by D. G. Driver
“I don’t loan books to anyone, so take care of it, okay? But please, please read it. Don’t let that movie be your only impression of this story.”
Bethany was nuts, but I adored her.
I thought we were really hitting it off. I thought I was finally going to have a girlfriend. I’d sit with her at lunch. We’d wave at each other at school and sneak a kiss in the hallways between classes. People would pat me on the back for being so lucky. She’d blush when I sent her cute notes on her phone.
Our romance was so new still. Why did she seem to be backing off right when I wanted it to really get going? I wasn’t allowed to keep my phone on me at work, but between each order I went to the back room to check it. Not a single message all evening. Bethany was completely shutting me out.
Exhausted and depressed, I drove home that night, ready to hide in my room. Unfortunately, my mom was still up with Grandma in the living room watching TV.
“Why is she still up?” I asked.
“New meds,” my mom answered. “They are helping her memory a little, but she can’t sleep. Your dad hasn’t come home from his seminar yet.”
I nodded, understanding the question Mom hadn’t asked. Getting Grandma to bed was a two-person job. “I’ll help you.”
We rolled Grandma away from the TV in her wheelchair, and I lifted her into her bed once we got into her room. Mom went to get a glass of water while I made Grandma comfortable. As I tucked the sheets around her, Grandma reached out and grabbed my arm. She brought my left hand close to her face.
“Oh my.”
“What?”
“On your hand,” she said.
I forgot about the heart I’d drawn on there that morning. Embarrassed, I tried to tug my hand away from her, but I couldn’t. Her grasp was too strong.
“I remember that. Written on everything. He wrote such beautiful letters.”
“Who?” I asked.
Her eyes glassed over, and she got a faraway look I’d seen many times before. Sometimes she would see things that weren’t really there, or she’d forget who we were. “You, my darling,” she said in a sweet, chiding voice, like I was playing a game with her. “You wrote me so many beautiful letters before... Before...”
Her voice trailed off, and a tear ran down her face. Then recognition came back with a sharp breath as she remembered where she was and who I was. She patted my hand, but didn’t say another word. Her sad eyes closed, and she relaxed into her pillow. A moment later her breath became even and deep.
My mom came back in from the kitchen. “Oh, she’s asleep.”
“I guess I have the magic touch.” I put Grandma’s hands down gently over her blankets. My mom cocked her head and frowned as she took in the marking on my hand.
“I thought your new girlfriend’s name was Bethany.”
“You say ‘new’ like I’ve had girlfriends before.”
“You haven’t?” she teased. “What about Cindy Wiggins?”
“That was in second grade, Mom.”
“Still counts,” she said. Then she took my hand. “No really, though, what’s with this?”
“It’s stupid,” I said, pulling my hand back and shoving it deep in my pocket. “Something I saw today and copied.”
“Did your Grandma see it?”
“Yeah, actually. She acted kind of funny about it.”
“Well, you know her name is Eileen. She probably thought you did it for her.”
“I think she did,” I agreed, wondering if I should tell Mom how Grandma kind of wigged out over it. I decided not to. Mom worried so much about Grandma’s state of mind with the Alzheimer’s as it was, no point in adding to it.
“I’m going to try to wash this off.”
But it was permanent ink. It stayed. I stared at the stubborn heart on the back of my hand, smothered with soapy water. Funny, I’d forgotten that Grandma’s name was Eileen. No one ever called her by her first name. Even the nurse that came during the day called her Mrs. Carlson. I rinsed my hand and tried not to think any more about all the weirdness of my day, like my grandma freaking out about her name being on my hand, because the more I thought about it, the more it freaked me out too.
Of course, not thinking about it at all proved to be impossible. When I got in my room, I flipped on my computer and went to Bethany’s favorite social network site. I stared at her updated picture and read her recent posts. Nothing at all about me—good, bad, or indifferent. I wasn’t her awesome new boyfriend or a hated ex. It was like I simply didn’t exist. Like the night at the drive-through never happened at all.
I typed on her wall: Miss you.
You too, came a quick reply.
All right! She was online.
Call me?
Can’t. Too much homework.
1st day back?
I didn’t have any homework, so I kind of had trouble believing that. Maybe the Advance Placement classes dug in faster.
Sure.
Oh no. Sure is not the same as yes. Not the same by a longshot. Sure is very, very unsure. It’s a waffle. It’s the weak, wimpy kid brother to “I guess so”. It is the kind of affirmation that makes you feel like your request is an obligation. What could I do?
I typed quickly, my heart pounding in my chest and my fries from earlier scorching the back of my throat.
I really did think you looked beautiful today. You always do. I’m sorry if I texted something that upset you. From my heart, believe me, you are gorgeous in every way from your looks to your brain and your heart. In fact, it’s the brilliance and sweetness that are what make you so stunning. I’ve never met anyone like you, and I hope you’ll give me a chance to show you how much I adore you.
The words poured out of me. I’d never written or said anything like that before.
