by Anthology
I got mine—cool and plastic against my fingers—and held it tightly. I didn’t open it, not near the stairs, because I knew the kids who hadn’t gotten theirs yet would watch me.
So I walked all the way to the doors, stepped into the hallway, and leaned against the wall.
Then I opened my binder.
And saw nothing.
My breath caught.
I peered back into the chapel. The rest of the kids were still in line, getting their binders. No red envelopes had landed on the carpet. No binders were tossed aside.
Nothing. I stopped three of the kids, asking them if they saw me drop anything or if they’d gotten mine.
Then Sister Mary Catherine caught my arm, and dragged me away from the steps. Her fingers pinched into the nerve above my elbow, sending a shooting pain down to my hand.
“You’re not to interrupt the others,” she said.
“But I must have dropped my letter.”
She peered at me, then let go of my arm. A look of satisfaction crossed her fat face, then she patted my cheek.
The pat was surprisingly tender.
“Then you are blessed,” she said.
I didn’t feel blessed. I was about to tell her that, when she motioned Father Broussard over.
“She received no letter,” Sister Mary Catherine said.
“God has smiled on you, my child,” he said warmly. He hadn’t noticed me before, but this time, he put his hand on my shoulder. “You must come with me to discuss your future.”
I let him lead me to his office. The other nuns—the ones without a class that hour—gathered with him. They talked to me about how God wanted me to make my own choices, how He had blessed me by giving me back my future, how He saw me as without sin.
I was shaking. I had looked forward to this day all my life—at least the life I could remember—and then this. Nothing. No future. No answers.
Nothing.
I wanted to cry, but not in front of Father Broussard. He had already segued into a discussion of the meaning of the blessing. I could serve the church. Anyone who failed to get a letter got free admission into a variety of colleges and universities, all Catholic, some well known. If I wanted to become a nun, he was certain the church could accommodate me.
“I want to play basketball, Father,” I said.
He nodded. “You can do that at any of these schools.”
“Professional basketball,” I said.
And he looked at me as if I were the spawn of Satan.
“But, my child,” he said with a less reasonable tone than before, “you have received a sign from God. He thinks you Blessed. He wants you in his service.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, my voice thick with unshed tears. “I think you made a mistake.”
Then I flounced out of his office, and off school grounds.
My mother made me go back for the last four days of class. She made me graduate. She said I would regret it if I didn’t.
I remember that much.
But the rest of the summer was a blur. I mourned my known future, worried I would make the wrong choices, and actually considered the Catholic colleges. My mother rousted me enough to get me to choose before the draft. And I did.
The University of Nevada in Las Vegas, as far from the Catholic Church as I could get.
I took my full ride, and destroyed my knee in my very first game. God’s punishment, Father Broussard said when I came home for Thanksgiving.
And God forgive me, I actually believed him.
But I didn’t transfer—and I didn’t become Job, either. I didn’t fight with God or curse God. I abandoned Him because, as I saw it, He had abandoned me.
Thirty-two years later, I watch the faces. Some flush. Some look terrified. Some burst into tears.
But some just look blank, as if they’ve received a great shock.
Those students are mine.
I make them stand beside me, even before I ask them what they got in their binder. I haven’t made a mistake yet, not even last year, when I didn’t pull anyone aside.
Last year, everyone got a letter. That happens every five years or so. All the students get Red Letters, and I don’t have to deal with anything.
This year, I have three. Not the most ever. The most ever was thirty, and within five years it became clear why. A stupid little war in a stupid little country no one had ever heard of. Twenty-nine of my students died within the decade. Twenty-nine.
The thirtieth was like me, someone who has not a clue why her future self failed to write her a letter.
I think about that, as I always do on Red Letter Day.
I’m the kind of person who would write a letter. I have always been that person. I believe in communication, even vague communication. I know how important it is to open that binder and see that bright red envelope.
I would never abandon my past self.
I’ve already composed drafts of my letter. In two weeks—on my fiftieth birthday—some government employee will show up at my house to set up an appointment to watch me write the letter.
I won’t be able to touch the paper, the red envelope or the special pen until I agree to be watched. When I finish, the employee will fold the letter, tuck it in the envelope and earmark it for Sister Mary of Mercy High School in Shaker Heights, Ohio, thirty-two years ago.
I have plans. I know what I’ll say.
But I still wonder why I didn’t say it to my previous self. What went wrong? What prevented me? Am I in an alternate universe already and I just don’t know it?
Of course, I’ll never be able to find out.
But I set that thought aside. The fact that I did not receive a letter means nothing. It doesn’t mean that I’m blessed by God any more than it means I’ll fail to live to fifty.
It is a trick, a legal sleight of hand, so that people like me can’t travel to the historical bright spots or even visit the highlights of their own past life.
I continue to watch faces, all the way to the bitter end. But I get no more than three. Two boys and a girl.
Carla Nelson. A tall, thin, white-haired blonde who ran crosscountry and stayed away from basketball, no matter how much I begged her to join the team. We needed height and we needed athletic ability.
