by Holly Jacobs
“Thanks,” I said.
He nodded. “See you tomorrow.”
“If it’s as nice as this, you bet.”
When he left, I sat on my chair and opened the envelope. There had to be a dozen other envelopes in it. I’d had a post office box for years, but eventually got rid of it because most of my readers contacted me online. But on occasion, some still wrote to me through my publisher.
One had a local postmark. I picked that one up first.
Dear Ms. Pip,
My mother insists that I send real thank-you notes for gifts. Not email like so many of my friends, but real letters. She says if someone goes to the trouble of getting you a gift, you can go to the trouble of writing a real letter and mailing it. And since I’m sure that you worked hard to write B Is for Bully, I thought I’d send you a real letter. So this is a thank-you note.
We have a girl in our school who is big and kind of mean. I’m not big and I don’t think I’m mean. In our school, you get stuck with some definition. Jocks. Druggies. I’m a Brain. That’s not how I think of myself, but I take advanced classes and I’m planning on going to college, and at my school, that makes me a brain. Winnie is a jock and she has picked on me all year. So the other day, I saw her heading toward me and I turned on the camera on my phone and hit record. She knocked me hard into my locker. All my books went flying, but I held onto my camera. She said, “Hey, genius, why don’t you climb in that locker, and I’ll shut the door and we’ll see if you can get out?”
I picked up my phone so she was in the frame and said, “Hey, Winnie, why don’t you smile for the camera?”
She went to grab it, but I said, “Go ahead; it’s already gone to the cloud. You know what the cloud is, right? Since I’m a genius, I’ll explain. It means that you can’t get rid of it now. And I’ll be posting it on YouTube and sending the link to the principal and your parents if you mess with me or anyone else in the school the rest of the year.”
Anyway, she’s left me alone ever since. You taught me to stand up for myself. Maybe I am a brain, but I’ve also got heart. And maybe now, I have some strength, too.
But your books have taught me something else, too. Kindness and forgiveness. Yesterday, Winnie was in the library working on math. I could tell she was really having trouble with it. So I walked over and said, “Just remember, whatever you do on one side of the equation, you have to do on the other.” For a minute, she just looked at me and then she said, “Could you show me?”
I did.
And I thought of your book again, and wondered why she was a bully to start with. I’m meeting her tomorrow in the library to work on math again. Maybe I’ll find out.
So I not only learned to save myself, but maybe I’m also learning to have empathy, too.
I read an article where you said every girl you write for is Amanda. So I’m going to say thank-you and sign this,
Amanda . . . Jo Larson
Tears were rolling down my cheeks as I finished the letter.
I didn’t want to sit on my front porch and cry, so I decided to go out back and lose myself in my garden. As I rose, I knocked against my table in the process. The rest of the letters and my teacup went flying.
My favorite teacup with the forget-me-nots on it.
It hit the porch and shattered.
I didn’t pause to pick up the pieces. I scooped up the letters and ran into the house, shut the door, and dumped the letters on the table. I didn’t stop. I walked through the house to the back door and into the garden. I made my way back to Ned’s bench, still crying.
It felt like Amanda, my Amanda, had sent the letter and approved of what I tried to do in my stories.
I know it didn’t make sense. I’d heard from readers in the past, but this one touched me even before I got to her signature.
My emotions were a jumble.
I’m not sure how long I sat there, but suddenly Ned was at the gate, calling my name. “Pip. Pip.”
“I’m back here,” I called. I straightened out the slightly crumpled letter.
He thundered through the garden, straight back to the bench. “I knocked on the front door and you didn’t answer. I was scared to death when you didn’t answer. What the hell happened?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.” I knew even as I said the words, trying to claim I was fine was ridiculous. I was an ugly crier.
Coop once came over to cry on my shoulder after a breakup. And I mean that literally. She looked just as pretty crying as she normally did.
Actually, maybe even better.
There was a certain vulnerability in her tears that was missing from her regular life.
I didn’t look pretty or vulnerable. I looked snotty and bloated.
“Really, despite how I look, I’m fine,” I said.
Ned didn’t say anything. He held my broken teacup in his hand and quirked his eyebrow.
I knew he was waiting for a better explanation. “I got a letter from a reader that struck a chord.”
“Not a good chord,” he said and without my asking, he sat down next to me and wrapped his arms around me.
“I’m not sure what she said, and I’m not asking.” He hugged me. It was something my mom might have done if she found me crying, but there was nothing parental in Ned’s embrace.
And there was nothing sexual either.
His hug had friendship and empathy wrapped in it.
I could have called Cooper or my mom. Even my dad. But I was glad it was Ned who’d found me.
I thought of my dad and Aunt Bonnie and knew that Ned was family to me, the same way Aunt Bonnie had been for my dad.
“Thanks,” I said, my voice muffled against his chest.
His words rumbled as he said, “You’re welcome.”
Later that night, I went back to the journal.
And picked up where I left off.
