by Simon Lelic
I’m trying not to think too hard about what that means but Frankie’s had sex, like, four times and she’s been going on at me that I need to have it too. And I’ve always resisted, always thought that I haven’t been ready, but now, with Adam, I know I am.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Next week maybe?”
Adam looks all keen but then I remember something and I have to disappoint him. “No, wait, that won’t work. Frankie’s going away with her parents on holiday. It would have to be after we go back to school. Which might actually work better because on Thursdays, during term time, I usually stay at Frankie’s house anyway.”
Adam’s eyes go narrow.
“Her mum has this evening class,” I explain. “Meaning me and Frankie get the place to ourselves. It’s the only time my mum lets me stay over anywhere. She reckons me and Frankie are studying, but . . . well . . .” I smile, shrug. Normally what me and Frankie do is eat ice cream and talk about boys. But obviously I don’t tell Adam that.
“Well, I guess I can wait,” Adam says. “You know, if I have to.”
I grin up at him. With him leaning over me I notice how broad he is, how strong he looks.
He says, “So if you ditched school Thursday and Friday, we could be gone for two whole days.”
“Ditched school?” I’ve never ditched school in my entire life. Mum would kill me.
“Sure. Why? It’s no big deal, is it?”
“No, I . . . no. ’Course not.”
And it isn’t. It really isn’t.
“How about Brighton?” I say.
“Brighton?”
“Yeah. I went there once with my mum and it was the best day out I ever had.”
But Adam’s not keen. “It’s too far away,” he says, shaking his head. “We’d get there and basically have no time. And anyway I already have somewhere in mind.”
“You do?”
He smiles at me. “Sure.”
I grin back. “Is it nice? As nice as here?”
He shifts so he can get a better view of me, then like before rolls my hair behind my ear. “Nicer,” he says. “You’ll love it, I promise you. It’s somewhere you can just . . . forget yourself. You know?”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s kind of hard to explain. But when you get there, I promise you: you won’t ever want to leave.”
6 P.M.–7 P.M.
14.
Dear Ms. Birch,
I just wanted to thank you. For helping me with my English paper? I know I should probably have gone to Mr. Williams but when I saw you sitting there in your classroom and you recognized me from that time with the bin, I thought to myself, she’s smart, she’s kind, she’s not like the rest of the teachers here. Like Mr. Williams, for example, who’s basically only ever here because he has to be, not because he genuinely cares. So I’ll just ask her, I thought. And you did, you said you’d help. In fact you said you’d be delighted to. And then, what you said to me about being intrigued by what I’d written? About how Piggy was lucky in a way, Simon too, because at least it ended quickly for them and they never had to live with what happened? I realized you think exactly the same way I do.
So thanks. For the encouragement, I mean. And for taking the time to help me in the first place.
The other thing I wanted to say, and that I wish I’d said to you face-to-face, was that I think you handled things extremely well. The other day. With the bin. I mean, those boys were only messing about. They didn’t mean anything by it and anyway it was only a bin.
But you dealt with it in exactly the right way. Not dobbing them in, for example. Not reporting them to the headmaster. Particularly seeing as you’re new and that. And to be honest that’s kind of what I mean. You don’t seem like other teachers. You don’t seem like other people full stop. Most people, practically everyone I’ve ever met, they’re all floating through life in their little bubbles, not even caring that most of the stuff they do, there isn’t even any point. They can’t tell the big stuff from the small stuff, the stuff that doesn’t even matter. But you can, I think. I think you can.
So anyway, that’s all I wanted to say. That, and also that you’ve got a really nice smile.
Yours,
Jake (King)
Dear Ms. Birch,
It’s Jake again. I just wanted to apologize for that note I sent. The other day. It was stupid and I shouldn’t have sent it.
Jake
Dear Ms. Birch,
I’m writing again and I don’t even know why. I don’t even know if you got the other ones. I should have put them in plastic bags or something instead of sticking them under the windscreen wiper of your car because they probably only got wet in all the rain. You probably didn’t even read them. They didn’t really say anything anyway so it doesn’t matter. I don’t even know yet if I’ll even send you this one. I wouldn’t want to leave it under your windscreen wiper again because of the rain, partly, but also in case someone saw me and got the wrong idea. Like Scott or one of the others, who take the piss enough as it is (they’re basically OK, by the way. Not the same as you and me but at least they recognize all the bullshit in the world too).
Why I’m writing again is just to tell you about something that happened. So I was walking the other day by the river. I go there a lot. Nobody knows. I get these, they’re like headaches, but it’s not an ache and it’s not really in my head. So not headaches really, more just this sense of things pushing down on me, crowding in, and walking along the river helps me forget. So anyway, I’m walking, on my own, I spend a lot of time on my own because other people—well, you know. I don’t have to tell you. But I’m walking and the river isn’t exactly the prettiest place to be. The water’s nice, if you don’t look too closely, don’t notice all the junk that people have dumped in it. But the bank is basically just mud and gravel. The odd shopping trolley here and there, stuff like that. And I’m walking and the sky’s all gray, the river’s brown, and the world is basically just colorless. You know? But then I see it. Right in the middle of this patch of nothing. A flower. Just one. It was blue. I don’t know what kind it was. But anyway, that flower? Whatever it was? It reminded me of you. It was the exact same color as your eyes. And I smiled when I saw it for the first time in what felt like weeks. I was going to pick it, to show it to you, but I didn’t want to ruin it. I guess you’ll just have to imagine it. I hope you can imagine it as clearly as me because it’s not something I’ll ever forget.
