SAM
I only just managed to shove the letter into the drawer when they came into my room. Not that they would understand it, but they’d see it was in English and they’d guess who I was writing to.
I take it out again. This time I put a book nearby in case I need to cover it up suddenly. I read it back to myself.
Dear Mom,
I love you. I miss you so much, it hurts me inside. Your the best mom in the world and Daddys the best dad. I dont care what anyone else says. They dont understand. Pretend Mom and Dad are weirrd. I call him Beard Man cause he’s got this real bad wirry beard. You and Daddy are my real parents and I’m gonna find a way to come home. So dont worry. I wish wed gotten to Mexico. I hate it here. I love you.
I concentrate hard on my writing, careful not to lift the pen off the paper except between words. I wonder what else to tell her. I don’t have a plan yet, but I want her to know I’m going to try.
The door clicks open. My heart jumps up into my throat. Quickly I hide the letter under the book and open it, pretending to read.
Beard Man comes right up to the desk. “Ça va, Samuel?” He leans right over my shoulder. “Qu’est-ce que tu lis?”
I know he wants to know what I’m reading. “Tintin.”
“Laisse-moi le lire pour toi.” He reaches out to take the book. But I’m quicker than him and push my elbows on it, keeping the letter safe.
I point up at the shelf above the desk. “That one,” I say.
He takes down a book. “Les Trois Mousquetaires, bien, très bien!”
It’s The Three Musketeers! Daddy’s favorite book.
Beard Man opens it and begins to read.
I leave Tintin open on the desk, the letter hiding underneath, and pretend to listen, but really I’m thinking about what else I can put in my letter, imagining Mom’s face when I turn up at home.
I realize Beard Man has stopped reading and is staring at me. There’s a frown deepening on his forehead, as though he’s trying to work something out. Then he says, “Samuel, je sais que c’est difficile pour toi, même très difficile. Mais on t’aime et on va faire tout pour que ça marche.”
He means it’s difficult for me, but that we have to walk forward. I’m pretty sure that’s what he said, anyway.
Oh no! He’s coming back to the desk. I can tell he’s going to pick Tintin up, and then he’ll see the letter. Quickly I slip it out from under the book, letting it fall on the floor. I cover it with my foot.
“Essayons Tintin maintenant. C’est plus amusant.”
I knew it! Thank goodness I got rid of the letter.
Taking the book from the desk, he begins to read again, putting on special voices for the different characters. He’s loud and boyish for Tintin, then mean and sneaky for the bad guys. But he does the dog best of all. It almost makes me laugh. As his voice booms out, he moves around the room, throwing his arms around, acting out some of the parts. I stare at him. He’s really good at the voices. I know he does it to make me smile, and I nearly do. He’s trying to be funny and nice, but it doesn’t change anything. I don’t want him to be my dad. I never will.