‹FEBRUARY›
Sent: Sunday, February 2 1:35PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: Cliffside School for the Performing Arts
Dear Rob,
Tell you what. If you keep on COOPERATING, I’ll write ahead and reserve tickets for two on the ferry. Deal?
Okay . . . so, here it is: SARA’S TAKE ON THE NEW SCHOOL.
To start with, it shouldn’t have surprised me that kids who go to a performing arts school are (duh!) performers. But I never dreamed they’d be performing nonstop, that they’d be so “on” all the time. Believe me, it’s the first thing you notice here. Everyone lives at center stage, regardless of looks or talent.
Sometimes it feels like you’re in the middle of one big audition. Walking down the hall, you hear voice warm-ups, someone wailing on a sax, piano music—Schumann to Gershwin. Even conversation is oh-so-dramatic. Seems that no one ever relaxes into being “just a student.”
So what am I doing at a place like this? Beats me! I don’t dance, sing pop, play an instrument, or act. But Aunt Ginny found a loophole—my writing. A patient of hers who teaches at Cliffside mentioned that they were desperate for yearbook staff (the school being only three years old). They needed someone who could organize, crack the whip, and write the schlock. Enter Sara.
In some ways, it’s exciting. I love it that classes are small and that schoolwork is easy. In warmer weather, I hear, classes move outside. Can’t wait for that, since the school’s setting is a huge natural amphitheater (see brochure). It’s true. We’re surrounded by towering Navajo Sandstone cliffs. No sports other than fencing and riding.
School lets out at 2:30. Early release works for rehearsals and kids who have jobs. I signed up for study hall alternating with yearbook last period of the day. That’s where I got to know Joel, my only friend to date.
The school is kept small—150 to 200 students. It’s a treat, I admit, coming from a school of 1800, to feel like I might have a voice in things. If only everyone wasn’t so posey and dramatic!
I hope you won’t mind if I forward parts of this Cliffside stuff to Angie. I can’t go through writing it all again. She’s doing better, by the way, and says she’ll be finished with her last batch of chemo well before Easter. (She also wrote that she thinks she has a boyfriend. I’m not sure what that means.)
If you haven’t fallen asleep reading about my new school and you haven’t jeopardized our one-and-only connection, write and tell me what’s happening with that resources specialist. I also need continuing updates on Shannon, Masoud, Crazy Chris, and the girl with the purple hair.
—Sara
Sent: Monday, February 3 4:04PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: Updates
Sara—Reading about your school, I had a great idea. An exchange program. We send you a drooler, a homefry, and a skinhead; you send us a sax player and an actor. (No, make that a dancer. We have too many actors here already.)
Cliffside sounds pretty good, even with the always-onstage types. (We have them here, too.) The red cliffs, classes outdoors, and school over at 2:30—I’d trade you any day.
In fact, right now I might trade with somebody in juvenile hall. Just to get away from “Call me Barb.” Yes, Sara, I’m cooperating—fake smiles, the whole bit. But it’s tough, especially when she tells me to let my heart speak.
Updates: Crazy Chris has shaved his head and joined a skinhead group called the Demons. Masoud is learning lots of English. The girls think he’s cute, and they’re always helping him. Carmen (purple hair) dyed her hair jet-black and is now carrying a Bible. Shannon’s up and down. The aliens kind of tiptoe around her, never knowing what to expect.
And me? I’m sitting here with a stupid smile on my face, thinking about the Seattle ferry.
—Rob (Mr. Cooperation)
Sent: Tuesday, February 4 8:10PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: More updating
Dear Mr. Cooperation,
The exchange proposal left me howling. And you’re right, as usual. I do have a pretty ideal school situation here. I wish you had half as much freedom. I end up with hours and hours to think about ferry rides and all that good stuff. I am lucky.
But I haven’t been so lucky in making friends. Have I mentioned Joel, who has yearbook/journalism with me? My list starts and stops with him. We began sitting together on the bus (mornings only) when it was obvious we were the “Lone Rangers.” Mostly we bitch about school, but he also talks about his job at the pancake house—the IHOP. (Little does he know that job-hungry Sara is taking mental notes on everything he says.)
