P.S. I Like You (10 page)

I didn’t have to look under the desk to find the note anymore. My hand went straight to it. I’d even become an expert at unfolding it quietly and placing it just so under my single sheet of notepaper. I didn’t even think Lauren realized what I was doing. I held my breath and read:

Track 4 is my favorite too. And also, Track 8 on
Blue
is amazing. You were right, not depressing at all. (I’m not just saying that because the cool guitarist in my new band said she likes it the best.)

By the way, I don’t play guitar so there will be no stealing your solo time here. That means it’s official, right? We need a band name now. Something overly
sweet like Rainbows & Roses. Then all our songs should be angry. It will make for a good contrast. I have a lot of angry material right now—awful stepdad, distant mother, and absent father. That’s some solid fodder, right? Here, I’ll come up with a good first line right now …
Parents
(a pause in lyrics for a dramatic guitar solo for you)
are
(pause for drum solo)
lame
. Hmm … maybe I shouldn’t be the lyricist either. My musical skills don’t translate to a band. Where does that leave me? I can stand in the background and dance. Oh, also, if Mr. Ortega catches me writing you this letter, I am committed to shoving it in my mouth and swallowing. I hope I can count on the same commitment from you.

I smiled. After the buildup of the whole weekend and all morning anticipating this letter, I was worried it would disappoint. It did not. It was cute and funny and a little sad. I wished there was something I could do about the sad part to make him feel better.

I took out a fresh sheet of paper because now that we were saying more personal things, I didn’t want someone to find a long exchange under the desk. If discovered, it was better to have less.

We’re already to the swallowing-paper-for-each-other commitment level? You may be moving a little fast for me. And yes, your lyrics could use some work. What are
these other musical skills you mentioned? Maybe we can integrate them somehow.

That is some serious material for lyrics. It will make a great song. Capitalizing on your sad life is cool, right? But seriously, I’m sorry. I don’t know if I can help much, but feel free to vent. I’m a good listener. Especially in letters, because I have no other choice.

You want to hear about a sad life? My best friend brought a guy to my house, kind of like a setup, and he basically ran away screaming. That’s how crazy my family is. Has your family ever accomplished such a feat? I doubt it.

I wasn’t sure that making light of his situation was the way to go, but he seemed like the type who appreciated humor. And it felt good to get my frustration about the weekend off my chest. I couldn’t vent about it to Isabel because I knew she’d just tell me that it was fine and that nobody thought my family was crazy—even though I was sure they all did.

I folded the letter and carefully placed it back in its spot. Now I had to wait twenty-four hours for a response. This was so much less gratifying than texting.

No, that wasn’t true. There was something about the secrecy and the anticipation and the possibility of getting caught that made it much more exciting than texting.

The next day I was just as excited when I pulled his response from beneath the desk.

No, I can’t say that my family has ever sent anyone away screaming. That would require them actually being involved in my life in some way. My parents divorced seven years ago and my dad moved. He moved to get away from her and me. If my mom hadn’t mentioned where he moved a couple times, I wouldn’t even know. Also, he might be dating someone four years older than me. I only know this because my mom screamed it into the phone about a year ago. I think she got remarried to make my dad mad, because there is no way she likes the jerk of a guy she married. He is impossible to impress. Everything has to be better and more and perfect for him.

How’s that for venting? Remember, you asked for it. I don’t know if I buy your “good listening because it’s a letter” thing though. Technically you could just skip to the end of a letter and pretend you read it. Is that what you did? Here, I’ll give you some key words so that you can fake a response: five-state buffer zone, man cougar, loveless marriage. (Those sound like song lyrics. Look at that, I’m getting so much better. I’m back on for lyricist.) I was going to call him just a plain cougar, but they only use that term for women, right? That’s sexist. What do you call men in their fifties who date women who are practically teenagers?

I hid my smile so Lauren wouldn’t notice. My pen pal had this way of making even the saddest things funny somehow. I looked up at Mr. Ortega. I had to pay attention for five minutes before I could write back. It was my method of secrecy—listen, write, listen, write …

I think they’re called perverts. And I’m sorry. I wish I were more than a good listener who reads entire letters and not just the highlights. I wish I had awesome advice to give you about how trials make you stronger or build character or something like that, but I know that doesn’t help. So if you want advice, you’ll have to find some other desk defacer. Me, I’ll just wallow with you.

I’m impressed you’ve kept a sense of humor through all this. You haven’t let it make you a bitter, angry person. Or have you? Do you walk around punching lockers and kicking small animals? Or writing angry songs (for real)? That’s how this whole topic started, right? We’re going to use the injustices against you to make some awesome songs! Okay, so the first one can be called “Left Behind.” I’ll try to figure out how we can use the words man cougar in it.

