CHAPTER 2 – THE LETTER
Our standard
birthday celebration for my dad was not enough to distract me from the
inevitable thoughts that would flood my brain as I tried to go to bed that
night. So there I lay, with my stomach
still cooled by the homemade ice cream we had that night and my mind
relentlessly haunted by Nicole’s image.
I closed my eyes in a vain effort to sleep, but the only thing I saw was
the vision of her, laughing, talking to her friends in the department
store.
Why didn’t I talk to her?
Would she have talked to me if she had seen me? Surely she would have at least said,
“Hi.” After all, she was one of the only
girls that had shown any interest in talking to me at all before I got my
contacts.
I stared into the darkness and sighed. Why is
she such a roadblock to me? Roger’s
right. I really should ask Amanda
out. Maybe Amy. But I still liked Nicole. A lot.
I had never asked her out, not in five years of knowing her. Now here I am, sixteen years old, without a
single date under my belt just because I can’t get the guts up to ask this one
girl out. Geez, she could say ‘yes’ for all I know.
I moaned in frustration into my pillow and pulled it over
my head. How could I possibly tell her how I felt now? I can’t just come
out and say it. My feelings have gotten
way too out of hand for that. And of
course there was no chance I would call her.
So there in the dark that night, I made a decision: I had
to do something about Nicole Ellis if
I was ever going to get on with my life.
Slowly, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat up. I knot of nervous energy formed right below my
breastbone as I ran all ten fingers through my hair. Suddenly an old idea, one that I had
contemplated and dismissed in so many other nights just like this, hit me with
a new and resolute force.
I sprung up and clicked on my reading lamp. I grabbed a spiral from my bookcase. At the top of the first page I wrote, “Dear Nicole…”
The prose, already imprinted in my mind over the years of
these lonely, wishful nights, flowed from my pen with ease. With the only light in the room shining
directly on the note pad, I sat with my legs crossed under my notebook. I was naked except for a pair of cotton gym
shorts. With my contacts out, I had to
lean my back over drastically to see what I was writing. My ears reached out in the silence, but the
only sound was the scratching of my pen and an occasional creak as I shifted my
weight on the bed.
The right side of my mouth curled up in a grin as I
scribbled there in the dark. Shakespeare
should have been so romantic. I told her
how I was smitten with her from the first time I saw her the first day of
school in the sixth grade. (A
seventh-grader knocked off my glasses in the lunch line. She picked them up and the first sight I saw
as my eyes came back into focus was her smile.)
I explained how, over the last year, I had grown to care for her more
deeply as I became more acquainted with her beautiful personality as well. Finally, I proposed an outing that was sure
to be enjoyable, regardless of whether we decided to be any more than just
friends.
When I was done, I opened a brand new pack of white paper
and copied the letter in my best handwriting, signing the bottom of the page
with the most elegant signature of my life.
I then tiptoed out of my room and into the dark, silent hallway. I walked into Roger’s room, which served as
our study when he was off at school, clicked on the desk lamp there, and pulled
out an envelope and the phonebook.
I decided not to put a name on the return address, only
the number, street, and city. Better for her not to have any preconceived
notions before she reads the letter.
I dug around in the drawer for a stamp. The sound seemed to echo through the silent
house. Roger started turning in his
bed. Fighting the darkness and my own myopia,
I struggled to read Nicole’s address and copy it to the envelope. Roger began to move even more in his bed, so
I squinted hard, copied the address, shut off the lamp, and quickly pawed my
way out of the study and back down the hallway.
Back in my room, I laid down for a fitful night’s sleep. I was determined to get up and mail the
letter before I had a chance to think too much and chicken out.
Morning came and I grabbed the letter, pulled on a shirt
and some sandals, and walked downstairs.
I never stopped my determined march until I walked down the street to
the mailbox, slipped the letter through the slot, walked back home, and flopped
down on the couch in the living room.
After a few minutes of TV, I passed out in satisfied slumber.
By the time Roger woke me up, it was almost noon. The sun came through the family room window
at a steep angle, shining light on the sandals that were still on my feet.
“Sorry to wake you up, Jay, but I was making sandwiches.
Do you want one?”
“Sure.” When I sat
up, it felt like wet cement was shifting around in my head. The emotional excitement of the night before
was a faint picture obscured by a groggy mess.
I was barely coherent through the meal with my
brother. After shoving the last bit of
sandwich into my mouth, I trudged upstairs to my own bed, still drained from my
restless night.
As I crawled into bed, my open spiral notebook caught my
eye. Near the bottom of the page, I saw
my name, signed “Jay C. McGee.” I
paused. The first clear thought of the
afternoon shot through my mind: Did I really
sign my name using my INITIAL?!
The fog began to dissipate quickly as I remembered what I
had done. I remembered being so proud of
it, but I struggled to remember exactly what I had written. With a shaky hand, I reached for the notebook
and began to read.
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