Joel lives on a small ranch out in the country, so is the first one on the bus every morning. His specialty is mime. I’ve only seen him perform in whiteface once, but he’s very good. He said he’d teach me the basics, but I don’t know when he’d find time. Weekends he works either at the IHOP or hauling cattle feed for his dad. (Can you imagine a stranger combination— the ranch kid doing mime?)
I like the two girls I met at Xetava, the coffee shop out here, but they’re totally wrapped up in each other. McKenzi calls me a lot, but isn’t someone I relate to. Her big thing (finger down throat) is makeup. Mention lip gloss or mascara and you get a shopping channel testimonial.
I’ve been thinking more about Shannon, about her weird behavior. How could someone so smart and funny end up so . . . kind of twisted? Have you figured it out? Maybe she’s just “letting her heart speak.” Like teacher says she’s supposed to.
Okay, so how about this kind of trade? I’ll send you a marimba player and you come and write yearbook copy with me. After school, we could walk all over this desert looking for coyote tracks and desert tortoise trails. (I love it that you like to walk so much. Did I ever tell you that? Walking is the best way I know to get important thinking done. I’ve been doing a lot of it lately.)
Say, has anyone ever walked between Pine Creek Academy and southern Utah for the pure heck of it? We could be the first.
—Sara
Sent: Wednesday, February 5 3:38PM
From: Mlee1830@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: FYI
I don’t know if Alex/Rob has written to you, but I know you must be concerned about him. He is doing very well. The wound on his arm has almost healed, and with his new medication, he seems more relaxed than before.
He has rejoined our learning group and is making an effort to work with our new resources specialist. This is a challenge, as her teaching approach, emphasizing discussion and spontaneous writing, is not suited to his personality.
I think they can learn to work together. Although she finds him difficult, she recognizes his ability. She was very impressed with his latest piece, a horror story about a girl submerged in a car. She thinks he should try to publish it.
By now, Alex may have told you most of this. I hope so. Either way, since I was the one who gave you the bad news, I wanted to share the good news with you.
—Shannon Walker
Sent: Thursday, February 6 4:02PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: Thursday
Hi, Sara. Straight talk, okay? That’s what we promised for the new year. I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a jerk, but here goes. I’m glad you found a friend, somebody to sit with on the bus, etc. I just wish your friend’s name was Josephine or JoAnn, not Joel. (Yeah, I’m jealous. Can’t help it.)
Tough times right now. “Call me Barb” is always on my case. The good news is that she thinks I am “a talented young man” with “incredible potential.” (Are you impressed?) The bad news is that she thinks I need to set myself free—whatever that means. And she’s trying to help me do it by making me talk. (“How do you feel about that?” “All of your friends would love to hear what you wrote.”) Sometimes I want to scream, “LEAVE ME ALONE!” But I don’t. I just pull back the corners of my mouth and grind my teeth. Tah-dah—Mr. Cooperation.
Walk to southern Utah? Hey, that’d be one way to set myself free. (Probably not what Barb has in mind.)
Sent: Friday, February 7 5:38PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: TGIF!
Dear Rob,
This “straight talk” is amazing, isn’t it? Your one little ol’ word, jealous, left me grinning big. If I knew how to be coy, I might make the most of what you’re admitting. But the truth? I’m mostly interested in Joel’s job. He probably wonders why I ply him with questions all the time and why I showed up for breakfast last Saturday at the IHOP. Not to worry. Joel has studly good looks, but we’re just buds. It’s cool, though, that we can talk like old friends.
Last night after school I missed the bus and had to walk the five-some miles home. I was really bummed until I spotted an endangered desert tortoise crossing under the road, using one of the little tunnels built for their protection. I may be one in a million who actually looked for and witnessed turtle traffic.
Have to rush. Ginny and I are going to dinner and a movie. Soon as she gets home.
I wish you hadn’t lost your old teacher, Rob. What a pain! But this “Barb” must be pretty smart if she recognizes your talent. So keep on cooperating. Even if it kills you.
