Dear Kurl,
You weren’t at school today, which of course meant there was no letter from you in Ms. Khang’s box, either. Maybe you were doing a roof, but it was raining this morning, so it seems unlikely. I’m a little worried you might be sick or something, because of what happened on Saturday.
I went down to Cherry Valley Saturday morning to make another, more serious bicycle recovery attempt, but the water level had risen and Nelly had sunk even deeper under the rotting leaves and silt at the creek bottom. Even if I’d had the courage to strip down and plunge in, I doubt I’d be strong enough to lift the bike out.
From that discouraging venture I joined Bron at an SAT information session at the community center, which was about as entertaining as it sounds, and then we ate pho and watched American Sniper at the Riverview. My objective was simply to stay away from the house while it filled up with Decent Fellows, since their regular rehearsal space wasn’t available.
We got home around 9 p.m., and Lyle mentioned that you had dropped by, Kurl. You were on a run, you’d told him, and had found yourself nearby. He said you hung around to listen to a couple of songs but wouldn’t even sit down. He said you seemed keyed up: “Twitchy, or spooked or something.”
He asked you if you’d be into smoking a bowl, and when you said no thanks, he packed the bong anyhow and smoked a bit himself, just in case you changed your mind, which eventually, he said, you did.
“Did it help?” I asked.
“Of course it helped, Jojo,” he said. “It always helps.”
My father is something of an evangelist when it comes to this particular drug (which, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, he and the other Decent Fellows all refer to as green). He adores the fact that it’s being legalized in a number of states and can’t stand how long it’s taking in Minnesota.
Of course, by the time you retrieve this letter from Ms. Khang’s box, you’ll be back at school, meaning you’ll have recovered from whatever was, or still is, ailing you—but I have to admit it’s unsettling not knowing, as I write this, whether you’re okay. Will I hear from you tomorrow, or the next day, or the next? This is one of those occasions when a simple phone call would be infinitely more reassuring.
Yours truly,
Jo