by Mia Miller
The lake was wonderful! I went swimming with my dad most mornings, cooked dinner with my mom every night, and painted the rest of the time. I have three new paintings to add to my portfolio. Mom says that if I keep it up, I’ll have my own exhibit soon. That would be pretty neat.
How is your practicing? Are you studying Liszt? You said you wanted to learn how to play his works because they are among the most difficult songs written for piano ever. I listened to La Campanella from my dad’s collection of records, and I admit, it did sound complicated. But I am pretty sure you will nail it. I can’t wait to hear you play it for me next summer. I mean, I didn’t ask, but I assumed you will be going back to camp, right?
I perfected my signature over the summer. I’ll make one for you and send it in my next letter. It has to dry properly.
Write soon!
Truly yours,
Dellie
***
October 2008
Dear Delia,
I’m not sure I will be joining you in the summer camp again, but we’ll see. Things at home are not the greatest. I don’t want to bore you with it; it is just causing a lot of heaviness on my mind these days.
I’m glad you had fun. We can’t talk on the phone because my dad is very strict with those kinds of things. Due to his high position in the military, social media and disclosure of phone number are strictly forbidden. Maybe in the future, once I’m allowed to carry a cell phone.
Please forget La Campanella. I have less and less time to play piano and I decided to take up target practice instead. I’m getting quite good at it. You would be proud, I think . . .
Lovingly,
Os
***
October 2008
Dear Os,
Oh my Gosh, I babbled about all the activities I did with my family like a jerk and all the while you were having a tough time at the house?
I am so sorry. Will you tell me what is happening? Your letter felt sad. I wish I could hug you and make it better.
Truly Yours,
Delia
***
October 2008
Dear Delia,
There’s nothing to say. There’s too much to say. My mother is clinically depressed and is often interrupting her treatment. I forget the last time I saw her smile and there are some days when she doesn’t even get out of bed. I am so worried about her, because we’re alone most of the time and she sometimes to take her medicine. She forgets to eat.
I started at least one meal for her before going to school in the morning. Sometimes, I find it untouched in the dining room when I get home. What’s worse is that my dad doesn’t seem to notice. I am ashamed to say, but I cry myself to sleep those days.
I’m glad you aren’t pushing me with the talk about piano playing, at least for now.
Lovingly,
Os
***
October 2008
Dearest Os,
My heart breaks for you. I want you to know that I think about you every night when I go to bed and I pray that you fall asleep with a smile on your face.
I hope your mom gets the help she needs.
There’s nothing to address about piano playing, really. I think you are so gifted that the world is being deprived of something truly beautiful when you aren’t playing, but on the other hand, I am not there to enjoy it.
I do hope target practice will get you the calm you need. Maybe you can send me a printout, so I see your skill.
Truly Yours,
Delia
***
November 2008
Dear Os,
You haven’t written back. Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay.
Delia
February 2009
Dear Os,
I feel like you don’t want me writing again, but I was sitting in class today and found myself thinking about you. So here I am, sending you another letter despite myself.
I was listening to some of the boys answer the teacher’s questions, and their voices sounded so odd. They’re changing, and they never sound really controlled. It got me wondering what you are sounding like these days. In camp, you had an angelic voice, but I guess that’s changing. When Corbin hit his early teens, he was desperate and kept practicing his falsetto like crazy. I thought it was funny and he gave me the silence treatment for a week after I laughed. But I guess, since you aren’t singing anymore, you don’t need to worry about that, do you?
I was thinking we are changing so much. Would we even recognize each other? Are we ever going to meet again? I really hope so.
Truly yours,
Dellie
***
May 2009
Delia,
Thank you for not forgetting about me. I think we would recognize each other. I still have my red hair; and you probably still have those crazy curls. I know I would surely like to see your pretty eyes again.
I’m sorry I have been absent. Doesn’t mean I didn’t think of you . . . quite often.
Just . . . I don’t know . . . so much overwhelming stuff happened at home, I didn’t feel up to spreading misery around.
My mother had an easier time around the holidays, when dad was home for almost a month. But then we had to move again and she seemed even more shook from the whole ordeal.
I’m keeping myself busy. You’ll receive this in a giant envelope because I haven’t forgotten. I’m sending you the printout from my target practice, and you can see the bullet holes. Yes, it’s mine. Yes, I’m that good.
I also took up archery and have gotten pretty good with a bow.
Write if you want to. I really hope you do.
Os,
***
June 2009
Hi, Os!
I was surprised to find a letter from you—after all, almost one year had passed since you’d returned any of my letters. I understand you had to move due to your dad’s job in the Army, but this inability to get through to you is becoming irritating.
What can I say? A lot has changed. I painted thematic stuff for an exhibit meant for charity during this spring break, and all my paintings sold, which I was super happy about. Instead of my going to camp this summer, my dad is taking my brother and me on tour with his band. We’re supposed to pass through fifteen states. It will be awesome, but it also means I won’t be home to get your letter if you respond. It will also imply we’ll communicate even less if we rely on letters. Up to you, I guess.
