by Lexie Bean
I wanted to make another invitation for Dylan Beaman too, but I’m pretty sure he goes to basketball practice or something like that after school. He’s probably too busy to come anyway. He always looks busy, especially when he’s talking to his burping contest friends or folding paper footballs during class. I wonder what it would be like to hold Dylan Beaman’s hand during Red Rover or just because. I wonder what his family is like and if he would ever want to share more than chips with me.
Sorry. I hope you’re not embarrassed reading this letter, because honestly nothing is more embarrassing than thinking and writing it. I mean, why do you think I send out these balloons instead of keeping a diary? I can’t have these thoughts just laying around for anybody to find.
Even though I didn’t give Dylan Beaman an invite, I tried my very best to be excited about my birthday party while at school today. I looked at the clock for most of the day and even reminded Sofie about it at recess. I guess I didn’t really need to remind Sofie because BIRTHDAY PARTY was still written on her hand. We were under the same maple tree where Courtney, Mary, Gina, and I used to share our secrets with each other. I felt brave being back there. Don’t tell anyone this, but it was actually more fun than ever before. It was mine and Sofie’s first real recess together and I didn’t even pick up any daisies to ask, “He loves me? He loves me not?” Instead I made sure nobody was watching and said, “Sofie, can you tell me more about your life?”
Sofie told me that her old best friends were twins, who loved pretending they were Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen. But then they had to move all the way to Marquette, so their dad could help build an airport where the army base used to be. Sofie also explained her dad’s logging job. In the cold months, he cuts down trees so they can go to the chipper for paper and tissues to get made. Then when it’s warm, he actually paints houses and does whatever people need. She even said, “I love Papa,” and smiled with her head in the little daisies. I think that’s so cool that she loves her family like that.
We then pretended that we were loggers too. Of course, we didn’t have a chain saw for tree cutting at school, so we tried to lift the maple by circling it with our arms. Sofie’s palms felt warm and sweaty. It was our third time ever holding hands. It was really the only way we could take on a tree like that. You should have seen it. My arms were a little shaky, but we did get a few of the leaves to fall.
Before anything real could happen, one of the recess aids blew her horrible whistle. I can’t believe she saw us. We weren’t even in actual trouble. I’ve been way more scared other times in my life. Do you know what I mean? The aid walked fast toward the little forest and shouted, “I can’t believe this” at least three times. She hates it when we horseplay and do things she doesn’t understand. Sofie and I raised our arms and stepped back like they do in those cop shows when the police say that everything we say can be used against us. I looked back at my old BFFs, who were talking in the distance. Luckily, they were too busy talking to the kid who deals Pokémon cards to notice. I’m sure I didn’t ruin my chances of getting invited to Mary’s birthday party.
But I have to tell you something. I hope you don’t get mad. It has been bothering me since I first mentioned it. The truth is that I technically didn’t have a birthday party planned this year. I just didn’t want to face the fact that Sofie would probably be the only person in the whole entire world who would say yes to my invitation.
Instead of an actual party after school today, Sofie and I took extra pipe cleaners from the art room to make glasses, kind of like the Men in Black alien disguises. After that, we hid quietly in the fifth graders’ bathroom until all the other kids left school and the halls were totally empty. Finally, we walked a super-duper long way home.
We took a left on Military Road toward Mont Ripley, then a right, and then I took a minute to peek under the WELCOME TO HOUGHTON sign for letters while Sofie watched a small ship go by. Nothing was there waiting for me. I tried not to think about it too much as we crossed all the pretty university houses with funny Greek letters on them. We did maybe two TV shows worth of walking down that road to get to the forest of tall, skinny trees.
We mostly stayed quiet and kept on walking until we eventually found a path to the lake that didn’t have any scary NO TRESPASSING signs or empty vacation houses. There was nobody to watch us as we stepped into the tall grass and took off our itchy pipe cleaner disguises.
