by Aimee Herman
“I like reading about other people’s lives and listening to angry riot grrrls.”
“Riot girls?” I asked.
“Oh yeah! L7, Bikini Kill, 7 Year Bitch. I like Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton and Nikki Giovanni and Gwendolyn Brooks and Jane Austen. Henry Miller, Marge Piercy, Gloria Steinem. Do you know her? My mom bought me a Ms. subscription for my tenth birthday. I didn’t understand a lot of the articles at first, but we’d read it together. I still get it in the mail.”
“I’ve never heard of that,” I said, bashfully. I loved being around Aggie, but I was often reminded of how much I didn’t know.
“I’ll give you a bunch to take home, if you want.”
“Cool, I’d love that. I’m reading Audre Lorde right—”
“I love her! Movement Song is one of my favorite poems.”
“Gosh, I haven’t even read her poems yet. I’m reading Zami.”
“Can I borrow when you’re done?” Aggie asked, fondling the end of her braid as though each strand contained a tiny poem weaved in. “Oh, how was the Chem test?”
“Ugh, bombed. I wish I could just take English classes. An entire day of Ms. Raimondo.”
“She’s awesome. I’m still writing my letters. Are you?”
I blushed. James, if only she knew. I feel like my life has become composed of just letters to you. “Yeah.”
“Hey, let’s read one to each other!”
“Oh, uh, I don’t—”
“I’ll go first.” I watched Aggie hop up and walk to her book bag. She lifted out a green notebook and started leafing through it.
“Dear Richard Brautigan,” she looked up at me and smiled. Aggie’s legs were bent like wings and she was fumbling with her braid like she always does when she’s nervous. She took a deep breath and I watched it remain in her body. “How often did you think of guns? A boy in my old school stole a gun from his dad’s never-locked cabinet and accidentally shot himself in the foot. When he went back to school, he bragged to all his friends about how macho he was, surviving a gunshot wound. But he never talked about how dumb he was to steal a gun he didn’t know how to use and the stupidness of shooting himself. I never want to be anywhere near a gun. My mom told me about rallies where she marched against guns. Sometimes when I listen to music, I close my eyes and imagine what it would look like to replace all the weapons with something else. Dad says if we take guns away, people will just replace them with something worse. Maybe. If there weren’t guns, would you still be here? Or would you have just found another way? I think—”
“Another way to what?” I interrupted.
Aggie took a loud, deep breath. “Kill himself.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry, did I . . . I never want to—”
“It’s fine, I . . . I was thinking about something Dara said to me once. After my mom . . . after she tried. Dara was trying to make me feel better, but then she said that people who kill themselves—or try to—don’t realize how selfish they are. And I get it, you know? Like for those of us who survive—like James’s mom and dad—it’s so hard to understand, to make sense of it. I understand that more and more from the support group. But I also feel like James was in such incredible pain. He was all alone, he felt like he had no other—”
“Wait. How do you know this? Did his mom say that?”
“No, James did.”
And then I began to tell Aggie about your notebook. I didn’t dare tell her what you wrote. I wouldn’t betray you like that, James, even though you probably didn’t mean for me to read it either. But I let her know how isolated you felt.
“But don’t we all feel that way?” Aggie asked. “I mean, being a teenager is like a full-time job that no one prepares you for. Reminds me of the bagel shop. I worked there for like, three weeks last year. Thought it would be good to get out of the house and get my mind off things, make some money too. My dad was super supportive and eagerly signed my work permit, but it was terrible. We’d have lines out the door on the weekends and people acted as though it was a travesty if their favorite kind of bagel sold out. Customers would scream—actually flip out, Eleanor—and I just walked out one day during my lunch break. Never even went back to pick up my last paycheck. But we can’t exactly walk out of being a teenager.”
“Well, actually, we can,” I said.
“Yeah, yeah, I guess. I just mean, we can’t walk out and be something else.”
For a while we just sat beside each other in silence. Each time I breathed, I inhaled Aggie’s delicious scent of apricots and my grandmother’s garden.
“Will you read me a letter you wrote?” she asked, flapping her eyelashes like extended spider’s legs.
James, this was the moment.
“Uh,” I stumbled. “Okay, let me grab my notebook.”