I hoped he was okay with me trying to make his sad topics funny too. Because before I’d added the last sentence, I’d
stared at that song title for a few minutes. “Left Behind.” The title that represented his father leaving him without looking back, and a pit formed in my stomach that I’d had to combat.

I folded the letter and secured it beneath the desk.

I
hadn’t been serious about writing a song inspired by my pen pal’s life. It was supposed to be like the jokes I’d always made with Isabel about writing a book based on her dating situations. But that wasn’t what happened. What happened was that the title “Left Behind,” along with his words, brought so many images into my mind that I found myself that night, notebook on knees, writing.

First I’d filled in the margins with notes about what he’d said about his life. Then I’d let those words inspire lyrics.

I’ve turned waiting into a form of art.

Tied twisted lines around my broken heart.

Because I always thought you’d be back one day.

The door swung open and Ashley walked in and dropped onto her bed with a loud sigh.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I just completely and totally humiliated myself in front of the guy I have a crush on at work.”

“How?”

She showed me her teeth. “See that?”

“No.”

“Exactly. Earlier there was a big, huge food chunk right here.” She pointed at her front tooth. “And nobody told me. Nobody. Oh wait, Mark told me after I’d been talking to him for five minutes.”

I laughed.

“You would’ve told me, right? Tricia should have told me. It’s girl code. I think Tricia likes Mark, too. That’s the problem here.”

“Maybe she didn’t see the food.”

“Lil, people on the space station saw this chunk of food. It was massive. And right on my front tooth.”

“That was rude of the people on the space station not to tell you about it.”

“Ha-ha.”

“He probably thought it was funny,” I said.

Ashley groaned. “That’s exactly what he thought. That’s why this is a nightmare. If you want a romantic relationship with a guy, first he has to find you mysterious, then intriguing, then funny. In that order. If it’s in any different order, you are forever labeled
friend
.”

I frowned. “That’s an interesting theory.”

“Tried and proven. And the funny has to be intentional. None of this making a fool of yourself business.”

Huh. Maybe that’s why I’d never had a romantic relationship. I was always making a fool of myself.

Ashley rolled off her bed, crawled forward, and sat on the floor with her back facing me. “Braid my hair. I want it to be wavy tomorrow. Plus, it will make me feel better.”

“You’re so needy.” Sometimes, it felt like Ashley was the younger sister.

“Please? I’ll straighten yours for you.”

“Get me a brush.”

She hopped up and walked out of the room.

I looked at my notebook. “We’ll never have enough alone time together, will we?” I asked it with a sigh. “It’s as if people are trying to keep us apart.”

My sister came back in swinging a hairbrush like a pendulum between her thumb and forefinger, a straightener tucked under her other arm. “Who are you talking to?”

“Myself.”

“You do that a lot.”

“I know. I’m the only one who understands me.”

Ashley threw the brush at me, narrowly missing my leg, then plugged in the straightener and positioned herself on the floor by my bed. I begrudgingly closed my notebook.

My sister had long, beautiful hair. It was the same color as mine, but unlike my crazy waves, hers was perfectly straight.

“People spend a lot of time to make their hair look exactly like yours,” I said as I ran a brush through it.

“And people spend just as much time to make their hair look like yours.”

“I guess everyone wants what they don’t have.”

As if I had been making a statement about her love life, Ashley said, “Boys suck.”

“Amen,” I said.

Ashley tipped her head back. “What? You’re agreeing with me? Spill.”

“You want to feel better about your supposedly embarrassing situation that in reality happens to everyone?” I asked.

“Not everyone.”

“Everyone at some point or another has had food in their teeth. But I bet your pet rabbit has never peed on your date’s foot.”

Ashley laughed.

“Yeah … exactly,” I said.

Ashley didn’t stop laughing. She put her forehead to her knees, causing me to let go of the braid.

“Keep on laughing,” I said.

“Okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She sat back and I separated her hair again and began to braid when she broke out into laughter again.

“I’m not braiding your hair anymore,” I announced, sitting back.

“No, no, no,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

I gathered her hair. Two minutes passed, then she said, “Do you call him Pee Foot now?” and burst into laughter.

I let go of her hair and shoved her. “You’re a brat.”

She stood and let out a happy sigh. “Your stories are the best, Lil. Your social life is so funny. Thanks for making me feel better.” With that she left the room.

“Yes, that’s me, the girl whose social life makes everyone feel better about theirs,” I said to nobody.

I yanked the straightener’s cord out of the wall, turning it off, and then picked up my notebook. I flipped to the back and titled the last page:
Suspects
. I didn’t have that sad of a social life. I had a fun and perfectly normal relationship with an anonymous pen pal. Okay, so an anonymous pen pal didn’t exactly sound normal, but I would ignore that fact. Maybe it was time to figure out who he was.