CHANGE 2–DAY 6

Mom and Dad somehow talked me into going to see a movie with them this afternoon, some optimistically lit, schmaltzy thing about rich white people with gigantic, rich white-people kitchens (which are, incidentally, also always white) getting a second chance at life and love and other invented first-world problems. I was, shocker, the only young person, not to mention the only black person, in the audience, which of course Mom wanted to “process” with me on the ride home. The whole conversation was wearying, and I found myself already getting tired of white-people guilt a mere week into my new identity. Like, is it my job to make you feel better about feeling bad? I’m not a shame mirror.

When we got home, I fled to the sanctuary of my room and opened up my laptop. No e-mails. So I logged onto my secret account, where one message popped up, subject line reading, So . . .

I was afraid to click on it and read, but knew I could never resist:

 

Drew,

Thanks for writing. I’m sorry for what happened with your family. That sounds bonkers. And awful. Which I get. Lord knows my family can be both of those things too. I mean, my brother? Yuck. But OMFG your problems seem beyond. Leaving town like fugitives? Are you going to get arrested? Or end up in jail? Makes all that crap we stressed over last year seem fairly stupid, right? I’d heard that you ended up at some hippie boarding school and were abandoning everyone from your old life in favor of a spiritual rebirth or something. That’s what they’re saying around Central anyhow.

I want to tell you about my summer but it hardly seems worth going into given the circumstances. Let’s just say, camp was creepy. I survived. Not everyone was terrible. There were marshmallow roasts every night. So that was cool. But some of the counselors were so into the mission they seemed possessed. Like those girls in the old Beatles footage where they scream and shake and shred their clothes. Epic hysteria. That, I didn’t love. But I’m home now and it all seems funny in retrospect. I guess.

What else? It was nice to “read” your voice. I don’t hate you. I never could. You are my best friend. I DO hate that you’ve left me on my own this year to do battle with Chloe and her moronic minions. Now I have to deal with her at church and school by myself. Stellar.

I . . . This is hard. I feel like I sound fake. I don’t know how to talk with you without talking with you. In my head the words are pouring out, all messy and jumbled like a swarm of bees. But when I type, all that comes out is this dopey stuff. Like I’m talking to an aunt I haven’t seen in five years. There’s too much to say. So why say anything, you know?

I just reread your letter.

Do you really love me? I wonder. Not about you. But about why.

Write me again, okay? I feel so alone. I’m not trying to make you worry, especially since you are now on the lam (lamb? Whatever. I’m picturing you in a bonnet, riding a wooly little lamb. Joking is still okay, right?). But I do feel like that polar bear floating on the iceberg. Remember that poster? The one in the Bio lab that almost made me cry every time I caught a glimpse of it.

I’m sorry. This is turning into a bummer letter. I just miss you. I miss us. I miss the me I was with you around. Does that make sense?

Okay. I’m going to stop now. Before I become so pathetic you wonder why you ever liked me in the first place.

Write me again. Okay? I want you to. Even if it sounds like I don’t.

 

Love,

Aud

 

P.S. Oh yeah. I cut off my hair. I wonder if you’d think it looks pretty.