I slowly walked to my book bag. With each tiny step, I tried to grow courage to speak the words I’ve been wanting to. Words which fell right out of me onto the page and into a letter to you.
“I don’t want you to . . .” I paused, almost stopped entirely. “ . . . think of me differently.”
“Eleanor, you’re the most awesome person I’ve ever met.”
I guess that was what I needed because suddenly I was reading my words to you out loud for the first time. Could you hear it too, James?
“Dear James, I feel like my body is in a waiting room. I took a number just like we do when I go to the butcher shop with Shirley. But it’s like my number keeps getting skipped. Usually I hate to wait on line, but I’m really in no rush. I remember when Dara got her period and she was so excited. Her mom actually took her out to dinner to celebrate. Can you believe it? When you started to grow hair on your body and your voice dropped, did your dad get like, all proud and stuff? Shirley said that it will happen soon. Greta got hers when she was twelve. Her breasts are huge, but I think she likes them like that. James, sometimes at night when I stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling, I whisper out loud: I’m gay and it feels so . . .”
James, have you ever rehearsed something so many times in your head it becomes all you can hear? Like even when you are saying something else, somehow that speech is like sewed in somehow? Here is what I wanted to say to Aggie:
It’s not that I needed to meet you to realize I was gay. I think I knew for quite awhile, but I was waiting for the words to explain or describe this. That day in study hall when you noticed my fingers dropping crumbs on the floor, I felt something more than just understanding myself. I felt gurgles in my belly. My skin grew goosebumps and I felt the way Greta must have felt when she first met Vegetarian Todd. It’s like I wanted to walk around the school and just say your name out loud. In fifth grade, Gene Fishman asked me to be his girlfriend. I said yes because I didn’t really have a reason to say no. Every day, he brought an extra snack in his lunch just for me. Usually crackers with the fake cheese and a small, red stick that comes in the package, but it was the thought that counts, right? A few times he brought me pudding. Butterscotch, which is my favorite. For Valentine’s Day—which was just a few days after he asked me out—he gave me his mother’s honeymoon bracelet. I know this because I had to give it back. He hadn’t really asked his mom’s permission. At the very end of the week, we broke up. It wasn’t exactly a dramatic end. We were boyfriend and girlfriend on Monday, and on Sunday, he called me up and said, “want to just be friends again?” and I said sure. There wasn’t any love or kissing or stealing sneaky glances toward each other. It was kind of silly, actually. I’ve had crushes here and there, but I never felt like someone scooped out all my confusion, all my sadness, all the grey growing in my body. Scooped it all out and replaced it with neon rainbows, or the yummy sugar cereal that turns the milk into something so sweetly delicious, you slurp up every last drop in the bowl. That’s you, Aggie. You are my sugar milk. And . . . I love you.
No, I didn’t say any of that. Would you have been able to say all that, James? I couldn’t possibly tell Aggie how I feel about her. She’s
really become my best friend. Dara and I barely make eye contact now, and when we do, it’s all scrunched up as though our pupils have been sucking on lemons. Aggie accepts all of me: my strange haircut; my strange family life; my strange thoughts. I would just die if she stopped talking to me because I made her uncomfortable with my professed feelings. So, I left that part out, but it still screams inside me. And that’s really okay because I’m lucky to be in love with someone I still get to see every day and have sleepovers with and help each other with homework and—
“. . . and I couldn’t even imagine you saying anything to me, Eleanor, that would make me not want to be friends with you. I love you.”
What? What? What? Why do I get so lost in my thoughts? Did Aggie just say she . . .
“Eleanor,” Aggie spoke.
Oh gosh oh gosh. I was reading so fast that I thought maybe she wouldn’t hear it, but also I hoped she would.
I looked up from my letter to you and tried to lift my eyes to Aggie’s face, but I was terrified. I was terrified she’d react like Dara.
“Have you told anyone?” she asked.
“Only Flor and . . . James,” I looked down at my notebook. “But I want to tell Shirley. And my dad and Greta. I was so nervous to tell you because . . .”
Aggie grabbed my hands and put them inside hers, even though her fingers were smaller than mine. She squeezed, and I wanted to stay like that forever.
Then Aggie’s bedroom door opened, and her dad walked in.
“Hello, you must be the famous Eleanor,” he said.
James, my face turned into a tomato. Bright, bright red.
“Uh, hi,” I said.