I think it’s excellent that you learned how to use a crossbow, and your new skill sure would come in handy in an apocalyptic scenario. Or, you know, if you went to battle.
I miss you. I hope you write soon enough for me to get your reply before going on tour.
Truly yours,
Delia
***
June 2009
Dearest Delia,
Have fun. Maybe sneak a Polaroid in your next letter? Dying to see what you look like lately.
I am taking up wrestling, I think. There’s this really neat teacher where I study now and he told me I have a promising form for it.
Write soon to ask for the number of bruises I’ve acquired this summer.
I will be thinking of you. Honestly, I wish I were with you.
Lovingly,
Os
***
October 2009
Hi Os,
Summer was awesome but crazy. We were in a different town almost every week. We slept in the tour bus, which was kind of claustrophobic toward the end of the trip, but I didn’t mind. Corbin truly reached another level in playing guitar, and there were times when he was allowed on stage with the band. He decided he will go to NYU Tisch School of Arts and I might follow him there. Both our parents are over the moon about it. It’s crazy how fast time goes, and you have to think about things like that, huh? Well, I am not really there yet, but having an older brother gives me some perspective.
Wrestling too? Really? You seem to be good at everything you set your mind to, don’t you? It’s so
weird for me to think of you as a fighter because in my mind, all I see is the boy who played the piano like a master pianist. People change and grow, though, so I guess you will just have to demonstrate that for me some time.
I didn’t really take pictures but I taught myself how to draw caricatures this summer, and this is one I made of myself. I’m sending you a sketch. What do you think?
I’m glad to hear you’re thinking about me, and I want you to know that I also think of you. When life doesn’t get crazy, you know?
Truly yours,
Delia
December 2009
Dear Delia,
You are ravishingly beautiful, even in a caricature!
How many bruises? A lot more than I would have wished for. There was an incident I was involved in during this summer where three guys came at me on an empty field near our house. I just got out of the hospital. In fact, it’s still a bit painful to write, since I still have a cast on.
I will go into intensive physical therapy after this, to recover my muscle weight because . . . guess what? I will join the military academy and follow in the steps of my father.
Lovingly,
Os
***
March 2010
Dear Os,
Military academy? Really? Wow. I guess your father must be proud, huh?
I can’t believe you took a beating on an empty basketball court that was so bad you had to be hospitalized. No offense, but boys are so immature.
I hope you’re making a clean recovery?
I wish I were there to hug you. Since I’m not, here’s a present. Remember when we held hands on the dock? I recreated that drawing as an oil painting, and now it’s yours to do with as you please. I just hope it cheers you up.
Let’s make a pact? After we’re both eighteen, if we don’t meet until then (and by the looks of it, chances are slim) we find a meeting spot and see each other in person again. Then I’ll give you all the hugs I owe you from over these years.
You are such a beautiful person, inside and out. Please, don’t let anyone break your spirit.
Truly yours,
Dellie
***
October 2011
Dear Delia,
Have you forgotten about me, I wonder?
We moved . . . again. I think the whole family at this time is suffering from exhaustion. I hate the new school I am in with all my might. Ironically, I’m now looking forward to our next move, which is probably around the corner, anyway.
In your last letter, you mentioned a pact. But I’ll see your suggestion and I’ll raise your stakes.
We will meet at eighteen. Wherever I will be by that time, I will do everything in my power to make it so. We’ll get reacquainted, again. But as boyfriend and girlfriend. I want you all to myself, this time. All of it. All of you. I will give you me, in exchange. Will you make that pact with me, Delia? Will you promise me your virginity? Do you want all of me too?
As you said, we’re getting older now, right?
Can’t wait to hear back from you!
Lovingly,
Os
***
February 2011
My dearest Os,
I should have known you moved again. I was relieved when I saw another letter from you. Then I read your message. It took me a week just to stop blushing and make myself write back. I wrote three versions of my response and tore them up, and I’m not sure if this one will even get to you.
You talk with such ease about my virginity. About meeting me in person again. About starting everything over. I mean . . . I wish it could happen. I just see less and less how that would be possible.
Don’t worry; I do not plan to sleep with anyone any time soon. Whether or not our connection will last until my resolve changes, we’ll see. I think that’s the best promise I can make to you.
Remember our tadpoles? I hadn’t thought of them in a long while, but recently, I seem to be thinking about them obsessively. So, I did what I always do when I become obsessed with a subject. I drew them. I painted them. And in one of my sessions, it occurred to me the two halves of the yin and yang look like stylized tadpoles. I actually found a lot of people on DeviantArt that draw the Chinese symbol either with tadpoles or with frogs or with fish. Some of those are really beautiful and are fit for a tattoo. Oh, DeviantArt is this cool platform where people share their paintings, drawings, or photography. I’d give you my alias there, but since your father doesn’t allow you to have social media profiles, I guess that is useless.