She has both, but, she told me, she isn’t a team player. She wanted to run and run alone. She hated relying on anyone else.
Not that I blame her.
But from the devastation on her angular face, I can see that she relied on her future self. She believed she wouldn’t let herself down.
Not ever.
Over the years, I’ve watched other counselors use platitudes. I’m sure it’s nothing. Perhaps your future self felt that you’re on the right track. I’m sure you’ll be fine.
I was bitter the first time I watched the high school kids go through this ritual. I never said a word, which was probably a smart decision on my part, because I silently twisted my colleagues’ platitudes into something negative, something awful, inside my own head.
It’s something. We all know it’s something. Your future self hates you or maybe—probably—you’re dead.
I have thought all those things over the years, depending on my life. Through a checkered college career, an education degree, a marriage, two children, a divorce, one brand new grandchild. I have believed all kinds of different things.
At thirty-five, when my hopeful young self thought I’d be retiring from pro ball, I stopped being a gym teacher and became a full time counselor. A full time counselor and occasional coach.
I told myself I didn’t mind.
I even wondered what would I write if I had the chance to play in the Bigs? Stay the course? That seems to be the most common letter in those red envelopes. It might be longer than that, but it always boils down to those three words.
Stay the course.
Only I hated the course. I wonder: would I have blown my knee out in the Bigs? Would I have made the Bigs? Would I have received the kin
d of expensive nanosurgery that would have kept my career alive? Or would I have washed out worse than I ever had?
Dreams are tricky things.
Tricky and delicate and easily destroyed.
And now I faced three shattered dreamers, standing beside me on the edge of the podium.
“To my office,” I say to the three of them.
They’re so shell-shocked that they comply.
I try to remember what I know about the boys. Esteban Rellier and J.J. Feniman. J.J. stands for . . . Jason Jacob. I remembered only because the names were so very old-fashioned, and J.J. was the epitome of modern cool.
If you had to choose which students would succeed based on personality and charm, not on Red Letters and opportunity, you would choose J.J.
You would choose Esteban with a caveat. He would have to apply himself.
If you had to pick anyone in class who wouldn’t write a letter to herself, you would pick Carla. Too much of a loner. Too prickly. Too difficult. I shouldn’t have been surprised that she’s coming with me.
But I am.
Because it’s never the ones you suspect who fail to get a letter.
It’s always the ones you believe in, the ones you have hopes for.
And somehow—now—it’s my job to keep those hopes alive.
I am prepared for this moment. I’m not a fan of interactive technology—feeds scrolling across the eye, scans on the palm of the hand—but I use it on Red Letter Day more than any other time during the year.
As we walk down the wide hallway to the administrative offices, I learn everything the school knows about all three students which, honestly, isn’t much.
Psych evaluations—including modified IQ tests—from grade school on. Addresses. Parental income and employment. Extracurriculars. Grades. Troubles (if any reported). Detentions. Citations. Awards.
I already know a lot about J.J. Homecoming king, quarterback, would’ve been class president if he hadn’t turned the role down. So handsome he even has his own stalker, a girl named Lizbet Cholene, whom I’ve had to discipline twice before sending to a special psych unit for evaluation.
I have to check on Esteban. He’s above average, but only in the subjects that interest him. His IQ tested high on both the old exam and the new. He has unrealized potential, and has never really been challenged, partly because he doesn’t seem to be the academic type.
It’s Carla who is still the enigma. IQ higher than either boy’s. Grades lower. No detentions, citations, or academic awards. Only the postings in cross country—continual wins, all state three years in a row, potential offers from colleges, if she brought her grades up, which she never did. Nothing on the parents. Address in a middle-class neighborhood, smack in the center of town.
I cannot figure her out in a three-minute walk, even though I try.
I usher them into my office. It’s large and comfortable. Big desk, upholstered chairs, real plants, and a view of the track—which probably isn’t the best thing right now, at least for Carla.
I have a speech that I give. I try not to make it sound canned.
“Your binders were empty, weren’t they?” I say.
To my surprise, Carla’s lower lip quivers. I thought she’d tough it out, but the tears are close to the surface. Esteban’s nose turns red and he bows his head. Carla’s distress makes it hard for him to control his.
J.J. leans against the wall, arms folded. His handsome face is a mask. I realize then how often I’d seen that look on his face. Not quite blank—a little pleasant—but detached, far away. He braces one foot on the wall, which is going to leave a mark, but I don’t call him on that. I just let him lean.
“On my Red Letter Day,” I say, “I didn’t get a letter either.”
They look at me in surprise. Adults aren’t supposed to discuss their letters with kids. Or their lack of letters. Even if I had been able to discuss it, I wouldn’t have.
I’ve learned over the years that this moment is the crucial one, the moment when they realize that you will survive the lack of a letter.
“Do you know why?” Carla asks, her voice raspy.