Aggie’s father had dark hair just like her and his smile was slightly crooked like hers too.
“Can I make you girls something to eat? How about some grilled cheese sandwiches?”
“Yum!” Aggie screamed.
The rest of the afternoon was a blur of music and laughter. It was a relief to come out to Aggie and still feel like nothing had changed between us. It just made me a little sad to be reminded of how different it was with Dara.
DEAR ELINORE,
BRIAN HAD TWO DIFFERENT KINDS OF SOCKS ON. I NOTICED THIS IN THE GYM LOCKER ROOM AND I COULDN’T HELP BUT SMILE. AND I COULD SEE WHAT SIDE HE SLEEPS ON CAUSE HIS HAIR WAS ALL FLAT ON THAT SIDE. IT’S HARD TO STARE AT SOMEONE SO HARD AND STILL BE INVISIBLE TO THEM. I WISH I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO KISS HIM. I WISH I DIDN’T LIKE IT.
I’M READING THE CATCHER IN THE RYE, NOT CAUSE I HAVE TO BUT BECAUSE I WANT TO AND I READ IT LAST NIGHT INSTEAD OF STUDYING FOR MY MATH TEST. MAN, HOLDEN CAULFIELD IS THE COOLEST. HE DOES WHATEVER HE WANTS AND NO ONE SEEMS TO CARE. THAT’S HOW I WANT TO LIVE, AND HE SEEMS TO BE ALONE LIKE ME. SOMETIMES I WISH THAT BOOK HAD PICTURES BECAUSE I WANT TO KNOW WHAT HE LOOKED LIKE. MAYBE HE AND I COULD HAVE BEEN FRIENDS, OR MAYBE MORE, OR AT LEAST JUST LISTEN TO MUSIC TO GETHER AND SWAP RECORDS.
I WILL NEVER HAVE A BOYFRIEND.
Friday, November 19
Dear James,
Last night in group, Peter reminded us that we weren’t meeting next week because of Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving! I completely forgot. Usually we do it with Shirley and then go to Dad’s for the weekend. I watched your mom’s face drain when Peter mentioned the holiday. Afterwards, I talked to Flor and asked if it would be okay to invite her and your dad to our house. She figured Shirley would be fine with it.
“Honey, that’s terribly sweet of you,” your mom said. “But we’ll just have a quiet, no- frills meal. I’m not abundantly grateful this year.”
James, it took a little bit of convincing, but she eventually said yes. Finally, I’ll get to meet your dad.
On the ride home, Flor said I did a real mitzvah.
“How do you know that word?” I asked.
“Honey, you don’t need to be Jewish to know that word,” she smiled. “I imagine every day is a difficult reminder of loss, but a holiday is even worse. And it’s their first one.”
Saturday, November 20
Dear James,
I’ve been keeping a list in the back of my notebook of songs to put on your mixtape. Here is the music I would have given to you:
Groove is in the Heart (Dee-Light)
Suedehead (Morrisey)
Smells Like Teen Spirit (Nirvana)
Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now (Starship)
Rhythm is Gonna Get You (Miami Sound Machine)
Finally (CeCe Peniston)
Set Adrift on Memory’s Bliss (P.M. Dawn)
Miss You Much (Janet Jackson)
Palace of the Brine (Pixies)
O Stella (PJ Harvey)
Behind the Wheel (Depeche Mode)
Here Comes Your Man (Pixies)
I was going to do only rock songs, songs I knew you’d like. But I had to put some dance ones in there too. Greta and I used to shake our entire beings to Gloria Estefan. I love that it sounds like there are wild animals harmonizing in “Rhythm is Gonna Get You”. Dara used to say that the best mix tapes have at least two surprises. You know, like songs that go against the rest of the flow of the mix or songs that the person listening may never have heard of (or even wanted).
Anyway, if we had been friends, I’d have made you a ton of mixtapes.
Yesterday at school, Dara and I passed by each other in the hallway and she looked right past me. I would have talked to her, I would have listened to her try to explain how she was feeling. But then I thought about Flor. She said that she used to hide who she was, so her friends wouldn’t be uncomfortable. So basically, she put her own comfort aside. No way. I am not doing that, even for Dara. So what if I’m gay? I bet there are other people in my school who are too. Why should straight couples be able to hold hands and kiss all over the place? Can you even imagine, James, if two girls or two guys kissed in the hallways of our school? Why do some people get to live however they want, while others have to hide? Or kill themselves?
