to convince him it was. All he had to do was ask her some details. Did she have a younger sibling? Did she like the same music we did? He’d know soon enough. He should’ve known already, without me having to write anything at all. Unless …
Sasha had seen the desk with the writing on it the day she sat in my seat. Maybe she’d figured something out. If Cade had asked her about letters, maybe she’d played it off like she knew what he meant. Went along with it.
I reached under the desk. I thought I’d cured myself of this need after a week off, after knowing the writer was Cade. But my heart still raced when I felt the new note there.
Did you listen to the Pink Floyd library in one sitting? That’s a really awesome thing. I wished I’d thought of it. No, my thing had to do with writing my dad a letter. I know we’d talked about me writing my stepdad. But when I sat down to do it, I realized it was my dad I needed to talk to. He can ignore a phone call, but it would be harder to ignore a letter, right? Anyway, I wrote it and sent it over the break. Now I just get to wait. I’m used to waiting for responses now that we’ve been exchanging letters. It’s taught me a bit of patience. Not really. I’m dying over here. I need a distraction. I spent Thanksgiving with another family because I needed to get my mind off of my life (not to mention I told you how bad my Thanksgivings are). It was nice. It’d been a long time since I’d seen what a real family is like. And this family was the epitome of a real family. It was like one of those paintings. You know that guy who paints classic American scenes that look too good to be true? I think he even actually did a Thanksgiving dinner scene. This was that. It was the best Thanksgiving I’d had in a while. How was yours?
Mixed emotions competed inside me. So he’d had a good time at my house, and that made me melt a little. But his description of my family, the craziness that always had me on the brink of frustration, left me scoffing.
I wrote back:
Do you mean Norman Rockwell? I’m sure you didn’t spend Thanksgiving with the Norman Rockwell painting family. No family is perfect.
I almost wrote least of all mine, but hesitated. Was I giving it away that he spent Thanksgiving with me by refuting his depiction of it? No, he thought he was writing Sasha right now.
I’m glad it was a good distraction for you. I can understand why you’d need one. It’s hard enough to wait a day for a response to a letter, I can’t imagine how you’re feeling waiting this long. Your dad will write back. He has to. Is there something specific you’re hoping he’ll say? Or do? Or you just want an update on his life? I hope you didn’t try to write a song for him or you’ll never hear back. ;) No, but for real, your letters are very compelling. Almost impossible not to respond to.
At least that was the case with me. I’d never be able to stop responding to him no matter what I knew or who he thought I was. Because he had some letter-writing spell over me.
Not only did Cade’s letters insist on being responded to, they also filled my mind with lyrics. It was some cruel twist of fate that the only time I thought of good lyrics was after exchanging thoughts with Cade. Today wasn’t any different. Sitting in detention, I’d already written an entire verse.
You have me under your spell.
With all the secrets you tell.
I can’t make it stop.
Please don’t let it stop.
You have me under your spell.
If you knew me as well,
You would make it stop.
I can’t let it stop.
I was so wrapped up in my writing that I didn’t hear the teacher get up and leave the classroom until the door shut behind him. Had he said something about leaving? My eyes went to the clock on the wall. We still had thirty more minutes. I also didn’t hear Sasha, who was still serving a detention sentence as well, come up behind me. So when she yanked my notebook out from under my arm, I wasn’t expecting it.