For an hour I sat and stared at my computer screen, waiting for some kind of reply. Midnight came and went, and nothing happened except that the wall filled up with questions and comments from her friends about my post. All of them tore it to shreds like I was some weird stalker trying to inflict mental anguish on my girlfriend. A handful asked who I even was.
I hoped the reason she wasn’t responding was because she actually was doing homework or had gone to bed. Only, I’d posted this right on her wall where all 382 of her friends were clearly reading it too. Surely one of them had called her to ask, “Did you see what that Mark guy wrote?”
Why didn’t she respond?
I finally shut down my computer and slipped into bed, wondering as I began to doze off if I’d get another note from the ghost writer in the morning telling me what I’d done wrong this time.
Ghost writer. Yeah. That made perfect sense. Instead of throwing books around, slamming classroom doors, and screeching through hallways, this ghost chose to haunt the high school by teaching random kids how to write better love letters.
Even though there was nothing remotely scary or believable about that concept, I wound up not sleeping a whole lot that night.
4
I got to British Lit early the next day and poked all around the boxes on the desk for more yellow scraps of paper. Nothing turned up. I finally gave up the search when Mrs. Hollstein and some of the students arrived. I’m not sure if I felt disappointed or dejected that I hadn’t heard from the stalker/ghost person. Relieved would have made the most sense. Glad that it really was just a coincidence and not something personal, would have been another way to look at it. Instead, I felt this strange sense of desperation. I think I was really hoping this “person” would help me understand why Bethany continued to ignore me.
I rubbed my eyes and shook some sleep out of my head, then tried to focus on Mrs. Hollstein’s lecture about vocabulary lists being done in good penmanship and not on the computer.
“I don’t want you to cut and paste from some website. Write the definitions legibly and you will learn better. And it wouldn’t hurt to do it in cursive, to make it look like you care.”
I copied the word list off the
board. Then, just for laughs, I wrote them all again in cursive like she told us to. Well, as much cursive as I could remember. Flipping the paper over to write on the other side, I discovered it had already been written on. But not by me. By my ghostly companion.
Yes. I was sure now. It had to be some kind of ghost or spirit. That paper hadn’t left my hand since I tore it out of my notebook, and it had been blank on both sides at that point. I was pretty sure of that. I would have noticed several sentences written in cursive, in black ink, wouldn’t I?
It’s stupid, but I actually felt my eyes widen as I took in a long breath through my nose in alarm. I looked around warily, wondering where the ghost might be. Was he nearby, watching me?
Then I read the note.
A true love letter is shared only with your lover. Only she needs to hear what your heart has to say. Hold hands in public, but keep romance discreet. A woman needs to believe that you are hers alone, and that you will share with her what you won’t give to anyone else.
I understood it this time. The penmanship was easier to read, and his fancy vocabulary didn’t test me. He was basically telling me I’d screwed up by writing my apology in a public forum. That only made it worse because now all 382 of her “friends” knew I’d done something stupid toward her.
382 people had probably jammed her phone messages with “I told you so” and “Who is the jerk?” texts. I saw a handful of them last night on the computer. A couple old boyfriends, including Lance, probably made themselves known, too. “Dump the loser and remember what we had.” I really was an idiot. She should dump me.
I put my pen to the paper under that note, curious to see what would happen if I wrote:
What should I do now?
Letter by letter an answer appeared.
Try again.
I pulled out my phone, intending to sneak online for a second and email her. That would be more private.
But bold, black letters scrawled across the page so dark and thick that I could almost hear the scraping of the invisible marker: NO!
“Okay,” I whispered. “Calm down.” I pocketed the phone.
What then? I wrote.
On paper. A fresh, clean sheet of stationery. A piece of parchment that shows that she is worth something more substantial than scrap paper.
I didn’t have anything like that. All I had was college rule, 3-hole notebook paper. Where was I going to get... I noticed Jill over at her desk, her backpack open and dangling from the back of her seat. Her sketchbook for Advanced Art class stuck out of it.
“Jill?” I whispered loud enough to get her attention. “Can I have a piece of your drawing paper?”
“No,” she whispered back over her shoulder. “It’s expensive.”
“I’ll give you a buck a page.”
“How much do you want?”
I traded my lunch money for five sheets.
I wanted to write something to Bethany right away, but I figured that was not what the ghost wanted me to do. I hardly had enough room to write neatly on this edge of desk I had to work with. To make space for an answer from the ghost, I wrote as small as I could at the bottom of my note:
What should I write?
What you feel! But practice first. Get it right.
Why are you helping me?
The ghost didn’t answer right away, but when he did his response was in neat printing, not the cursive he usually used.
A man in the army needs to be able to write to the woman he leaves at home. It may be all she has left of him if things go wrong.
I wanted to ask more, but I was out of space. I ripped out a new sheet of paper and wrote a couple more questions. He didn’t answer any of them. He was gone.