I fell down the rabbit hole, searching for information about symbols related to the tadpoles, I found these beads called magatama.
They are comma shaped and date back to prehistoric Japan. How cool are they? They are present everywhere in their mythology, religion, and art. Japanese nobility used a simpler version of the magatama, the tomoe, on their family crests. They were shaped in pairs, in threes, or even as solitary entities. It’s a symbol of the human soul and the many types of fate our soul can get.
Inspired by this, I leave you with this painting I made of two tadpoles, swirled around each other like the magatama beads, always chasing each other, but never catching up. This is how I feel like about us.
I hope that changes some time.
Truly yours,
Dellie
March 2012
Hi Os,
More than a year has passed since I last wrote to you, and I received nothing back.
I like to think that nothing bad happened and you were just busy with yet another move. It must be hard. I miss you.
I hope the letter I last sent, with the souls and the fate, didn’t freak you out.
I wish I could tell you more. So much has happened, but I am afraid if someone else opens these letters they would laugh at our (or my) childish rants, so I’d rather not.
Please write if you can.
Truly yours,
Delia
***
September 2012
Os,
I am getting tired of writing to you and not receiving an answer. So I looked into this and apparently if the mail is undeliverable they first look for a forwarding address before they return to the sender. Since I always fill in my return address on the envelope and I haven’t gotten any back, I’m assuming my letters are getting to you. Whether you read them or not, it’s another matter, but you are getting them.
This is just another level of asshole.
Have a good life.
Delia
May 2013
Os,
You probably won’t even read this, but this is my way to seek closure. It isn’t about you; it’s about me.
It wasn’t fair that you decided you were just done talking to me.
You’re a coward who didn’t even say, “I’m done playing with you.”
Last time you wrote to me, you asked me if I would consider saving myself for when we’d meet again. I’ve decided my answer is no. Tonight is my prom, and I’m going to give my virginity to Ryan Anderson. He’s way more worthy of it that you are. Cliché? Maybe, but at least I’m honest about it.
This isn’t only the last time I write to you but it’s also the last time I will allow myself to think of you.
Fuck you very much,
Cordelia Buchanan
Chapter Two
Delia
Now
“Okay, Twinkle, I think you’re all set,” Corbin said while arranging the last of my books on the shelves he’d installed in my dorm room.
“Now can we go get that coffee?” I pleaded for the hundredth time that morning.
Brittany Hall, which was the NYU freshman dorm, was close to a coffee house I’d fallen in love with the first time I had visited Corbin during his freshman year. It had no Wi-Fi and served a lavender latte that could easily replace any dessert.
“Yeah, yeah, you’ll get your drug,” he mumbled, heaving my last suitcase onto my bed. That one held the supplies I brought: sketchpads, notebooks, penc
ils, graphite, and charcoal. I was going to miss my brushes and oils, but until I figured out where I could rent a small space for me to paint in, these would have to do. The suite was small enough as it was, and I had to share it with a girl I had yet to get acquainted with.
I opened the case to make sure everything was still secure, and when I turned around my brother was shutting the bathroom door behind him.
“Seriously! You couldn’t have waited.”
His chuckle was muffled. “I’m just going to test if the piping works well in your bathroom and we’ll leave. After we get coffee, I want to show you the Silver Building, but we need to go there before the masses fill the halls or we’ll get the elevator rage.”
I scrunched my nose and stood in the middle of the room. There wasn’t too much space to house even the narrow dresser, one small desk, one wardrobe, and two wooden beds. At least we hadn’t gotten bunk beds.
The doors to the bathroom and to the room opened at the same time.Just as Corbin came out, hands still wet and splashing droplets at me—a thing he did because he knew I was annoyed by it—two guys pushed a large, Arctic lime, baggage cart, filled to the brim with an Arctic-lime-colored luggage through the other door. Behind them was a thin, tall girl who appeared to be checking her nail polish. After a second, she raised her eyes to my brother, offering a brilliant smile.
Corbin’s eyebrows shot up.
“Where’s all that gonna go, Twinkle?” he whispered in my direction and I lifted my palms letting him know I had no say in it.
“Oh, hi!” the girl squealed and squeezed her way into the room while the two guys tried to figure out how to push the cart over the threshold. It wasn’t budging anymore.
“Hi there . . . are we roommates?” I asked, extending my hand in her direction, and she squeezed it before turning back to my brother.
She was gorgeous, with cornflower blue eyes and a tiny nose. Her hair was a natural blond and she had legs for days, which was probably why my brother currently had drool on his chin. She snapped her fingers at the guys, who clumsily pulled her luggage from the cart and then waited near the door for a sign from her side. She waved bye-bye from the tips of her manicured nails.