—I got a letter today as I was writing to you. It was from a reader. Her story touched me. She said my book had touched her.
There is a chest that’s full of letters like that waiting for you to read someday. I’ve answered them all. But this one letter I’m enclosing in your notebook. I’ve said for years that every girl I write for, every girl that Amanda’s Pantry feeds, or Amanda’s Closet gives a coat to, is you. And part of me always believed that. But this one letter, I felt it to the core of my being.
I’ll be writing Jo back. And while I’ve always written fiction, I’m thinking about writing some nonfiction, and I think I want to start with Jo’s story.
Love,
Piper
Chapter Eleven
It was April again.
As I get older, I notice that time seems to accelerate. Days slip into weeks, into months, into years . . .
I wonder if time moves slower for Amanda than it does for me?
There’d been an article in the paper about Anthony a few days ago. In the interview he was asked if he was dating. He said he’d met someone in Harrisburg.
I was happy that he was moving on. Truly, I wanted only the best for him.
But I wanted the best for me, too. I simply didn’t know what that was.
I ran my hand through the scruff on Bruce’s neck. He was the only physical contact I had with another being for whole days at a time. And as much as I loved my dog, I was coming to realize I wanted more.
I sat in my backyard on what I’d come to think of as Ned’s bench and tried to envision what my more would look like.
I didn’t know. My life was full of writing and volunteering. I loved what I did. I don’t think my more had anything to do with another thing.
Maybe I needed to date? Maybe there was someone out there for me.
I thought about Anthony. He had no trouble moving on. I don’t think I would have trouble either if I had a vision of what I was moving toward.
The small bell I’d found at a house sale and put on my garden gate rang. Soon, Ned came into sight around the springtime greenery. “Why are you sitting back here?”
“Because it’s not raining.” That truly summed up my reasoning.
It had been such a wet spring. My tulips and daffodils were now being joined by leaves and buds on the trees and bushes. My serviceberries were covered in white blossoms. Yes, not raining really was all it took to drive me into the yard. I didn’t mention that heavy thoughts had also brought me here.
Some people might have wondered about my reasoning, but Ned didn’t question it. “Trouble with the new book?” When I didn’t say anything immediately, he added, “I know this is where you like to think.”
“I am thinking,” I admitted. I thought about letting that explanation suffice, but Ned was a friend who deserved better. I softly added, “I’m thinking that there’s a chance that I’m broken.”
He didn’t try to reassure me that wasn’t the case. He simply asked, “In what way?”
Maybe when I gave away my daughter I gave away too much of my heart to have anything left over to share with anyone else. I almost said those words.
But I couldn’t manage it. It was as if I’d given Amanda to her parents, but selfishly held onto the thoughts of her because I was unwilling to share anything else.
Yes, maybe I was broken. “Maybe some fundamental piece of me is missing. Look how I treated Anthony.”
Ned snorted. “Yeah, you were just awful to him.” His voice dripped with a sarcastic lilt. “Yes, awful. You found out the two of you wanted very different things and so you ended things with kindness. You kept him as a friend. Yes, Pip, you’re an ogre. Is this about that interview where he said he was seeing someone?”
I shook my head and answered honestly, “No. Not really. Not in an I-regret-letting-him-go way, but I’m questioning . . . well, everything.”
Ned didn’t say anything.
“Do you know what I felt when I heard the man I was with for a year was moving to Harrisburg to work at a job I suspect he’d dreamed of? Not happiness for him, and not even worry that I’d miss him. I felt relief. Relief that I wasn’t feeling like I had to go with him. And today, when I read he was dating, I felt even more relief that I could let go of some of that guilt as well.”
“So if you’re so relieved, why are you back here brooding?” Ned asked.
Brooding? Maybe. “Frankly, there’s no earthly reason I couldn’t have moved to some other city. My work is very portable, and there are hungry people everywhere. There are children who read my books everywhere. So do you know why I was so relieved? Because I am selfish. I didn’t want to move. It was all about me. A relationship has to be about both people. About what they both want. About being willing to compromise. I am obviously too selfish for a real relationship.”
There—I’d said the words.
I added, “I’m glad Anthony’s found someone who’s not as selfish as me.”
Ned didn’t try to tell me I wasn’t selfish. Instead he segued in an entirely different direction. “I’ve read all your books, you know.”
That wasn’t what I’d expected to hear. “Pardon?”
He nodded. “All of them. I bought every one of them. I stacked them in order of publication and read them all back-to-back over the course of a couple months. And I figured out a few things about you.”
I’d always felt that the best fiction books were semi-autobiographical. Especially YAs. I might have grown up decades before my readers, but there’s a universality in childhood. And it’s there in the teen years, too—the heartache, the sense of discovery, the sense of isolation and being misunderstood. The worries about the future.
I knew there were pieces of me in each book—Mom and Coop caught them sometimes. I thought of them like movie Easter eggs. Even though I knew they were there, I wasn’t sure that others could find them. “What do you think you know about me?”