—Sara
Sent: Sunday, February 9 4:04PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: Waiting
Hi, Sara. Lousy times right now. I don’t know what’s coming. Here’s the story.
This time I got in trouble almost by accident. (I know— that sounds like Chris the whiner talking.) On Friday our learning group was doing fast-writing exercises—ten minutes without stopping. The writing was supposed to be private, but Ms. F kept wanting people (mostly me) to volunteer to read theirs aloud. I just fake-smiled and said mine was too personal.
Then she told us to write about the color blue. I muttered, “I can’t think of anything to write.” Right away Shannon banged down her pen and said, “I can’t either.” Then everybody else banged down their pens. “Pick up your pens!” Ms. F shouted. We did. “Start writing!” Most of us just sat there. She wrote us up for “outright defiance” and named me as the ring-leader.
Dr. Feelgood is in New York right now, so we have to wait until Tuesday for our punishment. I don’t know what to expect. I may be finished here. So I’d better tell you Happy Valentine’s Day now. Happy St. Patrick’s Day, too.
But you have to believe this, Sara. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I don’t know when, but I’ll be back.
—Rob
Sent: Sunday, February 9 8:40PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: Not again!
Rob, I feel terrible. Right now, Emails R Us. Talking back and forth . . . it’s all we have.
Okay, so a few days without won’t hurt us, but maybe your writing group’s “rebellion” will. My sage advice? See Rashomon again and give the new teacher another chance. I know, things must have seemed insufferable to you, but teachers are allowed to have peculiarities, too. Maybe she’s never had a class like yours. Maybe she’s intimidated big-time. Maybe she’s as scared of you kids as you are sick of her.
If you can’t make it past Ms. Fortner’s little experiments, how will you get through another year and onto that Seattle ferry? Come on, Rob!
A promise to go on: a kinder, gentler email in a few days when I’ve calmed down.
—Sara the Scold
Sent: Monday, February 10 7:04PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: Featuring Sara
Dear Rob,
How many days incommunicado? The verdict comes tomorrow, right? This may be a miserably long week. Remember the game “Pile On” that we used to play as kids? That’s how I’m thinking of your plight—with you at the bottom of the heap, unable to breathe.
I’m home alone, rare for a Monday. Ginny is off to a dental hygienists’ seminar in Vegas. She’ll crack them up with her stories about the OPMs, overprotective moms who won’t let their kids come into the examination room alone.
I mainly wanted to tell you about the cool talk Ginny and I had after the movie. She took me to this funky little place for lemon frozen custard (reminds her of her high school hang-out—red Naugahyde booths straight out of American Bandstand ).
After the custard, I got up my nerve and told her I wanted to look for a job. I told her I wanted to earn money—for a car when Mom claims hers and just for the experience. The clincher, I think, was letting her know how serious I was. Her first reaction was to ask if I’d like to work at home for her— doing billing and accounts. I didn’t say “No thanks,” but she could see it in my face.
There was a long, miserable pause after that, and my heart sank. When she finally looked up, she said if I thought I was old enough and reliable enough, it was okay with her. She went on to say that having to cope with new situations had left me with “an impressive maturity.” (Her exact words!)
“Your mom may kill me,” she added, “but, hey, with two of us working, we can hire a cook.”
Now, your turn to tell me everything. I hope Dr. Feelgood will be in a good mood when you see him.
—Lonesome Sara
Sent: Wednesday, February 12 4:04PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: 1 story & 2 answers to 2 notes
Story: Tuesday afternoon. Dead quiet in the room. Ms. Fortner is checking papers and giving me rotten looks. Shannon hands me a note: GET CREATIVE. WRITE HER A BIG SUCK-UP APOLOGY. I almost laugh. Me? Apologize? No way. But then I catch myself. The old Stubborn-and-Stupid Disorder again—and look where it’s gotten me so far.
