Dear _____
Do you remember when we walked along the railroad tracks?
To one side a ditch, plastic bags torn from the elements looking like summer snow; on the other a chain link fence, holding the leftovers from whatever the ditch weed didn’t catch.
I could hear the river. We were almost at the bridge. Both lost in thought.
You were taller than me but you hated being a tall girl.
We both had our hangups.
For you it was height, for me it was... lots of things. I dressed like a boy, and not just any boy but one that had to dig their clothes out of donation bins.
My hair was blunt cut to my chin, baby bangs, box-dye red—yours so blonde but for the embroidery floss hair wraps I put in that hung beaded, clicking as you moved.
Sounds of tumbling water, cats in heat, cars somewhere past the motley walls on the other side of the fence. Buildings of a hundred colours of brick and illegal murals.
“So when is your next chapter?” you asked, after a while.
“If I stay home tomorrow, I’ll be working on it.”
“Will you bring it over after? You can stay at my dad’s with me if you need to.”
I would need to. I hated your dad but hated being home more.
I hopped up on the rail, arms out—like what’s-her-name on the boat—wobbling to one side and then the other, then going back to the ties.
“I can’t wait! I hope you can get it done.”
It would depend on if J___ was home or not. It was hard to write if I was avoiding him. My mom was easy to tune out—just play my music louder.
A few nights before, you had come over to watch a movie. We had walked from your mom’s place—and I liked her even less than your dad—she had just finished insulting you and saying that I needed to pay rent if I was going to continue to sleep on her basement floor.
We got to my place and it was late, but not that late. 11 or so, I didn’t look at the clock. J___ and my mom were sleeping on the pull-out couch, which made no sense, since it was a 2-bedroom apartment and they had their own room... Not like the last place. But you and I played the movie anyway, so quiet we had to sit near enough to the TV the static tickled our noses.
But he woke up, and my whole body went tight like an instinctual fist. All it takes is a flash—just one movement—indescribable minutiae that only those who know, know, when they see someone who isn’t participating in reality.
God, how embarrassing. He thought I was someone else, I guess. Like he didn’t recognize me at all. That was the only way his ranting and raving could be explained, accusing me of whoring around some bar I had never heard of—I said I don’t even know where that is—you tried telling him I was with you. He was too out of it to hear either of us.
Then my mom woke up—tried telling him to calm down because it was me and not someone else but once she spoke his insanity switched directions. You and I just ejected the VHS and left. Across town, to your dad’s place, late at night, teenage moths.
I remembered as we made it to the bridge that I never told you about how the apartment looked when I got back. It was all smashed up. All smashed up. I had to step over broken glass to get to my room so I could work on the next chapter for you.
We tossed sticks and rocks into the river. Plunk. Joking about what would happen if a train went by, if it would smash us to bits.
Eventually we made it to the rental place to return that movie—some anime number we had to go to the weird, damp movies-slash-comic-books attic to find, the place where the guy creeped on the 13-year-old girls in his store instead of kicking us out for renting R-rated Japanese animated films about robots, tits, and gore. We would uncomfortably laugh about him and his warty neck once our shoes hit the sidewalk, hugging our flannel shirts tighter like chest bindings and feeling like we needed to shower.
Then we parted ways. You uphill, me downhill. I walked past the Zellers we were banned from.
Remember that?
Anyway. I get home, made some pop tarts, pretended I didn’t notice my mother’s black eye, but J___ was somewhere else, which was a relief. In my room, I was able to obsess over what was going to happen next in my story—and how you might react. I was close to the ending. You asked for a sequel.
You were the first to really care about my writing—
We almost went to high-school together but I moved away.
Last I heard you worked as an editor. Both our lives turned out to be for books. Pretty cool.
Forever yours,
L
PS: I still have it. Including your notations.
OK, no more autofiction, just pure fiction! Here’s my books:
The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick [Amazon] [Kobo]
The Ghosts of Tieros Kol [Amazon] [Kobo]
Peace!
@Jimmy Doom sent me here, and yes. This is good writing.
Well done.
Makes me grateful for my own childhood and adolescence.