Dear Kurl,
In English this afternoon, for the first time since the start of term except when you hurt your back that time, there was no letter waiting for me from you. I hadn’t realized you’d never missed a single letter before this, until Ms. Khang crouched beside my desk and asked me if I thought you were okay.
“Adam seemed pretty tuned out in class this morning,” she said. “Stared out the window and just shook his head when I tried to speak to him. Given the bruising on his face, I was worried.”
Oh, Kurl, if this is a case of me having written too much, then I gladly, enthusiastically, wholeheartedly take it back. Burn my letter about the other night. Let’s agree that I never wrote it. Let’s agree that I never told you anything, that you don’t remember anything, that there isn’t anything. Honestly, you know me well enough by now to know how I can exaggerate. You know I can make drama from dryer lint.
Just, please, write me back. Write anything, I don’t mind—write fake letters, write grocery lists, write Blah blah blah, over and over, to fill the page. Write Little Jerkoff Little Jerkoff Little Jerkoff.
Just, please, don’t fail English class on my account. I couldn’t handle being responsible for that.
Yours truly,
Jo