Sofie whispered, “This is the best birthday party ever,” when we finally got first sight of the water. I was so surprised she said that, I just stood there.
Sofie lifted her arms into the air until she was the same height as the tallest grass. Her tropical dress matched so nice that it looked like she grew out of the ground. She danced with the wind and the seagulls played along as they flew home, their wings hitting the air with a “swish-swish.” The last of summer’s dragonflies said goodbye. The song came from above, below, and places I have never been. I folded my pipe-cleaner glasses into my palms and lost track of my breathing. I hope it’s okay that I’m saying this.
I’m not sure how many wishes I’m supposed to get for my birthday, but in that moment with Sofie I decided this is going to be the year I wish for more. Maybe one day I’ll get brave enough to tell you what those wishes are. For now, maybe we can play this game I made up a long time ago. In this game, you call me Charlie or Sean. Alison could work too. My old friends didn’t like playing this so much, but I think it could be fun to try again.
Also, I know that I mentioned that whoever finds my balloons should leave letters to me underneath the WELCOME TO HOUGHTON sign, but it would also be nice if I found a letter at that lake we went to this afternoon. I don’t go there much because it feels so far away sometimes, but still. It’s called Portage Lake and it’s kind of shaped like a peanut. Just make sure you don’t send anything to Lake Superior. There are nice agate rocks there and coal ships fun to watch, but it’s just way too big to possibly find anything at all.
Sincerely,
Charlie Beck
Thursday, September 25, 1997
Dear Whoever Is Reading This,
I hope you’re having a good day. Today was Picture Day and it was actually the first time I could really notice my own growth, and not just in a height way. I put my hair into a braid without any help and picked out my own outfit. I even tied a silly first grader’s shoes for him.
My mom says I have enough clothes to choke a horse, but she always wants me to wear the same old bunny sweater and purple headband. I like bunnies and all, but you should know that it’s just not me and it never has been. So this morning, I told Mom that I accidentally lost both of them as soon as she opened my bedroom door. She crossed her arms when she saw me in my light green flannel instead. Mom said, “You can’t go to school looking like a ragamuffin.” I still don’t know what that means, but I said “Okay, then I can change” to make her go away.
Of course, I didn’t change. She doesn’t know that yet, though. And you have to cross your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye, promise that you won’t tell anyone. It felt good to pretend that the sweater and headband went missing even though I actually know exactly where they are. They’re in my bottom dresser drawer, where also I keep my Rapunzel Barbie, old friendship bracelets, and the other things I pretend to lose. If we actually knew each other, I would just give them to you so my mom would never find them again.
Dad didn’t have anything to say about my outfit when I left the house because he was sleeping on the couch. That’s fine with me. I thought I looked great. That flannel shirt I chose for myself had nice white buttons and matched my tennis shoes just right, and the school gave us all free combs. We have more combs than textbooks I think. Some volunteer mom in a D.A.R.E. shirt gave them to us while we waited in line for the photographer, so we could look extra nice for Picture Day. Even so, I’ve decided already that I don’t want to share my picture with anyone when we
get them back in a few weeks.
I know that I had my favorite flannel outfit, but my long hair makes me feel funny in a bad way. It’s just not how I want people to remember me. That’s why I tied my hair back into a braid to help me forget about it. Are you trying to forget about anything? Is it working for you? I’m just hoping that the D.A.R.E. mom doesn’t know my mom. I don’t want her telling on me for not looking “my best.”
I really wanted to put away that free comb that lady gave me, but my pants pockets were sewn shut. I will never understand why someone would make a decoration pocket. It seemed like I was there forever, standing with my dang comb while that lady helped the girls straighten their French braids and butterfly clips. The line for photos barely moved, and it wrapped all the way around and down the longest hallway at school. I tried to pass time by watching the boys make airplanes and swords with their special Picture Day combs. And meanwhile, two of the boys showed their Pokémon cards out in the open. It’s one thing to talk to the Pokémon dealer at recess, it’s another thing to bring it into the hallways, because the school principal calls it gambling. They actually had those shiny, holographic cards that you can’t even buy from vending machines. It was amazing.