Sunday, November 21
Dear James,
The view outside my bedroom window is of the back of the house of a family I used to babysit for. I think they’re divorcing. I only know this because I overheard Flor and Shirley talk about it during book club one time. The parents—Aaron and Margaret—have two kids. A boy called Franklin or Frankly which I call him. And a girl called Susie. Frankly is nine and Susie is five.
Once, I was standing in front of my window at night and I could see into their house. I could see the neon reflection of their television screen and the shadows of their bodies going in and out of rooms. And I just watched.
Sometimes I use my plastic yellow binoculars (that are really just a toy) but they work just fine to see from small to big. They aren’t anything special, like the expensive ones that can see from miles and miles away, but I feel like Harriet the Spy when I look through them. So, this particular time, which was before all the divorce stuff, I saw them naked. Aaron and Margaret. I remember feeling awful that I saw them, guilty to have been snooping. But I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t turn away. They were kissing and rubbing all over each other and then, I saw them have sex.
At the time I just thought it was their fault for leaving their curtains open. Afterwards, I had an extremely difficult time looking at them. Babysitting put me in a cold sweat. I remember Aaron paying me one night after they had gotten home, and all I could think was: I saw your penis!
James, if I can see into their room, they can definitely see into mine. So, what would they notice about me? What might they observe me doing?
DEAR ELINORE,
I CAN’T REMEMBER HOW OLD I WAS, BUT MY MOM TOLD ME ONCE THAT SHE TRIED HAVING MORE KIDS AFTER ME BUT KEPT HAVING MISCARRIAGES. I DIDN’T ASK HER WHY OR HOW IT MADE HER FEEL. BUT I ALWAYS WISHED FOR A BROTHER. HECK, I’D EVEN TAKE A SISTER. MAYBE I’D FEEL LESS ALONE OR SOMETHING.
I ALMOST SAID SOMETHING TO YOU TODAY. SOMETHING NOT MEAN. MAYBE EVEN AN APOLOGY. BUT WHAT WOULD THAT EVEN MATTER? I SEE THE WAY YOU LOOK AT ME. KINDA SCARED. IT’S JUST EASIER THAT
WAY. MAKING FRIENDS, LETTING PEOPLE KNOW ME, ONLY MAKES THINGS WORSE.
BRIAN IS IN THREE OF MY CLASSES THIS YEAR. EVERY TIME I SEE HIM, IT’S LIKE A PUNCH IN MY GUT. I FEEL LIKE I’M UNDERWATER. I FEEL LIKE EVERY TIME I BREATHE THERE ARE RAZORS AGAINST MY LUNGS. WHEN HE SMILES, WHEN HE LAUGHS, I WANT TO CURL UP AND JUST DIE.
Monday, November 22
After school today, I helped Shirley plan the menu for Thanksgiving. I was only a little nervous that she’d be mad I invited your parents without asking her first, but Flor was right, she was fine with it.
“What do you think James’s father is like?” Shirley asked me, as we began listing ingredients needed from the grocery store.
“I have this weird feeling that he’s super strict. I really like Helaine though.”
“How is school going?”
I told Shirley all about my classes, leaving out the daily awkwardness of seeing Dara and the thick silence growing between us. I wanted to ask Shirley if she has had any thoughts or feelings of hurting herself. In group, Peter said that it’s okay to check in with our loved ones, even though it can be scary to hear the answer. It’s all part of open communication and building back trust.
“How are . . . are you . . . have you had any . . .” Oh gosh, I guess it isn’t so easy to ask your mom if she’s thought of killing herself recently.
Shirley just looked at me blankly.
“Are you gonna try to kill yourself again?” Not quite how I imagined it coming out, but there it was.
Shirley put down the pen and faced me. “Eleanor, no. I am working hard each day to be here. To stay here.”
“I really like the canned cranberry sauce with the ridges on it,” I said. In group, Peter calls this deflecting.
“Honey, we can talk more about this if you’d like. I never want you to be afraid to ask me anything. Or . . . tell me anything.”
Tell her anything? What’s to tell? Oh, gosh. Did Flor tell her? No, she wouldn’t. Would she?