“You have innate kindness. I knew that, but your books really drove the point home. It’s there in every character, on every page. And you have a sense of justice.”
I didn’t respond because frankly, I didn’t know what to say.
After a pregnant pause, Ned said, “And when you love, you love with your whole heart.
“That last part is why I am positive you never loved Anthony. You liked him. You cared for him. You might have enjoyed his company, but Pip, when you finally fall in love, you’d do anything for that person. You’d give up anything, go anywhere for him. You did not love Anthony, so letting him go was a kindness. It wasn’t selfishness.”
“I don’t know.” I thought there was a chance I’d love Anthony, despite the fact I’d never felt a spark or fell head over heels. I thought that maybe an adult love didn’t require that rush of emotion.
He snorted. “Trust me, I know. You don’t have a selfish bone in your body.”
I knew he was wrong about that, but I didn’t argue the point. Instead, I asked, “You read them all? All my books?”
“Every single one. I also have a collection of some of the articles you wrote early on. Including a certain article on the history of sofas. I think Chesterfields are a fine variety.”
I laughed along with Ned, which I knew had been his intention. But my laughter turned to tears. Ned opened up his arms and held me.
It felt like coming home.
When I stopped crying, I reluctantly pulled back. “Sorry,” I said as I brushed at the damp spot on his shoulder.
“No problem. I actually came over to see if you wanted to go for a walk,” Bruce, who’d followed me out back, popped up at the word. “I know that it’s earlier than most days, but I have a case I need to work on tonight.”
“Would Princess like a sleepover?” It had become our routine for Princess to sleep over on nights Ned worked late. I never asked for specifics on cases, but I knew occasionally he liked to track down difficult-to-reach people at night.
“I’m pretty sure Princess would love it.”
I went into the house with Bruce at my heels. When I reached for his lead, his happiness knew no bounds.
Maybe I needed to stop brooding. Anthony was happy. And me? I looked at my goofy dog, trying to catch his own tail, as if he was worried it wouldn’t get to go for a walk otherwise.
I realized I was happy, too.
I couldn’t second-guess what was on my horizon.
I was simply going to accept what came my way with a sense of joy.
We’d fallen into a walking rhythm. I walked on the left, Ned on the right, and the two dogs were in front of us, echoing our positions. We walked through the school playground and then three blocks over, ten blocks up, another three blocks over and then back. We’d clocked it and it was about two miles.
As someone who spent the great part of her day sitting, I was becoming very aware of staying fit. I was in my thirties,
The thirties sounded so old to me when I was in my twenties; now, they didn’t seem too bad, but I knew my forties were just a blink away, so I walked and tried to stay fit.
Ned and I didn’t talk much. We simply let the dogs do their thing.
We waved at neighbors. We’d walked this route so often there were a bunch we knew by sight, and some we knew by name.
Tony and Julie were out at their house. His name made me think of Anthony, but before I could start brooding again, I cut the thought off.
Tony had a flat of garden plants and the three of us happily chatted about our gardens.
“I’m starting to feel like the odd man out,” Ned complained. The only garden he had was the small bed of flowers out front that I’d convinced him to let me put in last year.
“Don’t listen to him,” I told Tony and Julie. “I took him over some tomatoes last year and he smugly assured me he didn’t need to have a garden as long as he had
me.”
The sentence came out a bit awkwardly, as if we were more than we were.
“. . . next door,” I added, which actually made it worse, I realized.
Julie laughed and said, “I’d make him pull some weeds this season. Make him earn his produce.”
“I might,” I said. “We’d better head back. Ned’s got an appointment.”
I purposefully didn’t say anything, hoping Ned hadn’t noticed my awkward moment.
When we got back to our places, he said, “Let me go get ready and I’ll bring Princess over.”
“Sounds good.”
Fifteen minutes later, he was at my door with a box and the dog.
“I got you something,” he said as he thrust the box at me and unclipped Princess, who ran to find Bruce.
“For what?” I asked.
“Just open it and you’ll see.”
I opened the cardboard box and found . . . my teacup. The one I broke. Well, not actually mine, but the same kind.
He grinned. “I stuck the base in my pocket. It had the pattern’s name and its maker on it. I found it on a china replacement site. You can get a whole set of this if you like it that much.”
“How did you know I liked it that much?” I asked, fingering the fine bone china. It was an exact replica of the one I’d broken.
“I know you’ve got a bunch of teacups, but this is your go-to one. You were upset when you broke it.”
I didn’t know what to say.
It turned out I didn’t have to say anything because Ned wasn’t done surprising me.
“I wondered if you want to go out to a movie and dinner this weekend.”
I loved going to the movies with Ned. He never said anything during the film, but afterward I could count on a rousing discussion. “Sure. Did I miss a new sci-fi one?”
“No, not our regular science fiction friends sort of movie.” He looked at me and said, “A date.”
There are certain things that never cross a person’s mind. How many news reports include a friend of the perpetrator who exclaims, I had no idea he/she . . . whatever they’d done.