So I spend about an hour writing a little short note and hand it to Ms. F. She reads it and gives me this superior smile. But she’s not letting me off that easy. She wants me to crawl a little. She says, “Would you like to read this to the group?” The old S&S Disorder almost kicks in, but I fight it off and read the stupid note. Ms. F lets me read half of it, then says, “Louder,” and has me start over. When I finish, Shannon pipes up, “That goes for me, too, but I didn’t have the guts to write it.” Everybody else says, “Yeah.” “Call me Barb” smiles, and we don’t even go to Dr. Feelgood’s office.
Dear Sara the Scold,
Internet sessions were canceled on Monday, so I got your chewing-out note after this happened. Now aren’t you sorry?
To the Sara who wrote the second note—
Looking for a job. Great. (I’m jealous.) Good idea not to work for your aunt. Wouldn’t be a real job that way.
Happy Valentine’s Day to both of you Saras! Why don’t the three of us meet at Ginny’s frozen yogurt place?
—Rob
Sent: Friday, February 14 7:08AM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: Welcome back!
A box of chocolates couldn’t be sweeter: Rob’s back online, and he’s not too mad at me. So Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too, and a big bag of smilies.
I’m sorry that Sara the Scold came out while you were “away.” She’s actually Sara the Scared in disguise. I was so afraid we’d never get to meet if things went on as they were. I knew you were trying—all that stiff smiling. But how awful to be humiliated—made to read your apology aloud. That Fortner is a real sicko! I hope nothing else happens.
I do know that life at Camp Feelbad can get really complicated. I also know deep down that you’re a good person. So hang with me when I turn snarly and forget what I honestly know.
The ’50s place Ginny took me? Perfect! I’ll save up my nickels for the jukebox. It lets loose with a cascade of bubbles when you make a selection. Ginny and I played “Sixteen Candles” three times and drove the other people crazy.
—Gotta run to catch the bus. S.
Sent: Friday, February 14 4:05PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: A valentine poem
I wanted to send you a poem for Valentine’s Day, but I couldn’t get anything finished. So you’ll have to settle for a Gabe-type job.
A valentine secret
That I’ve never told:
I like all the Saras,
Even Sara the Scold.
—Rob
Sent: Friday, February 14 6:36PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: My perfect day
A poem for ol’ Sara the Scold, of all things. She doesn’t deserve it. Thank you, thank you, from all of us Saras!
Guess what? I’m interviewing in the morning. The message was on the machine after school. Didn’t dream things would move so fast. Right now I’m going through my closet for something—anything!—that will make me look like a good hire prospect. Yes, don’t worry, my hair has grown out to a bouncy length and my teeth are gleaming (Ginny’s whitening systems).
Hey, I too have a secret. I know about this totally uninhabited Pacific island. Do you like beaches?
—Sara
Sent: Saturday, February 15 3:38PM
From: Mlee1830@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: Alex
This is a difficult note to write. I am not a hysterical person, but I am very frightened.
Yesterday our resources specialist, Ms. Fortner, tried to get Alex to participate in our project, a series of collaborative poems. When he wouldn’t, she ridiculed him.
When she left the room to use the copy machine, Alex began to swear. This was surprising because he never swears. And he didn’t sound right. His voice was higher, and the words came out much faster than usual.
He stood up and headed for the door. He didn’t look right. He walked differently, and he looked different. He was bent over, and his eyes were half-closed. And he kept swearing. Then he said, “I’m going to kill her. First I’m going to cut out her tongue. Then I’ll cut off that nose.” Then he turned toward us and said, “And none of you can stop me.”
This is hard to explain. The person talking just wasn’t Alex. Everything was different—the words, the voice, the movements.
When he turned back to the door, he banged into a desk. And everything changed. He was Alex again. He straightened up and looked around. He seemed kind of surprised and embarrassed. He walked back and slid into his chair. Later, when I asked if he felt all right, he didn’t seem to know what I was talking about.
As you can imagine, the whole group is worried. We’ve talked to the people in charge, but they think we’re exaggerating. So we still have Alex with us. I don’t know much about multiple personality disorder. That may not even be what he has. I just know there’s something inside Alex that is very frightening.