One of the boys said, “Pokémon are stupid because they only know how to say their names.” If anything, I think it means that they are very smart because they know themselves so well. I don’t think he deserves to take care of those Pokémon. I should have expected it, though, because these are the same boys who spell teenage words into the school calculators. I wanted to say something about them breaking the rules, but I didn’t. Instead, I just counted the bricks on the wall. I know for a fact that one day all of their Pokémon will transform into something that will scare them, and I can’t wait for that day.
Anyways, they put the cards away fast when our teacher came out of nowhere. Mr. B put a peace sign in the air to make us all hush. His beard and white shirt looked really nice for the special day. His teeth even sparkled as we all got quiet for his big speech. A normal teacher would have just reminded us to put our names on the forms to make the line go faster, but not Mr. B. Instead of saying “cheese” to the photographer lady, he said, “Take a moment to thank yourselves for being here, for showing up, before the camera snaps.” I don’t know where he gets all of these ideas. I don’t really know who I am, so how the heck am I supposed to thank myself?
I wonder what Dylan Beaman thought of Mr. B’s speech. He was scratching his chin right next to me in line because of our last names in the alphabet. I also noticed that, even though he’s a boy, he actually wanted to look nice and used his free comb from the D.A.R.E. lady. As soon as he got it, he brushed stray pieces of his hair behind his ears. I wonder how easy it is for him to thank himself for being somewhere just like Mr. B said. I hope Dylan knows that pictures are probably going to come out great with his new FORD: BUILT TOUGH T-shirt. His parents will probably want to put them into gold frames for everyone to see. If he happens to give me one of the prints, I swear on my life I won’t ever give it away.
I don’t know why, but after Mr. B’s big speech, I actually decided to give Dylan Beaman my free comb. I kept my eyes down, and just said to him, “Here, take this.” It’s really the most words I’ve ever said to Dylan Beaman out loud. I thought that the comb would give him a reason to think about me, but the fact is that it ended up in the trash can only two minutes later. I saw him throw my comb there real quick when I bent down to double-knot my shoelaces. It seemed like a lot of other people’s combs ended up in there too, so I can’t take it too personal, right? A small pile of them covered the whole top layer of the big gray bin. I pretended that I didn’t see what he did, and then stood back up and wiped the dust off of my knees. In that moment, though, I had a sudden feeling of losing something.
My hair tie had fallen out and my braid was coming undone. I decided to have a bathroom meeting with Sofie ASAP, which stands for as soon as possible.
This morning was my first time making a really good braid all by myself. I was so nervous that I would never be able to do it like that ever again. Do you know that feeling? I tried not to have a cow, but it really was an emergency. We aren’t allowed to have walkie-talkies at school, so I signaled for Sofie using a new secret code we came up with the other day. I knocked the air three times like there was an invisible door. She knocked back.
We went to the girls’ room right away and sat in two stalls right next to each other. I really didn’t want her to see me struggle to fix my hair. I decided to do a basic ponytail, but for some reason I couldn’t get all my hair to fit through the band. I tried over and over. On my sixth try, the little pink tie flew right out of my hands. I must have stretched it too far. It landed into the toilet without making a sound. I looked down, and I couldn’t believe it. The hair tie just floated in the water like a lifesaver that I will never get to use. Of course, I had to leave it there for good. In that moment, the bathroom stall seemed smaller than ever. I don’t know.
My hair squiggled everywhere, and I didn’t even have my silly comb to fix it. But, for Pete’s sake, why would I comb and pay attention to something I don’t even like? Everybody says my hair makes me look more like Mom, but I don’t want to grow up to be Mom. I held my own hands, feeling sillier than ever for hiding in the girls’ room of all places.
