Hey, sorry for the pen change. I can already tell that you’re blown away by my fancy stationery. It’s going to be Mead spiral notebooks for me from now on because I am saving my scheckels (sp? shechles? shekels?) for something amazing. A M A Z I N G! Like, bubble-letter poster amazing. More on that later.
The good news is that today is Saturday and so I have the day off tomorrow. The bad news is that tomorrow is Sunday so my mom will probably read the classifieds, aloud, again. Kathy continues to scour the St. Petersburg Times in search of my life’s purpose. You’d think she would just be happy that the dark days are over. I finally got out of bed. I’m wearing something other than pajamas and I’m out the door by ten. But no. Last week she announced that First Union was hiring tellers, but she was hiding behind the paper like it was some kind of shield when she said it. When I laughed at the prospect, she launched into another one of her lectures about goals. She reminded me that I wanted to be an art teacher when I was in third grade. Who doesn’t want to be an art teacher when they’re nine? Except you? And look how those dreams of being the Incredible Hulk turned out for you? At least she vowed never to mention the flight attendant thing again. She said, “Oh, clearly that’s beneath you.” And when I pointed out that, technically, it was above me (pointing to the sky for emphasis), she chucked her toast at my head. Doesn’t she know how terribly unpopular a sky waitress with crippling depression is?
The lone customer in the shop, who now appeared to be perpetually, chronically irritated, cleared her throat to get Betsy’s attention and held up a teacup.
Hold on. There’s a teacup emergency.
“May I help you?” Betsy asked.
“I have a question,” the woman said. “This teacup is missing its saucer.”
“That’s technically a statement, not a question, but you’re right,” said Betsy. “It is missing a saucer. That’s why we’re selling it on the half-price table for fifty cents.”
Betsy picked up her pen and got back to the letter.
I have to do something extreme, Gavin. I don’t have a choice. I know that I only have $820 and I’m still afraid to leave my house after dark, but I have to get out of here. My mom has a morbid collection of newspaper clippings that she keeps in a folder on her desk in the kitchen. (I had no idea how Goth she was.) But there are no new details. Caroline called once but I can’t call her back. She’s still pissed at me for spacing out at the funeral. But you know I couldn’t deal. Have you seen her? I know I’m always desperate for details. Sorry. I just ate a piece of Publix cake for lunch and now I am crashing, hard, from the sugar. I hope this letter makes it to you before you get here. I have big plans for the big 2–1. We’ll go to Sharky’s on the pier and I will buy you a shot every time a Jimmy Buffett song plays. It’s going to be huge. Then, I’ve got two more papers to write and I’m done. I’ll get my diploma by mail. How’s that for a major college graduation flameout? My professors don’t know how to deal with me when I call, you know the emotionally fragile girl who lost her best friend thing. So I’ve just been plowing through the work and sending it in. This semester might be my best shot at straight A’s, right? Right? It’s a pity party but I’m putting on my best dress and going. My mom wants to see me graduate, the whole cap and gown thing, but I am not ready to go back. Not even by next month. I know that the killer is gone, and that no one else died after Ginny. But what if he comes back? Until they catch this guy, I won’t be able to sleep. And Gainesville? I’m not going back. I’m getting as far away from that place as possible.
The customer left without buying anything, and the wooden door slammed behind her with a jangle from cheap wind chimes.
That brings me back to that amazing thing I mentioned before: I’m moving to New York. At least, I want to move to New York. And I want you to come with me. Maybe we can figure out the careers we’ve dreamed about all of our lives together? Are you in?
Betsy paused for a moment, considering what she was proposing. She wouldn’t have the nerve to say it over the phone or ask him in person, so this was the only way.
I’m actually totally, deadly serious.
Anyway, sorry for the novella. Pretty soon I’ll have to start springing for a second stamp. Write me, please! I need to know that people are out there among the living, buying things that are new or newish, not stuck among the half-dead, wondering how to feel alive again.
Lots of love,
Betsy
CHAPTER 13
THE BIG PLAN