Obviously, I’m afraid of what might happen next. We are all being very careful. If I were you, I’d do the same. I’d change my e-mail address and try to forget the whole thing.
—Shannon
Sent: Saturday, February 15 4:05PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: That island
A totally uninhabited island? Let’s go. Now.
Sent: Saturday, February 15 5:01PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Angelann@tristate.net
Subj: Freaking out . . . again!
Forwarding Shannon’s latest. Should I tell Rob? (Oh, help!) Look for a phone call around nine tonight. Love you! S.
Sent: Sunday, February 16 8:44AM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: (No subject)
I’m packing, I’m packing! But I can’t go yet, I got the job. You can guess how it came about. Joel told me about an opening. So I rushed over and applied. I must have seemed “impressively mature” during the interview, because I am now a hostess-in-training at the local IHOP. Twenty hours a week. If I do okay, I’ll get to be a waitress—my goal. (All those tips, plus good experience for a college job.)
Much to do. I hope working and all the rest won’t eat up my Rob time.
—Sara
Sent: Sunday, February 16 4:05PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: Your job
Way to go, Sara! My latest fantasy: showing up for breakfast at IHOP and having Sara bring me a huge stack of pancakes. What are you going to do with all that money?
Weird time here. I could use some advice. I’ll try to write about it tonight.
Sent: Tuesday, February 18 4:03PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: Now what?
Sara, I’m in a mess. I feel really stupid about it. I should have seen it coming, I guess. But I didn’t. The whole thing was a complete surprise.
Last Tuesday Shannon asked me to help her. Said she needed somebody who could listen without making judgments. I wasn’t crazy about the idea. (People on drugs can go on and on and on.) But I owe her. I was really messed up when I first came here—living inside my head, not talking to anybody. She had me sit at her table and made people leave me alone.
So Tuesday night we sat on a bench outside the rec lounge, and she talked about her sad life. In detail. From fourth-grade sleepovers to vacations in Hawaii. Really depressing. The next night things were a little better. She was mellowing out, sounding more like the old Shannon.
But then on Valentine’s Day, right in the middle of a story, she stopped, looked over at me, and said, “I love you.”
I couldn’t believe it. This was old Shannon, my bud. I just sat there with my mouth hanging open. But once she got going, she wouldn’t stop. Said she’d loved me from the start. How could I not know it? Couldn’t I tell?
No, I couldn’t tell. It never crossed my mind. I tried to make a joke out of it: “Come on, Shannon. We’re buddies, remember? You can always find a lover. But you’ll never find another buddy like me. Don’t mess things up.”
That didn’t help at all. She says, “It’s because I’m fat, isn’t it?” I say she looks fine, but she’s sure I’d like her better if she looked different. And she keeps wanting to talk.
Typical stupid conversation:
Me: I just don’t feel that way.
S: Why not?
Me: I just don’t.
S: That’s no answer.
Now she’s all bummed out and high on pills. She keeps giving me these I’m-in-pain looks. I feel sorry for her, but I don’t know what else I can do.
That uninhabited island sounds better all the time.
—Rob
Sent: Tuesday, February 18 7:19PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: (No subject)
Before you start feeling sorry for “poor Shannon,” Rob, you’d better see the emails she’s sent me since Xmas. I’m forwarding them to you now, and you’ll instantly know why. My hope is that they’ll give you a more complete picture of Shannon and will help answer some questions.
She’s got to be hurting, I agree with that. And I’m sorry for any part I’ve had in making things worse. But I don’t know what to do. I’ve deliberately not answered her emails. But if you’re really Alex and there’s “something inside” you that is all that scary, now’s the time to let me know.
Obviously, I haven’t changed my address. Just as obviously, I’m not about to delete yours from my list.
—Sara
Sent: Thursday, February 20 4:04PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: A question of identity
Dear Sara:
Let me introduce myself. My name is James Martin. You have become a source of conflict in the lives of Shannon Walker and Rob Cruise. As is usual in these cases, it is my duty to intervene.
