Dear Little Jo,
I am writing this sitting outside Mr. Abdi’s office. Waiting on my so-called Decision on Disciplinary Action, otherwise known as sentencing. I’ve been here all afternoon waiting for the librarian to come by and give her report.
I’d really hoped not to see you at all this year, Adam, Mr. Abdi said, before putting me out here to wait. His whole face drooping with disappointment. I’ve been hearing such good things from Ms. Khang about your engagement with literature, your goals for the future. And now this.
Jo, you were the one who said we didn’t need to talk it to death. Those were your exact words, remember? There’s no need to talk it to death.
Monday when we were still in the park I said it would take me a while to figure out what kissing you meant and what to do about it, and you said, It doesn’t have to mean anything. You don’t need to do anything. Let’s just let it be what it was.
Let it be. As if you’ve ever, in your whole life, let anything be. I mean I should have known you’d turn around and bring it up again within forty-eight hours. At school too yet.
We were in the library at lunch so I could show you the college information that Khang gave me. You were acting sort of nervous. I mean I could tell you weren’t paying attention to what I was saying et cetera.
So I ask you what’s wrong and you say, I can’t actually not talk about it.
About what? I say. Walking right into it.
That kiss.
No, I say. We’re not talking about that.
But you ignore me. You lean forward, all secretive. Come on, Kurl, you say. You can’t just sit there and pretend it wasn’t incredible. Extraordinary.
And then you put your hand over my hand. Right there, on top of all my notebooks on the table in the middle of the Lincoln High library. I mean it felt like stripping off all my clothes in public.
I get out of my chair and start shoving all my papers into my backpack. I say, No way. I’m not doing this.
You look up at me with this look. This sort of sympathetic look. Regretful. Like you knew I’d react like that, and had planned not to say anything, and then couldn’t help yourself and said it anyway.
Like I’m that predictable, and you feel sorry for me.
So I turn and walk out.
I’m heading to my locker and I’m thinking how actually dangerous and psychotic you are, and wondering what I am doing spending any time at all with a person who can’t even keep a promise for forty-eight hours. Maybe I’m sort of panicking. But I’m plain old angry too.
So it takes me a minute or two. I’m halfway across the school when I recall the fact that those kids had been in the library when I left. Some of those little jerkoffs you call the butcherboys. The blond girl and the stupid-looking boy, Dowell. They’d come in just as I was leaving, and I’d shoved right past them without registering it. But now it hits me. Why would they go to the library on their lunch hour except to find you?
By the time I walk back through the book stacks to our table, they’ve already got half your belongings scattered around on the carpet. The girl is scrawling all over your binder with a Sharpie. Hearts, I love cocks—the usual stuff. Dowell is waving something around, and you’re trying to grab it away from him.
He shoves you away and starts reading: Dear Little Jo, I guess I can tell you about heroes. Sacrifice et cetera. My dad died falling off a roof when I was ten.
It’s one of my letters he’s reading. The one about Sylvan going to work for Uncle Vik and Mark joining the army. It’s an old one, so it takes me a second to recognize it. And then it takes me a second to realize that you’ve been carrying it around. I mean I am so shocked that I just stand there for a few seconds listening.
You’re hopping around going, Come on, give it back. That’s my private correspondence.
Dowell stops. Turns the page over. Is this from your boyfriend? he says. Is this a love letter?
You know what you remind me of, Jo? I mean now that I’m stuck here outside the VP’s office with all this time to think about it. You’re like these Christmas ornaments that my babcia brought over from Poland and passed on to my mom. I hauled them all up from the basement last night because my mom wants to clean them before the holidays. They’re these hollow red and gold shapes. Spheres and bells and diamonds, all made of the thinnest glass you’ve ever seen. They weigh nothing in your hand. You go into a trance staring at them on the tree, because the lights shine right through them and also bounce off the glitter-coated parts. They make amazing patterns on the walls.
Jo, you are exactly like one of those ornaments. Sparkly and delicate and fascinating. Go ahead and take that as a compliment if you want.
But here’s the thing. You should see what happens when one of these ornaments falls off its hook. Once when we were kids Mark had an umbrella in the living room for some reason. He was swinging it around and its tip just barely brushed the tree, but one of the bells came loose. It made this tiny high-pitched pop against the hardwood. It just exploded. The shards were so small and scattered so far that we couldn’t even properly sweep them up. We were trying to hide it, so Mark got a dust cloth and wiped the whole floor. But still for weeks after Christmas, if you walked around in there on bare feet, you’d end up with microscopic cuts in your soles.
Here is what I need you to do, Jo. I need you to figure out how to be less like a Christmas ornament some of the time. I’m not saying all the time. But some of the time. And in some places like school. Because there’s no way I can keep catching you when you fall. And you are falling all the time, Jo. The goddamn tree is shaking all over the place.
To top it all off I promised Uncle Vik I’d show up this afternoon to help on a roof. Add that to a suspension or whatever Mr. Abdi decides to do with me. I’m just handing him an excuse.
That’s not even what makes me so angry. None of that is. What makes me angry is that my life is so predictable. Everything that happened today at school, everything that’ll happen when I go home. It’s so routine at this point that it makes me sick. All your talk about Life After High School is bullshit, Jo. The truth is that nothing, none of it, is ever going to change.
Sincerely,
AK