She straightens and turns to fix me with a look. “You called me a cunt and cut my hair. You think I’d actually trust you to protect me? Don’t blink too hard, Shit-for-Brains. You might lose your last few brain cells.”
I widen my eyes, and every muscle in my body squeezes so tight it burns. What the fuck did she just say?
Before I know what I’m doing, I sweep her up into my arms and carry her to the side of the pool.
“Cannonball or washing machine?”
Her eyes widen. “Wha—?”
“Cannonball, it is!” I shout out. And I throw her into the pool, hearing her scream as her entire body hits the water, and she completely submerges.
I storm out of the gym without looking back. Hope the swim teacher knows how to swim.
I dig my keys out of my pocket and head for my truck. Shit-for-Brains? Breathe too hard?
She’s got a nasty mouth on her and an answer for everything. Does she ever shut up?
I climb into the truck, slamming the door. “Dammit!” I growl. “What a fucking—!” But I stop myself, breathing hard. I’m so damn angry I almost wish we had a gig tonight. Or a practice. I want to take what I’m feeling out on something.
I hear a snort next to me, and I suddenly remember Dane is with me.
“I told you,” he says. “She looked kind of cold. I’ll bet she feels good when she warms up, though.”
“I couldn’t care less.”
I stick the key in the ignition, yank the shifter to Drive, and lay on the gas.
“Yeah, it looks like it,” Dane comments dryly.
Dear Ryen,
What do you think of this line to replace the ending of the chorus for Titan? You know, that song I sent you last time?
Don’t hold your breath, ‘cause you weren’t first! Someone had to build the stairs that you climb.
I was at the warehouse last night, and it just popped in my head. I think it fits the song a lot better, and with the beat, I think I’ll like the way it’s going to come out. Thoughts?
And yeah. Before you give me shit, I was at a party last night, sitting by myself, and writing music. So what? I think it helps my street cred, to be honest. You know…the quiet loner? The mysterious, hot rebel? Something like that? Maybe?
Whatever. Fuck it. You know I don’t like people.
Anyway, you asked me my favorite place in your last letter. The warehouse is one of them. During the day, when no one is there, you can hear the pigeons flapping through the rafters, and you can take in all the graffiti without everyone around. Some of it’s pretty incredible.
But I guess my absolute favorite place, other than you, of course, is my house. I know, I know. My dad is there, so why would I want to be? But actually… After my dad and sister have gone to sleep at night, when everything is dark, I crawl out my window and up to the roof. There’s a little hidden valley between the ridges where I sit back against the chimney, sometimes for hours, dicking around on my phone, taking in the view, or sometimes I write you. I love it up there. I can see the tops of the trees, blowing in the night wind, the glow of the street lamps and stars, the sound of leaves rustling… I guess it makes me feel like anything is possible.
The world isn’t always what’s right in front of you, you know? It’s below, it’s above, it’s out there somewhere. Every burn of every light inside every house I see when I look down from the rooftop has a story. Sometimes we just need to change our perspective.
And when I look down at everything, I remember that there’s more out there than just what’s going on in my house—the bullshit with my dad, school, my future. I look at all those full houses, and I remember, I’m just one of many. It’s not to say we’re not special or important, but it’s comforting, I guess. You don’t feel so alone.
Misha
I hold his letter in my hand, the last one he sent me in February before he stopped writing, and stare at the handwriting probably only I can read. The rough strokes and abrupt marks crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s, and the way he never puts the appropriate amount of space between words, so his sentences end up looking like one big, long hashtag.
Amusement creeps up. I’ve never had a problem reading his writing, though. I grew up with it, after all.
So many times I’ve read this letter. Looking for clues—any clues—to figure out why he stopped writing after this. There’s no hint that this was a goodbye, no indication that he was going to be any busier than usual or that he’d gotten bored or tired of me…
The emptiness is getting bigger and wider and deeper, and I sit on my bed, “Happy Song” playing from my iPod, and study his words that always put the perfect light on anything.
I’m not ready to start my day.
Why don’t I want to get up or even muster the energy to worry about what I’m going to wear?
He’s the only thing I look forward to. The only reason I rush home from school, so I can see if there’s mail for me.
I look up and stare at the words I wrote on my chalk wall last night.
Alone
Empty
Fraud
Masen’s words are in my head now. Not Misha’s.
“Ryen!” my mom calls and knocks on my bedroom door. “Are you up?”
My shoulders fall a bit, and I force myself to answer. “Yeah.”
I’m not entirely lying. I am awake and sitting up in bed, cross-legged and reading.
But as I hear her steps retreat back down the hallway and the stairs, I glance at the clock and see that I’ve procrastinated long enough. Folding the letter back up, I slip it into the white envelope and stick it in my bedside drawer. The rest of Misha’s letters are under my bed, every single one close in case I need them.
