Dear Little Jo,
I looked up from my desk in English just now and saw you at the window and caught your smile. You were gone before I had time to smile back or to feel the heat in my face.
I’d already spotted you when the bell rang, over by the flagpole locking up Nelly with one of your gloves hanging from your teeth. Later I saw you again in the hall, digging through your backpack and pulling out a pencil, which fell to the floor while you were doing up the zipper. I saw you in the computer lab talking to Mr. Carlsen. I saw you through the gym doorway, leaning against the wall, staring into space. Oh, and I came by Khang’s room right after lunch and read your letter.
That’s the sum total of all my moments with you today so far, and I have to get the car back to my mom right after school for her visit to Aunt Agata, so that might be it. And I guess you only knew about one of the moments—the English classroom window—not counting the letter you posted.
I took this letter home instead of sticking it in the box. Khang kept me after class to tell me I have to take the SAT. There’s no minimum score, but I do have to take the test and submit my score for the Bridge to Education people even to consider my application.
This is pretty bad news for me. I mean I haven’t been studying like Bron and everyone else. I guess I never read the application forms that closely after Khang gave them to me. I thought it was only the forms to fill out and her recommendation letter and this other thing called the ACE, the Autobiographical Creative Essay, that I’m supposed to write. In other words things that wouldn’t be comparing me to everyone else.
Now it’s the next morning. I keep thinking about the news this morning. A Taliban strategy: Dress fifteen suicide bombers in US military uniforms. Sneak them past the NATO base perimeter. Blow up eighteen Harrier jets.
So I guess the math looks like this: fifteen Taliban lives equals $200 million and one gigantic eff-you to the USA. I mean they try not to say too much on the news for exactly this reason. Telling the world about it will just make it mean more.
In the middle of the night I woke up from a falling-off-the-roof dream. I lay there in bed listening, but it wasn’t Uncle Vik. It was my own heartbeat. I dreamed it was saying, Help. Help. Help. Help.
I listened to it for a long time before I woke up for real.
Then I remembered you, Jo. Your tent. It seemed impossible that it was just over twenty-four hours ago. Impossible that it happened at all. I lay there trying to remember your body with my body. Hunting around for any sign of you on me. I mean I even stuck my nose into my elbows and armpits like a dog, looking for your leftover scent.
Don’t say anything to Bron and Shayna about the test. I’ve heard Bron making study dates and talking about all these strategies for getting a good score, like an attack ratio et cetera. I mean I don’t think I can handle them taking cracks at me about it, even if they are just joking around. Or if they don’t think it’s a joke, that might be even worse. Bron has this way of looking at me like she’s trying to decide what to fix. I don’t think I can handle her making me her personal SAT project.
Sincerely,
AK
PS: What a pathetic way to end this letter. It’s pathetic to end it talking about Bron. I mean I can’t believe I talked about the Taliban after what happened in your tent. After us! I don’t know how to talk about us, Jo, but I swear I don’t want to not talk about us. I don’t even want to talk about any of these other things.