So that’s it really. That’s all I wanted to say. You don’t have to write back. You don’t even have to answer. Maybe I won’t even send this. Or maybe I will. If I do, maybe I’ll leave it on your desk or something. In your drawer maybe would be safest.
Yours,
Jake
Dear Ms. Birch,
Sorry about the coffee. I’m such an idiot sometimes. And you startled me, coming into the room like that. I know I shouldn’t have been inside at lunchtime and I shouldn’t have been in your classroom but I was just looking to see if Charlie was there, that’s all. I don’t know why he would have been but he said he was going inside and I’d basically looked everywhere else. But he wasn’t in there obviously, so what I was doing was I was trying to work out where to look next. I swear I wasn’t going through your things. It may have looked like I was but I wasn’t, honest.
But anyway, that’s how I spilled your coffee. When I turned round. When you came in. I didn’t notice the cup. I didn’t realize it was full. I guess you forgot about it too, which is why it was cold but that’s a good thing probably, seeing as what happened. I’m sorry it went over your jumper, the one that smells like perfume. You can send me the bill for cleaning it if you like. I’ve got enough money to pay for it. I could even buy you a new one.
So yeah. Sorry. And let me know what you want to do about your jumper. Don’t throw it out or anything, will you? If you don’t
want it my mum does these like, charity collections, for refugees I think. So if you gave it to me I could make sure she got it. I wouldn’t do anything else with it, I promise.
Yours,
Jake
Dear Ms. Birch,
This is the last time I’m going to write to you, I swear. I just wanted to say I think you’re beautiful. That’s all.
Love from,
Jake
PS I’ve never said anything like that before. Not to anyone. Ever.
PPS Please don’t tell anyone I did.
Dear Ms. Birch,
I know I said no more notes, but I wondered why you hadn’t responded to the last one. Did you get it? I’d appreciate it if you could just let me know whether you got it and then I promise I’ll leave you alone.
Jake
Dear Ms. Birch,
So, you probably know what this is about. I can’t believe you came to my house!
Mum said this teacher showed up and she said it was you and she said you said something to her about me having a crush. I can’t believe you would even say that! It isn’t true, for one thing. I said to Mum, I said I have no idea what she’s going on about. She meaning you. I admitted I wrote you a note thanking you for thanking me and that, and maybe another one to say sorry for the coffee but that you’d basically got completely the wrong end of all the sticks. I mean, how old are you anyway? Like, 20? 21? And I’m coming up to 16, in just like 10 months or whatever, so there must be, what, like 4 years between us? Which actually isn’t that much but that isn’t even the point. What I’m saying is I’m not stupid. I realize you’re way too old for me and I don’t have a crush on you anyway!
So thanks. Thanks a lot. For getting me in trouble with my mum and for basically starting stupid rumors that I just know are going to be all around the school.
Jake
Dear Alison,
Can I call you that? Not at school obviously but here, when I write to you? I realized I said I wouldn’t do that anymore but I had to in case you thought I was angry. Which I was, I guess, because I still can’t believe you spoke to my mum. Why would you do that? Come to my house like that? When basically I haven’t even done anything wrong?
But what I’m sorry about mainly is if I sounded cross. Which I did, I know I did. I’m a total idiot sometimes and when I’m angry I say things I don’t even mean. And then, what I do is I worry. I worry a lot. And it helps writing things down, writing to you, because basically there’s no one else who’d understand. There’s Scott and that now but I can’t talk to them obviously, not about the kind of stuff that’s on my mind, because they’d just call me a . . . You wouldn’t want to know what they’d call me. And if I try to talk to Mum it’s always pointless because she never gets what I’m trying to say. The problem is she doesn’t listen, just hears whatever it is she wants to hear. She’d say I was depressed or something probably. Take me to see some doctor, who’d make me take some stupid drugs. And anyway, she’s never around. It’s like she’s purposely trying to avoid me, I sometimes think. And Dad . . . Dad’s “busy” too. Dad’s got his “own” problems. Like how to finish level 98 or whatever of Tomb Raider, mainly. And he’s definitely avoiding me on purpose. He’s avoided me basically since I was small.
So instead, writing to you, I find it helps. So sorry. About being angry. Even though I wasn’t. Much.
What I’m angry about more, now, is about you ignoring me. Because is that what you’re doing? Like, the times we walk past each other in the corridor. Or my notes. You never respond to my notes. I guess you’re busy with schoolwork and that, marking homework, and I realize it’s not allowed for you to talk to me the way I think you want to but maybe if you gave me a sign or something instead? Like, in code or something? And then I wouldn’t worry so much. I wouldn’t even get angry when really there’s no actual need.
