June 1999

Caitlin

AFTER HE SENT THE LETTER on the ice-cream wrapper, Martin started to open up to me in a way that made me realize how different our lives were. Until that moment, I did not understand how truly privileged I was. And that was only the beginning. In the next letter, Martin wrote that the money I sent got him back into school, and fed his entire family a dinner he described as a feast. He said, We ate chicken for the first time in many years. It felt like Christmas. I was stunned. We always had roast beef or turkey and ham for Christmas. In fact, there was such an abundance of food, we’d have leftovers for days. Chicken was a regular weekday night meal. If twenty dollars could do so much, I wondered, what could forty do?

I was working as a camp counselor that summer, and my dad gave me twenty dollars a week for chores I did around the house. They included picking up dog poop in the backyard—and cleaning Louis’s cage. I also had to dust the living room baseboards and empty the dishwasher. I had also started babysitting every Wednesday afternoon for the woman who ran the summer day camp. She had three kids. From then on, whenever she asked me to work on weekends, I said yes.

I slipped two twenty-dollar bills in my next letter, and asked him to use some of it on postage. I had never worried about the price of stamps—I just handed my mom the letters I’d written and knew she’d take care of it. I didn’t want Martin to worry about the cost of school, let alone buying stamps to write to me. It felt good sending him money to help with these things. He was the first person I had ever known who really needed my help. I wasn’t going to let him down. Besides, I got to go to school for free and my parents kept our refrigerator full. I certainly didn’t need another piece of costume jewelry, or a candy-flavored lip gloss, or a new CD at the mall.

I couldn’t share any of these thoughts with my friends, though. They didn’t, or couldn’t, understand. I learned this the day after I got the ice-cream wrapper note. I found Lauren and a few other friends hanging in front of our lockers before homeroom and blurted, “Guess what? Martin is alive!”

Lauren did an exaggerated eye roll before saying, “Jesus, Caitlin, enough about you and your African boyfriend!” All the other girls giggled.

“God, Lauren, how many times have I told you: He’s not my boyfriend,” I said. My blood felt like boiling lava coursing throughout my body.

“Yeah, right,” Lauren said to more laughter. “It’s so obvious you’re in love with him! Why don’t you just fly to Zim-wherever he lives to marry him and get it over with?”

“That’s gross!” I spat.

But Lauren had already started walking to her next class, gossiping with two other girls who followed her like panting puppy dogs, leaving me smoldering. One girl, Tina, stayed by my side.

“Why are you so offended?” she asked tentatively, trying to be nice.

“That’s like telling me to go marry my own brother!” I said.

Tina looked at me like I was crazy, and then ran to catch up with Lauren and the others. Screw them, I thought as I threw my book bag in my locker. Nobody would ever understand my relationship with Martin, except for Martin. So I kept it to myself. It was easy to do. Martin had started sharing what his life was really like with me—which made all my friends’ high dramas seem trivial. Strict parents, bad grades, or stupid boyfriends—my friends’ complaints seemed so unimportant and meaningless compared to what Martin was experiencing. Mine did, too. I started to look at my own life in a new way. I saw all the things I took for granted—which cereal to eat for breakfast, or whether or not I wanted ice cream or cookies for dessert. These decisions were total luxuries. I got to choose. Even going to school felt different—not so much this thing I had to do, something I was lucky to get to do.

For almost two years now, I’d been so naïve. I had assumed that Martin’s life was like mine. I stopped writing to him about going to the mall with my friends or about my dumb friend dramas and instead started pushing him for more details: I’d ask outright, What do you need? What does your family need? I also wrote, I’m so glad you’re back into school, but what about your siblings?

In my early correspondence, I was timid about asking such forthright questions because I didn’t want him to think I was stupid for not already knowing. Now I saw that it was my responsibility, as his friend—because his answers would help me make sure that he was going to be okay, no matter what.