I shake my head. “Believe me, I’ve wondered. I’ve made up every scenario in my head—maybe I died before it was time to write the letter—”
“But you’re older than that now, right?” J.J. asks, with something of an angry edge. “You wrote the letter this time, right?”
“I’m eligible to write the letter in two weeks,” I say. “I plan to do it.”
His cheeks redden, and for the first time, I see how vulnerable he is beneath the surface. He’s as devastated—maybe more devastated—than Carla and Esteban. Like me, J.J. believed he would get the letter he deserved—something that told him about his wonderful, successful, very rich life.
“So you could still die before you write it,” he said, and this time, I’m certain he meant the comment to hurt.
It did. But I don’t let that emotion show on my face. “I could,” I say. “But I’ve lived for thirty-two years without a letter. Thirty-two years without a clue about what my future holds. Like people used to live before time travel. Before Red Letter Day.”
I have their attention now.
“I think we’re the lucky ones,” I say, and because I’ve established that I’m part of their group, I don’t sound patronizing. I’ve given this speech for nearly two decades, and previous students have told me that this part of the speech is the most important part.
Carla’s gaze meets mine, sad, frightened and hopeful. Esteban keeps his head down. J.J.’s eyes have narrowed. I can feel his anger now, as if it’s my fault that he didn’t get a letter.
“Lucky?” he asks in the same tone that he used when he reminded me I could still die.
“Lucky,” I say. “We’re not locked into a future.”
Esteban looks up now, a frown creasing his forehead.
“Out in the gym,” I say, “some of the counselors are dealing with students who’re getting two different kinds of tough letters. The first tough one is the one that warns you not to do something on such and so date or you’ll screw up your life forever.”
“People actually get those?” Esteban asks, breathlessly.
“Every year,” I say.
“What’s the other tough letter?” Carla’s voice trembles. She speaks so softly I had to strain to hear her.
“The one that says You can do better than I did, but won’t—can’t really—explain exactly what went wrong. We’re limited to one event, and if what went wrong was a cascading series of bad choices, we can’t explain that. We just have to hope that our past selves—you guys, in other words—will make the right choices, with a warning.”
J.J.’s frowning too. “What do you mean?”
“Imagine,” I say, “instead of getting no letter, you get a letter that tells you that none of your dreams come true. The letter tells you simply that you’ll have to accept what’s coming because there’s no changing it.”
“I wouldn’t believe it,” he says.
And I agree: he wouldn’t believe it. Not at first. But those wormy little bits of doubt would burrow in and affect every single thing he does from this moment on.
“Really?” I say. “Are you the kind of person who would lie to yourself in an attempt to destroy who you are now? Trying to destroy every bit of hope that you possess?”
His flush grows deeper. Of course he isn’t. He lies to himself—we all do—but he lies to himself about how great he is, how few flaws he has. When Lizbet started following him around, I brought him into my office and asked him not to pay attention to her.
It leads her on, I say.
I don’t think it does, he says. She knows I’m not interested.
He knew he wasn’t interested. Poor Lizbet had no idea at all.
I can see her outside now, hovering in the hallway, waiting for him, wanting to know what his letter said. She’s holding her red envelope in one hand, the other lost in the pocket of her baggy skir
t. She looks prettier than usual, as if she’s dressed up for this day, maybe for the inevitable party.
Every year, some idiot plans a Red Letter Day party even though the school—the culture—recommends against it. Every year, the kids who get good letters go. And the other kids beg off, or go for a short time, and lie about what they received.
Lizbet probably wants to know if he’s going to go.
I wonder what he’ll say to her.
“Maybe you wouldn’t send a letter if the truth hurt too much,” Esteban says.
And so it begins, the doubts, the fears.
“Or,” I say, “if your successes are beyond your wild imaginings. Why let yourself expect that? Everything you do might freeze you, might lead you to wonder if you’re going to screw that up.”
They’re all looking at me again.
“Believe me,” I say. “I’ve thought of every single possibility, and they’re all wrong.”
The door to my office opens and I curse silently. I want them to concentrate on what I just said, not on someone barging in on us.
I turn.
Lizbet has come in. She looks like she’s on edge, but then she’s always on edge around J.J.
“I want to talk to you, J.J.” Her voice shakes.
“Not now,” he says. “In a minute.”
“Now,” she says. I’ve never heard this tone from her. Strong and scary at the same time.
“Lizbet,” J.J. says, and it’s clear he’s tired, he’s overwhelmed, he’s had enough of this day, this event, this girl, this school—he’s not built to cope with something he considers a failure. “I’m busy.”
“You’re not going to marry me,” she says.
“Of course not,” he snaps—and that’s when I know it. Why all four of us don’t get letters, why I didn’t get a letter, even though I’m two weeks shy from my fiftieth birthday and fully intend to send something to my poor past self.
Lizbet holds her envelope in one hand, and a small plastic automatic in the other. An illegal gun, one that no one should be able to get—not a student, not an adult. No one.
“Get down!” I shout as I launch myself toward Lizbet.