I practiced writing letters every moment I got a chance that day. Not having heard from Bethany at all, I avoided the cafeteria at lunchtime and sat outside on the football stadium bleachers to write—and scratch out—and write again. Nothing seemed sincere enough.
Just before lunch ended, my phone buzzed. A message from Bethany:
Hi.
Not much to go on, but I answered.
Hi.
Are you okay?
I gs. U?
Yeah. Fine.
I didn’t know how to respond, so I didn’t.
See you later, she sent.
K
I didn’t ask when. I didn’t push. I wanted to send her this letter before I did anything else she’d dislike. I slipped my phone back into my pocket, and it crunched against some paper. Another note from my ghost.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Keep some distance, and your letter will make more impact.
Not feeling patient enough to write, I whispered to the note as if the ghost were inside the words written there, “But I really want to see her.”
Letter first.
“How should I give it to her?”
Mail is best. It is a thrill to receive mail.
“Mail is slow. We call it snail mail these days for a reason. That’ll take days. Can’t I just slip it into her locker?”
No. Mail it. Heed my words and learn.
“Who are you?”
The lunch bell rang, and my time was up. My ghost friend seemed to understand this and went silent.
Mail? He had to be kidding. Bethany had contacted me, checked on me. This meant she still cared about me. I had to strike while that iron was hot, as my Grandma used to say. My ghost friend was wrong.
5
My work schedule started an hour later that day, so I hung out in the locker room after 5th period to work on the letter some more. I finally got out some words that I thought seemed earnest, and then I pulled out a sheet of Jill’s art paper and copied it, trying hard to be neat. Nothing about that letter was attractive by the time I was done. I had written with a ballpoint pen, in print, with no lines to guide me, using the bench of the locker room as a writing surface. The whole thing slanted to the right. It looked terrible. I wadded it up and threw it out. I tried again, but it wasn’t any better. Neither were the next three tries.
Now I’d wasted all of my good paper, and any moment the bell chime would signal the release the poor saps that had a 6th period. Bethany would go to her locker for the last time of the day, and my note wouldn’t be there. Gritting my teeth, I considered sending the last note anyway. Who said it had to be perfect? Instead of tearing that one up, I folded it neatly in thirds. I put my pen to the back and drew a heart. But when I began to write Bethany’s name inside it, the letters refused to cooperate. My R showed up as an S. My e became a t. This continued until the word Stop appeared inside the heart.
“Leave me alone!” I said out loud, glad the locker room was empty.
No.
“What do you want from me?”
Nothing. I want you to be happy.
“This is not making me happy. You are completely stressing me out.”
Your girl is wonderful. She makes you happy.
My shoulders fell and the anger fled. “I’ve been in love with her since 7th grade. I never thought she’d give me a chance.”
And now she has.
“Yes.”
She’s going to college. You’re going to war.
“That’s true,” I said. I guess I knew that was in our future, but I hadn’t really allowed myself to think about it yet.
She knows. She will pull away. You have to win her with a deep, true love if you want her to be yours when the years have passed and you can be together again.
“I don’t think she cares for me that way,” I said. “We’ve only had one real date.”
She will care for you if you do this right.
“Okay,” I sighed. “A good letter with the right words, on stationery, in the real mail...”
Written in cursive.
“Ugh. Really?”
Really. But not now. Go to work. Care for your grandmother. Write it when you are ready to do it with all the love your heart can bear to share with her.
As the word
s reached the end of that sentence they began to fade, as though the invisible marker was running out of ink.
“Are you there?”
Fading. Not much time left.
6
I had every intention of following the ghost’s advice. I folded up my letter and stuck it in the side pocket of my backpack. I gathered up my belongings and headed out of the locker room. I was parked on the other side of campus, so I weaved my way through the hallway to get to the exit doors. A friend of mine, Stephan, bumped into me and asked where I’d been at lunch. I was surprised he’d looked up long enough from his game to notice I was missing.
“Were you with Bethany?”
“How did you know about Bethany?” I asked him. Stephan was hardly in the middle of the school gossip. Sometimes I was surprised he even knew the names of his teachers or had the vaguest idea who was in his classes with him.
Stephan wiggled his shaggy eyebrows at me. “Everyone knows. You’re the talk of the school today. About fifty people came up to our table to ask about you at lunch.”
Ah, that’s why he noticed I wasn’t there.
“Fifty?”
“That might be an exaggeration, but it was a lot.”
I didn’t know what to say to him, so I just nodded and took a step to leave. He grabbed my elbow.
“So? Were you with her? Don’t leave me hanging.”
“I haven’t seen her all day,” I said. “I don’t know where she is.”
“She’s right there,” Stephan told me, pointing down the hallway at the entrance to the auditorium. Sure enough, Bethany was standing there, holding the door open while she laughed at something with Lissy and Kat. Stephan ceased to exist as I moved away from him, pulled down the hall toward her like she was a beacon. Before I could get to the auditorium, she ducked inside and closed the door behind her. Lissy and Kat pivoted and started walking toward me. We nearly collided.