I widen my eyes, and every muscle in my body squeezes so tight it burns. What the fuck did she just say?
Before I know what I’m doing, I sweep her up into my arms and carry her to the side of the pool.
“Cannonball or washing machine?”
Her eyes widen. “Wha—?”
“Cannonball, it is!” I shout out. And I throw her into the pool, hearing her scream as her entire body hits the water, and she completely submerges.
I storm out of the gym without looking back. Hope the swim teacher knows how to swim.
I dig my keys out of my pocket and head for my truck. Shit-for-Brains? Breathe too hard?
She’s got a nasty mouth on her and an answer for everything. Does she ever shut up?
I climb into the truck, slamming the door. “Dammit!” I growl. “What a fucking—!” But I stop myself, breathing hard. I’m so damn angry I almost wish we had a gig tonight. Or a practice. I want to take what I’m feeling out on something.
I hear a snort next to me, and I suddenly remember Dane is with me.
“I told you,” he says. “She looked kind of cold. I’ll bet she feels good when she warms up, though.”
“I couldn’t care less.”
I stick the key in the ignition, yank the shifter to Drive, and lay on the gas.
“Yeah, it looks like it,” Dane comments dryly.
Dear Ryen,
What do you think of this line to replace the ending of the chorus for Titan? You know, that song I sent you last time?
Don’t hold your breath, ‘cause you weren’t first! Someone had to build the stairs that you climb.
I was at the warehouse last night, and it just popped in my head. I think it fits the song a lot better, and with the beat, I think I’ll like the way it’s going to come out. Thoughts?
And yeah. Before you give me shit, I was at a party last night, sitting by myself, and writing music. So what? I think it helps my street cred, to be honest. You know…the quiet loner? The mysterious, hot rebel? Something like that? Maybe?
Whatever. Fuck it. You know I don’t like people.
Anyway, you asked me my favorite place in your last letter. The warehouse is one of them. During the day, when no one is there, you can hear the pigeons flapping through the rafters, and you can take in all the graffiti without everyone around. Some of it’s pretty incredible.
But I guess my absolute favorite place, other than you, of course, is my house. I know, I know. My dad is there, so why would I want to be? But actually… After my dad and sister have gone to sleep at night, when everything is dark, I crawl out my window and up to the roof. There’s a little hidden valley between the ridges where I sit back against the chimney, sometimes for hours, dicking around on my phone, taking in the view, or sometimes I write you. I love it up there. I can see the tops of the trees, blowing in the night wind, the glow of the street lamps and stars, the sound of leaves rustling… I guess it makes me feel like anything is possible.
The world isn’t always what’s right in front of you, you know? It’s below, it’s above, it’s out there somewhere. Every burn of every light inside every house I see when I look down from the rooftop has a story. Sometimes we just need to change our perspective.
And when I look down at everything, I remember that there’s more out there than just what’s going on in my house—the bullshit with my dad, school, my future. I look at all those full houses, and I remember, I’m just one of many. It’s not to say we’re not special or important, but it’s comforting, I guess. You don’t feel so alone.
Misha
I hold his letter in my hand, the last one he sent me in February before he stopped writing, and stare at the handwriting probably only I can read. The rough strokes and abrupt marks crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s, and the way he never puts the appropriate amount of space between words, so his sentences end up looking like one big, long hashtag.
Amusement creeps up. I’ve never had a problem reading his writing, though. I grew up with it, after all.
So many times I’ve read this letter. Looking for clues—any clues—to figure out why he stopped writing after this. There’s no hint that this was a goodbye, no indication that he was going to be any busier than usual or that he’d gotten bored or tired of me…
The emptiness is getting bigger and wider and deeper, and I sit on my bed, “Happy Song” playing from my iPod, and study his words that always put the perfect light on anything.
I’m not ready to start my day.
Why don’t I want to get up or even muster the energy to worry about what I’m going to wear?
He’s the only thing I look forward to. The only reason I rush home from school, so I can see if there’s mail for me.
I look up and stare at the words I wrote on my chalk wall last night.
Alone
Empty
Fraud
Masen’s words are in my head now. Not Misha’s.
“Ryen!” my mom calls and knocks on my bedroom door. “Are you up?”
My shoulders fall a bit, and I force myself to answer. “Yeah.”
I’m not entirely lying. I am awake and sitting up in bed, cross-legged and reading.
But as I hear her steps retreat back down the hallway and the stairs, I glance at the clock and see that I’ve procrastinated long enough. Folding the letter back up, I slip it into the white envelope and stick it in my bedside drawer. The rest of Misha’s letters are under my bed, every single one close in case I need them.
