“That won’t work. You’ll just say ‘Gabriel’ every morning. You’ll say it so much that soon I’ll start to wonder if my name is Gabriel.”
“That’s not true.” She stuck out her lower lip. “Fine, I guess we don’t need a tradition. But, speaking of Gabriel, he wants to go out with us this weekend. You’ll come, right?”
I tugged on the straps of my backpack. “I thought we already decided no setups.”
“No, it wouldn’t be a setup. It will be a group of us. Some of his friends and us.”
I frowned, suspicious. “What will we be doing?”
“Go-karts.”
The indoor track wasn’t cheap. I calculated how much money I had saved in the jar in my closet. After I bought the guitar, the twins’ mom hired a full-time nanny, so I was out of my regular source of income. Occasionally, I worked for my mom at craft fairs, but it had been a while. I couldn’t remember if I’d spent all my money the last time we went to the movies with Gabriel and his friends.
“Okay, sure. I’ll talk to my mom about it. Sounds fun.”
“It sounds awesome.” The bell rang. “See you at lunch. If you don’t die in Chemistry, that is.”
“Every day poses that risk.”
“I believe in you.”
She was ten steps away when I called out. “Iz!”
She turned. “Yeah?”
“We don’t need any cutesy traditions. We’re solid you and me.”
I wasn’t going to die from boredom this time. It was going to be from shock.
In Chemistry, there was a hand drawn arrow underneath my final message from the day before. It pointed down, to the end of the desk. As if something was under there. My eyes went wide. Was there something under the desk? I looked on the floor but my high-topped red sneakers were the only things there.
What if …
While keeping an eye on Mr. Ortega, I ran my hand along the bottom of the desk, disgusted when it met a lump of what I assumed was chewed up-gum. Gross.
Still, I let my pencil roll off my desk and land on the ground. I used my sneaker to slide the pencil back toward me then ducked down to retrieve it. While leaning down, I craned my neck around. Sure enough, wedged under the strip of metal that ran between the desk legs was a piece of paper folded into fourths. I quickly grabbed my pencil and the paper then sat back up, the blood rushing back down my face.
As quietly as possible, I unfolded the paper and smoothed it flat. It was as if this was the most normal thing in the world, like this person and I exchanged notes all the time.
So, did you listen to The Crooked Brookes? What did you think? Maybe it was too dark for you. It is kind of a depressing band. But I thought if you liked Blackout you might like them. Sometimes listening to depressing songs makes me feel like my life isn’t so bad. Reverse psychology or something. Ha. Well, hopefully this note distracted you for at least one minute. Writing back will take another couple. Then you’ll only have … an eternity to sit through. Sorry.
I laughed quietly. So my pen pal liked Blackout and hated Chemistry. We were kindred spirits. I turned the paper over, trying to decide what to write back. This would be my third message to her, I realized.
I’d started a cute tradition with a total stranger completely unknowingly. It felt a little like cheating. No, this wasn’t cheating. I’d already told Isabel about it. And this wasn’t even a real friendship. It was a distraction. Besides, Isabel had other friends. I could have an anonymous pen pal. Anonymous friends were perfect for me.
I haven’t had a chance to listen to The Crooked Brookes. Life at home is a bit … chaotic. I will the first chance I get. I’m all for music that makes my life seem better. And you’re right, Blackout is depressing, but they’re not only depressing. Track 8 on their Blue album, for example. I’ve never felt more alive than when listening to that song. It makes me feel like I’m flying. Soaring above my life and looking down on it. Being above it for a while makes it easier to live when I’m back in the middle of it, if that makes any sense at all. Anyway, I better get back to the mind-numbing boredom.
For a moment I couldn’t believe I had written that to a total stranger. I even considered not folding the paper back up and putting it under the desk. But two things made me do it. One: When talking about music, I always found myself opening up more than I might have otherwise. People who appreciated music like I did seemed to understand that. I sensed my pen pal would. Two, anonymity was freeing. I could say a lot when I didn’t have to sign my name at the end. And I didn’t.
I stuffed the note back into place under the desk and got to work on a few Chemistry notes that I was still required to show Mr. Ortega at the end of each period.
I must’ve still felt a little guilty about the letter exchange because at lunch, I blurted out to Isabel, “She wrote me a letter.”
Isabel, known for her drastic subject changes, didn’t follow mine. “What?”
We were walking back from the food trucks with our burritos and sodas. Isabel loved getting “fake Mexican food,” as she called it, even though her dad made the best real Mexican food on earth. Maybe it was her form of teenage rebellion.
“Remember I told you about writing back and forth with that girl in Chemistry?” I began as we started toward the outdoor student commons. “The one who likes the same band as me?”
“Yes,” Isabel said. “I thought it was a guy.”