Do you think I’m stupid? I just wanted to tie myself to a balloon and fly away, skipping Picture Day altogether.
Then out of the blue, Sofie said, “I don’t know why they give us all the same kind of comb if we all have different kinds of hair. I pretended to lose my comb. I couldn’t even use it.” I bet you Sofie’s comb is in the same trash can where Dylan Beaman threw mine. Sofie’s hair is curly and today it was in many braids that her dad made really nice for Picture Day. Sofie said that when she grows up, she’s not going to make her kid have the same hair as everybody else at school. It made me smile to think about her future life, even though it’s probably not going to be like my life at all.
I asked Sofie through the wall, “So, what do you want to be when you grow up? Is it hard for you to know?”
Sofie said, “I don’t really know anybody who does what I want to, but I think it could happen anyways.” I hope she’s right. I haven’t told anyone this before, but I want to grow up to be a mailman or something that will involve secret gifts or me walking by myself for a long time. Maybe I could even grow up to be like Steve Irwin, that Crocodile Hunter on TV. I do like animals. Sofie wants to go to outer space or be a dancer. If she goes to the moon sometime, I hope she takes me with her and her future daughter with really cool hair. Maybe you think that’s weird, but I think it could be good.
Anyways, Sofie and I left the stalls and fixed our hair in separate mirrors. I wasn’t sure if my fingers could fix much. I could hardly brush through once without getting stopped by a knot. I tried to remember how much I liked my outfit, but even that seemed hard to do while looking at my reflection. I decided to be brave and offer Sofie a high five anyways. I wanted her to know that I think she looked great in her blue sparkly shirt. For the record, that is different from calling someone cute.
I guess I’ll go to sleep now. I haven’t really been checking under the WELCOME TO HOUGHTON sign for letters this week, but I’ll try sometime soon.
Sincerely,
Charlie or Sean
Sunday, September 28, 1997
Hi,
I don’t want to say too much about this, but my bedroom is pink. It’s a problem with me even though I really do like flowers and cotton candy. My parents painted my room pink when we moved in, but I have felt like a boy long before that. They just don’t get it. Lately, my dad has been calling it my “big-girl room” almost every time he walks in. I hardly ever talked about him to my old friends because my dad can be hard to predict. I’ve never even told Sofie about him because she has a really nice dad, and probably wouldn’t understand.
&
nbsp; My dad used to have a job with a bunch of other dads mining copper out of the ground in White Pine, the city where we used to live. They all say that, back in the day, our old city was the best and easiest place in the world to find a job. Then things changed. We had to move here so Dad could sell T-shirts that say COPPER COUNTRY STRONG at a small store that only plays country music and hockey games on the radio. I don’t actually know what he used to do other than look for shiny things underground, but he can’t do it anymore and he’s still sad about it. He and his old work friends all still do things together, though, but it’s not work. He calls it “hanging with the boys,” and he sometimes comes home very sloppy. It makes me wonder what it means to be a boy. Do you think I would have what it takes to be a good one?
Last night was Dad’s birthday and he went to “hang with the boys” at his favorite place called Dave’s. It’s far enough away from the university to have no students, but he says it has fun things like a pinball machine, pickled eggs, and popcorn, which is good because he likes to say that the university people “get to have everything.” When Dad finally got back home, he was a whole year older and it was very dark. He stood around in my room and then fell asleep with his face on the carpet while still wearing his jeans from the night before. It’s a new thing for him, and I don’t really understand it. Maybe he can tell I have been feeling extra lonely this year.
At breakfast this morning, I made myself buttery toast and my mom asked me about how Dad ended up sleeping next to my rock collection. She then said, “I hate it when he gets home so late. Birthday party or not, he knows how much I prefer morning Mass.” I just shook my head and took another bite of my breakfast. I don’t know why she expects me to know the answer to everything. I shake my head a lot these days.