In an attempt to sever your connection with Rob Cruise, Shannon Walker approached the truth. She suggested that Rob Cruise was one of several personalities housed within a single mind. She failed to disclose the full truth: that she herself is another personality housed in that same mind. In short, Rob Cruise and Shannon Walker are two identities sharing a single body. Your involvement in these persons’ lives creates grave difficulties for me, as well as others. You see, Sara, I too share that body.
Nah! Come on, Sara. You didn’t believe any of that, did you? Or maybe you did. If you can swallow that suicide story, who knows what you might believe? Hey, I read the notes. I know that Shannon is a really good liar—all those sneaky little details. But multiple personalities, and me severing an artery? Sara, Sara, you’re smarter than that.
I dumped the notes in front of Shannon. She just smiled. “I did it for you,” she says. “I wanted to scare her off. It’s the best thing that could happen to you. You’ve been running away all your life. You’ll never get straight unless you start facing reality. The last thing in the world you need is some dippy fantasy girl you’ve never even seen.”
So that’s Shannon. She’s not a bit sorry, and she acts like I did something wrong. The worst of it is that I’m still in the learning group with her—all day, every day. I’ll make you a deal, Sara. Instead of a big apology, send me some good news. I need something good to think about right now.
—Not-That-Weird Rob
Sent: Saturday, February 22 9:22AM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: A reply to my esteemed e-person
Dear Mr. Cruise:
The next time you begin a correspondence with a fledgling poet, be more forthcoming. Right at the outset, say, “One of my personalities would like to email you.” Or, maybe, “All of the persons housed in this body like your poem. Write us back.”
Okay, as you request, I’ll spare you another apology. But I’m ready to duke it out with you over the remark: “You’re smarter than that.” Huh-uh! Being cautious (and sometimes frightened) in today’s world is being smart. Do you realize that if we girls don’t have built-in predator detectors by the time we’re ten, we’re lost?
Now, are you ready for the really frightening truth? You (and yours) are the one(s) being stalked. Shannon is the well-meaning person who tried to halt the stalking. Haven’t you wondered why I’ve tried to lure you out of the country . . . off the continent . . . to a remote island?
Ginny is yelling “Are you about ready?” from the other room. We’re going shopping so I won’t look like “a poster girl for the needy,” to quote my crazy aunt. I mean, I am a working woman now. Guess I need to look a bit more fetching.
More soon, if I haven’t been too serious a disappointment to you and James Martin, etc., etc., etc.
—Sara
Sent: Sunday, February 23 4:03PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: Stalking
Sara—
You have my permission to stalk me anytime.
Ugly times here. Shannon is getting weirder by the day. I’m staying as far away as I can, but it isn’t far enough.
—Rob
Sent: Monday, February 24 4:10PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: Speaking of Shannon . . .
Dear Rob,
I still feel bad about Shannon. I can see how she could be in love with you (no problem there), but for you to have someone that interested in you and not know it . . .
Truth is, I don’t have much experience in this area, although I’ve probably been what you call “in love” about 29 times. (No, 30, come to think of it.) Mostly, you end up getting hurt. My guess is that girls get hurt more than guys because they’re always in love. (Girls love guys and guys love cars.)
My best advice? Watch your back. Shannon’s feeling mortified and may decide to show it.
—Sara
Sent: Tuesday, February 25 4:04PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: (No subject)
Don’t worry. I’m watching my back, my front, and everything in between.
You still owe me good news. Tell me about your job, your school, your aunt, anything—except the thirty times you’ve been in love. (I’m not ready for that right now. In fact— straight talk—I may never be ready for that.)
—Rob
Sent: Wednesday, February 26 7:19PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: (No subject)
Rob, I’ve never ever been in love. Not really. Only crushes. (Didn’t 30 sound like a few too many?) All I can say is how sorry I am for this whole messy situation. I know you’d like to disappear every time you see Shannon. But remember, you didn’t do anything wrong. You were probably sort of dumb, not picking up on how she felt, but you were only trying to help.
Whatever happens . . . DON’T CRAWL OVER THE FENCE AND RUN! I’ll never get to see Searchlight if you do.
—Sara