I look out the window and see doom on wheels.
The giant beige town car turns into our driveway. It means boredom. It means that Dad didn’t think of any other options for the summer.
“Hello!” Gramps shouts. He is first to catch me as I walk to the kitchen. He squeezes my shoulder. I was hoping I could sneak a quick snack, hide in my room, and open my iPod.
My grandmother hugs me.
“Would you like some lemonade?” she wants to know. “I brought some with me.”
My dad pats my back.
Squeeze. Hug. Pat.
The same thing every time I see them together. At least they can’t see I’ve been crying. Or they don’t notice.
“How was the last day of school?” Gramps asks.
“Did you learn anything new today?” Grandma asks.
My skin is electric with irritation. Can’t I get a minute alone? I don’t want Lisa to go to camp. I wish I didn’t have a stupid Labrador wishing me a doggone happy birthday, asking me about my “new” self. And I can’t stand the idea of going to Houston, where fun goes to die. I am a mix of angry and sad. No investigator could handle all the questions bubbling up, no matter how smart he is.
“Be right back,” I say.
No, I won’t. I’m going to be gone until you make me come out.
Maybe this is another sign of going crazy, but I do my best writing in my closet, which is where I go to write another letter.
Dear Atticus,
Here I am, writing to you again. Don’t ask me why, but I just felt like I needed to. Also, I have this new iPod (you don’t know what that is, but trust me, it’s cool) and three new composition books, and I feel like I should fill them up. I wasn’t sure how to begin this letter. I thought of writing Dear Mr. Finch, out of respect. I know your own kids called you by your first name instead of calling you Dad or Father. I wondered about this the first time I read the book in which you appear. My dad (Tom Nelson) told me it was because you were trying to teach Scout and Jem how to respect elders. I suppose that might have been true in your time, but I know a girl in my class who calls her mother Lori when she won’t answer to Mom. We have discovered that this gets an adult’s attention if they are ignoring you and talking on the phone. This is how she says it. “Excuse me, Loreeee.” I don’t think that’s how your kids mean it when they call you Atticus. You seem to pay attention to them. Plus, it seems that Harper Lee, the author, liked to name the pets in her story with full names. I know because I circled them in my paperback. There’s that mad dog named Tim Johnson and the cat named Rose Aylmer and the sheriff’s dog, Ann Taylor. I never thought to give a pet two names. Maybe in Alabama this is how things are done.
As you know, my English teacher, Mr. Wistler, told our class to write to our favorite character. You are mine. I have others who I considered, like Boo Radley. But for many reasons, people who read this letter might roll their eyes and say, “I knew that girl would write to the oddest character and not someone normal.” So I will keep my questions for Boo to myself. Also, I thought a long time about writing to Scout. That is true. The thing is, I would like to be Scout, because she is tough sometimes but can still be like a girl. Sometimes I think about the things she might do and wonder if I would make the same choices. But I realized that if I wrote to Scout, all my words would add up to this: Atticus, I wish you were my father. You are the only one I could picture reading my letter and not laughing at me. I imagine you sitting on your porch, holding this paper, and reading the whole letter before you even respond. Is that strange? Maybe it is, but I’d be lying if I said I’d never had an imaginary conversation before. I am twelve years old, just so you know.
If you could really talk back to me, I would like to ask, is it hard to be a parent without a wife? For you, it doesn’t seem too hard, maybe because by the time your story is told, your kids are school-age and you have a nice maid, Calpurnia. I love that name. If I ever have a cat, I will name her Calpurnia. Maybe Finch as her last name. Calpurnia Finch.
I would also like to know how it is you turned out so well with good manners. How did you come to be so patient and kind? What I think I like best about you is that you would be the same most every day if you were my father. If you said you were going to bring spaghetti home for dinner, you would. If you said you were going to teach me how to play a card game, you would explain the rules in a soft, even voice. And I’m sure you would think it would be all right for me to stay home during the summertime while you are at work. How did you get to be so reliable? Was it from your own parents? You see, if you get to know me, you will realize that I think about this kind of thing a lot. I wonder, for example, how much of my mother is inside me and how much is my father. So do you think you are more like one than the other? If you say yes, there is hope for me. I will save that story for another letter. As many people like to say, that would be TMI, or too much information.
Sincerely,
Sarah Nelson