Dear Tara,

Woah! Seriously . . . woah! There is so much here to discuss, but let me try to help you make sense of some things.

I was not sent here from another planet to destroy you. I know you’re joking about that (at least I’m hoping you are . . . sorry for using your parentheses), but no, I wasn’t sent to South High to hurt you in any way.

I’m not transferring schools. So you can stop asking me to do that. Again, hoping you’re joking about that, but I’ve gotta tell you I can’t really detect when you’re kidding and when you’re not. You didn’t say j to the k, so . . .

I am so confused about you and Chris. Last thing I knew you asked me to call you when his friend in the Pinto was at his house. I did that. I called you. You thanked me because you wanted to surprise them. I thought that was so nice of you, to surprise him. Then you told me you had stuff to share with me and that you would do that at Camel Lot, but you canceled that plan and have been angry ever since.

Don’t think I don’t see you giving me the finger in the hallways. I see it. And I also see you mocking the way I blow my hair out of my face.

And the whole Keanu thing . . . I’m my own person, Tara, and I like me. I’m not trying to be Keanu. It’s not my fault I am Hungarian and Russian, which is why I sort of have Asian eyes. Believe me, I got made fun of for my eyes a lot when I was a kid. People said I was adopted and that I should go back to China. I cried about that a lot. But my mom and dad always told me I was a beautiful boy with beautiful eyes, and my brother always beat the crap out of the kids who made fun of me. One time David had a broken thumb and he had this metal cast kind of thing on it, a splint or something. Some dumb, mean kid was making fun of me, and David grabbed the kid and shoved the metal splint into his neck. The kid never said another word to me.

Anyway. No, I’m not this conceited guy you’re trying to make me out to be. I have long hair and sometimes it gets in my face and so I blow it out of my face. You really don’t need to mock that. That’s mean, and I know deep down you’re better than that. And if you’re not, let me know, because I don’t like mean people. Like one of the buttons on Stacey’s jean jacket says . . . “Mean People Suck.”

And about Stacey. I didn’t plan on my relationship with her. I never even knew her. I had heard about her, but it seems everyone in this school knows about her. But I never thought, “Huh, I should meet Stacey Simon.” I was never like, “Hmmm, how can I be calculating and meet Stacey Simon.” The way you’re viewing this makes it seem like I stole her jean jacket only to pretend to find it just so I could meet her. Didn’t happen that way, Tara. I found something that wasn’t mine, and I did what any decent person would do. I brought it to the school office. Lost and found. She lost it. I found it. That’s the story and that’s the truth.

And Stacey almost never ever talks about other people, but she did say that both you and I were great in Grease and that she’s happy you guys are friends. That’s it. She’s said that one thing, and she has never said a bad word about you or anyone. Not even Justin.

No, we’re not sleeping together. And no, we are not boyfriend/girlfriend. Stacey and I aren’t dating. We’re not hooking up. We are friends. Really good friends. And it’s a friendship that means a lot to me and to her. And guess what: It is sacred!

Not sure why you and your best friend Stef are in a bad place, but that has nothing to do with me, Tara. Nothing!

I go to school here. I do my best to do well in my classes. I suck at math, but I might be getting a tutor even though I’m begging my parents to just talk to the principal so I can get out of math. I am practicing my new audition songs for the Spring Musical. Auditions are first week of March. I heard a rumor that it’s going to be West Side Story, which would be unbelievable. Anyway . . . I hope you have a safe flight to Nashville. I hope you win everything you want to win. I hope I’ve answered some of your questions. And I hope this drama can stop. It’s 1992, Tara.

All my best.

Sincerely,

Matt Bloom