Dear Kurl,
We must have picked the coldest evening of the year to visit your Outer Sanctum. I could see the potential of the place under the skeletal trees and knee-deep snow, but this particular trip was all business. Bron and Shayna needed to see a train up close, as research for their Civics presentation on crude-oil transportation safety policies.
As she drove, Bron lectured us the whole way: The spill-cleanup contingency plans are laughable, she said. Even the so-called safety tankers are vulnerable to explosion in the event of derailment. They roll right through Minneapolis, these firebombs-in-waiting, 170 tanker cars at a go.
I kept sneaking looks at you in the back seat. At first I was looking for a way to take your hand, maybe by spreading my extra sweater and gloves between us on the seat, but there was about four feet of space between us in that monster vehicle, and in any case you were staring out the window into the dark, lost in thought.
I wondered if it was Bron’s talk of explosions silencing you—you have some expertise in that subject, I know—and then I started thinking how often it is that I see you not jump into a conversation even when you know something about the topic, how more often than not you get quieter, not more talkative, when the rest of us are discussing a subject you know all about. I thought about how I would never have any idea what you know—how much you know—unless I read it in your letters.
The whole thing took my breath away for a moment. How lucky I am that you write to me. How, even if you and I were able to talk together openly about any subject we wanted, anywhere and in front of anyone in the world, I would still want you to write to me as well, just so I could be sure I was getting the whole story.
Anyhow. We parked the car (Bron: “This is the sort of spot my parents always tell me not to park the Escalade.”) and you broke trail for us, flashlight swinging through the brush to find the path. The snow went directly down the cuffs of my boots, so I tried to step only where your footprints had broken the crust. I saw you half turn, notice my struggle, and shorten your stride for me. Then you started dragging your boots instead of stomping, making a kind of ski track for the rest of us to follow.
Bron and Shayna started bickering behind us. Bron said, “You didn’t read any of those articles I sent you, did you?” and Shayna said, “Did you bring us any green, Bron? A couple of beers?”
“I need you to take this project seriously,” Bron said. “I’m starting to get really sick of carrying you at school.”
We were at the tracks. The girls burst out into the open white stripe of snow, and you held me back under the trees. You took off your glove, dragged a hot finger to my cheek, pushed it between my lips. “You’re quiet,” you said.
I kept my eye on the girls and bit down until you pulled your finger back. “You’re quiet,” I said.
“C’mon. They’re fighting. They’re distracted.” You tried to kiss me.
I was distracted by the fight, too, though. “Excuse me for wanting a decent grade on this,” Bron was saying, and Shayna retorted, “It’s not just the grade, though, is it? It’s this whole other agenda with you. You want to write a story on this for the paper, for your portfolio.”
Port-FOH-lee-oh: Had you ever heard someone put so much sneer into a word?
I have to say I’m fully in agreement with Bron about my sister’s attitude these days. Shayna’s been on a steep downhill slide since school started again: going right back to bed after Lyle leaves for work, slumped in front of reruns when I get home from school, skipping all her SAT practices, sneaking out at night.
Bron had somehow consulted the train schedule and timed our trek around it. I see now why that long, straight run of track is such an important feature of your Outer Sanctum: We could hear the train coming, and see its headlight, for four or five long minutes before it was upon us.
Anticipation! Which my sister decided to amplify for the rest of us by plowing straight up the slope to stand on the tracks.
“Really?” Bron hollered. “You’re doing that? Give me a break, Shay.”
Immediately, you were up there on the tracks beside Shayna. I heard you murmuring to her, one hand raised to stop us from joining you.
“Congratulations. You’re in the fucking Breakfast Club, all right? You’re officially a teenager cliché.” Bron was stomping little circles, clutching her arms around herself, swiveling her head from the oncoming train to her friend and back. I said, “Shh,” and tried to take her arm, and she shoved me nearly off my feet.
Each of us reacts in our own way to danger, don’t we? Bron short-circuits straight from fright to anger. I focus on whoever is closest to me and try to divert them, draw their fire, pacify. And you. You stand directly in the path of the oncoming train, murmuring comfort.
It’s morning, and time for school now. I suppose you’ll have to tell me the rest of last night’s story. Or maybe you’ve already written it, and in that case I wonder which part you chose. Maybe I can guess: the very last part, the best part.
Yours,
Jo