J
Dear Alison,
I get it. I do. Our “chat” or whatever, it really helped. At first I thought you were being serious. When you caught up with me after morning lessons and asked me to step into your room? Your face was like it was that time you caught Scott and that melting the bin. Just like a teacher’s. A proper teacher’s, I mean. You fooled me, anyway, and Scott and that afterward, they were all like, what the bloody hell did she want, like you were telling me off for something I’d done.
But our “chat.” Even when we got into the classroom, I thought what you were telling me was really real. The things you were saying about it being unhealthy, that you were worried it was going too far? There was that bit when you said you would have to consider talking to the headmaster, and I kind of figured you’d never do that, but I wasn’t sure sure, you know? Because of that time you spoke to my mum. And finding interests. What you said about me trying to develop interests? Even that part sounded real, even though I know that you know that hobbies are basically total bullshit, just ways of killing time until you die.
It was only when you touched my arm that I realized what it was that was actually happening. That I realized you were doing it all for show. Because obviously you listened to what I said. About code? About signs and that? And that’s what I’m saying: I get it. I get that you figured someone might have been watching/listening/spying and I get you couldn’t say what you really feel. And I probably looked pretty upset. I’m sorry if you thought I lost my temper. I can actually picture my face, the way I would have looked to someone peering through the door. Which is pretty embarrassing when I think about it but I honestly really don’t mind. Not now anyway. I’m just pleased, that’s all. More than pleased. It’s like, touching my arm like that? Giving me a sign? It was the nicest thing you could have done.
All my love,
Jake
Dear Alison,
The flowers were from me. Just in case you didn’t guess.
J
x
Dear Alison,
Did you get the flowers? Sorry they were squashed but I had to carry them in my bag just to make sure no one saw. Like Scott or any of the others, for example. But they should have been OK if you put them in water. (The lady in the shop said to cut off the ends.) ((Of the stalks, not the ends with the flowers, which is what I thought she meant when she told me!))
Anyway I just hope you liked them.
J
Dear Alison,
Have I done something wrong? You haven’t mentioned the flowers is all, and when I was walking down the corridor today and you saw me coming it looked like you turned the other way. And I realize I’m probably being paranoid but on the other hand did you? Turn the other way? Because I get that you need to be careful but there was hardly anyone around and anyway there’s no need to be rude.
Jake
Alison,
That’s the second time now. The second time you saw me coming and turned away. And this time it was definite, it wasn’t my imagination. I know because you looked me right in the eyes. I even called after you but when I got to the corner you’d disappeared. So this time why I’m writing is, please don’t ignore me like that.
Jake
Dear Alison,
I’m sorry. I really am. I keep losing my temper and I don’t mean to and the whole point of writing things down is that it gives me time to think about what I say. But sometimes the way I’m feeling just gets the better of me and I say things, send things, before I’ve got time to take them back. Can you tell me what I’ve done though? Why you’re ignoring me? Because that’s the hardest part, not knowing what it is I’ve done wrong. I thought you understood. In fact I know you do, so that’s the part I don’t get. I promise you that if you want to you can tell me anything. I’ll understand, I swear, just like you do. I know you can’t write to me, because of your job, because of you being my teacher, but what about if you did it just this once? You don’t have to sign it or anything. I’ll know exactly who it’s from.
I sent you s
ome chocolates, by the way. Sort of like a peace offering. I didn’t know what type to get, like whether you like milk or dark, so what I did was
15.
“Where did you get these?”
“You haven’t finished reading.”
Susanna flips from page to page. The letters are written on thin blue airmail paper and form a messy pile in her shaking hands. One of the pages escapes her grip and floats delicately—innocently—to the floor. “But, there are so many.” She rifles ahead in the stack Adam has given her. Words leap out at her as she scans.
Jake
Alison
love
why
angry
please
hurt
It is too much for Susanna to absorb. She feels lost, bewildered, so she starts again, shuffling her way back to the top of the pile. Dear Ms. Birch, I just wanted to thank you . . .
“There’s more, you know. I only brought a selection.”
“More?”
“Twenty-seven in all. It’s a shame they’re not dated, but it doesn’t really matter. He would have sent them in the space of about six months, between the day he first spoke to her in the driveway that time and the seventeenth of May 1999.”
17 May 1999. The day the world ended. Whenever Susanna hears mention of that date, catches sight of it looming on the calendar, she always imagines it emblazoned on a tombstone.
“How far did you get?” Adam reaches for the letter Susanna has bookmarked with her thumb. He pulls it partway from the stack and only needs a glance to work out what it contains. “There’s only four more after that from what I can work out. Then they stop.”
Susanna flips to the letters she hasn’t read yet. She can tell without reading the notes line by line that the remaining letters follow the same theme: Alison is ignoring Jake, Jake wants to know why. He switches between pleading, chastising, then pleading again, and all the while the notes get more intense. It is subtle, and more than once Jake attempts to rein himself back, but knowing her son—knowing what happened—Susanna can see the signs are there. And the parts where Jake talks about leaving the notes under the windscreen wiper of Alison’s car, the suggestion he was going through the things in her desk. It was like he was stalking her. Not like stalking, in fact. Stalking is exactly what it was. Did he follow Alison too? Susanna wonders. Did he go to her home?
