The Not-So-Boring Letters of Private Nobody

by Matthew Landis

  The sun ripped through a cloud and glinted off Oliver’s bayonet. He thrust the rifle out. He screamed.

  And then he fell.

  Suddenly he was tumbling and eating dirt and all he could focus on was trying to avoid impaling himself on the bayonet.

  Somehow he stopped rolling without getting stabbed.

  “Ollie!” shouted Ella.

  “That was bad,” Kevin said, right behind her. “Ambulance-bad.”

  “Ollie—are you okay?”

  “Ugh.” Oliver squinted up at her. Maybe it was the sun, or maybe he was concussed, but it looked like a hundred suns were lighting her up. She looked kind of like an angel.

  “Is he hurt?” shouted Sergeant Tom from the top of the hill.

  “My shoulder kills,” Oliver mumbled.

  “The ground killed his shoulder,” Kevin yelled back.

  Ella dropped her project binder and helped Oliver up. “I was really worried you were going to get stabbed by your own bayonet.”

  “Me too.” Her being so worried about him took away some of the horrible embarrassment of falling.

  Some.

  “At least you made it close to enemy lines,” Kevin said.

  Sergeant Tom lumbered over. “That was some charge, Ollie. From the way you went down, I thought you actually got shot.” Sergeant Tom held up a large orange cone. “Then I saw this. It was lying sideways, probably left by those Ultimate Frisbee players. You tripped right over it. Can you walk?”

  “Yeah.” Oliver took a step to feel things out. “This is all really embarrassing.”

  Ella laughed a little and brushed a few pieces of grass off his forehead. His entire face was suddenly on fire.

  “I think the others will be in shape by July,” Sergeant Tom said. Most of the 104th Pennsylvania Volunteers had stopped on the slope to relax. Some had never made it over the picnic tables.

  “You sure about that, Sergeant?” Kevin asked.

  “I guess as in shape as they’re going to be. Sure you’re okay, Oliver?”

  “I’m good.” Oliver glanced at Ella, but she was staring at her phone. “Sorry about getting your gun dirty.”

  “Eh, no problem.” Sergeant Tom looked at his watch. “Almost noon. Guess I should dismiss. Dismissed!” he yelled up the hill. “See ya next week. We’ll be back over by the pavilion. Check your email for changes.”

  Ella looked up from her phone. “My mom’s here,” she said. Oliver saw that look of murder in her eyes again. She stood up. “I’ll see you guys on Monday.”

  “She seems mad,” Kevin said as she walked away. “Please tell me you two aren’t in some weird fight that I’m going to have to fix.”

  “Her sister is making her go dress shopping for the dance, but she doesn’t want to go,” Oliver said.

  “She must be really pissed if she left that.” Kevin pointed at her binder, lying on the ground. Oliver sighed and picked it up.

  They joined the stragglers on a dirt path that led through the woods back to the parking lot. When they reached the pavilion, Oliver took off his forage cap and coat and lay down on the cool cement while Kevin did some script edits. Oliver’s shoulder throbbed, but he was hurting way worse from general shame. He must’ve looked like a gigantic idiot falling down that hill. A wool-trousered idiot.

  “How bad was the fall?” Oliver asked.

  “Oh, terrible for sure. The kind of thing that would go viral on YouTube, but not in a good way.”

  “Great.”

  “It also proved that I was right about you two.”

  Oliver sat up. “What do you mean?”

  “She was in an all-out sprint down that hill to see if you were hurt.”

  “I guess,” Oliver said. “But so were you. Friends don’t just sit there while their friends maybe impale themselves.”

  “Friends don’t gently brush grass off their friend’s face,” Kevin said. “And don’t even get me started on how she dresses prettier when she comes to drill. Not that I’m interested—I’ve got my eye on a very interesting sixth grader. Sort of a free spirit. Apparently she can talk to birds.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What I’m saying is, it’s pretty clear that she likes you, so you can stop being all weird that you like her.”

  “I never said I like her.”

  “Are we telling jokes now?” Kevin raised his eyebrows and started typing again.

  Oliver rubbed his shoulder. There was no way Ella liked him back.

  But maybe there was a way to be sure.

  He flipped open her binder to a clump of lined paper and made her a scorecard:

  Friends

  She likes to hang out with me

  She ran really fast to see if I was hurt

  More Than Friends

  She likes to hang out with me.

  She ran really fast to see if I was hurt

  She wears pretty clothes when she comes to watch me drill.

  She brushed grass off my face.

  It was a start.

  Oliver took his paper out of the rings and flipped everything back slowly to shut the binder because everybody knows there are few things more annoying than making a giant logjam in there that requires you to take every paper out.

  That’s when he saw it: a note.

  In Ella’s handwriting.

  He started to read it but stopped. He looked over at Kevin. Still buried in his script edits.

  This was what people called an invasion of privacy. Completely inappropriate. Maybe illegal. He could go to jail, which was terrifying, because from everything he’d seen on TV, he was the kind of person who wouldn’t do well in jail.

  But she’d never know. And was it really that bad? She had left the binder. He was basically doing her a favor by rescuing it. He deserved to read the note.

  So he read it.

  I see you when I close my eyes because you’ve been by my side the last few days. I have never said what I am about to say to anyone, and I am embarrassed to say it to you. I suppose I should just say it before I lose my nerve or run out of time. I love you.

  “Bro,” Kevin said.

  Oliver couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. “Huh?”

  “You okay? You look like you’re gonna puke.”

  “I what?”

  Kevin stared at him. “Sure you didn’t bayonet yourself in the head?”

  “Uh—no. I’m fine. Just . . . my shoulder. It hurts.”

  Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep-beeeeeeeeeeep.

  “Your mom really loves that horn,” Kevin said. “Are you gonna tell her what happened?”

  Oliver’s brain was mush.

  I love you.

  Those words had fried the circuitry upstairs.

  “Tell her what?” Oliver asked.

  “You know, when you tripped over that cone and did like ten somersaults down the hill?”

  “Oh . . . right. Uh, no. Let’s keep that between us.”

  “Okay.” Kevin looked Oliver over. “I think you should see a doctor.”

  Beeeeeep-beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep-beeeeeeep.

  In the car, Oliver waited until Kevin was buried back in the script before he added “wrote me a love note” to Ella’s “More Than Friends” column.

  It was official, then.

  They liked each other.

  —CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN—

  VENTI CHAI TEA LATTE—DIRTY—NO WATER, EXTRA HOT, WITH FIVE PUMPS OF VANILLA SYRUP

  Oliver decided to finally send the text at 9:42 the next morning.

  Hey. You left your binder at the park. Want me to drop it off?

  He left out the part about rereading her love note seven hundred times.

  That’s okay. I can get it at school, she texted back.

  You don’t live that far. I
can just ride my bike over.

  I’m not at home. I’m at Starbucks with my dad.

  Oh. Cool.

  Not really.

  ?

  ?

  Oliver wasn’t sure where to go from there.

  And then suddenly he knew exactly where to go.

  He made his hair look not terrible and bounded upstairs. “Dad, I need a ride to Starbucks.”

  His mom looked over her cup of coffee. “Why?”

  He held up the binder. “Ella left this at the park and needs it for the project.”

  “Can’t you just give it to her tomorrow?”

  “I could . . .” Oliver said, looking to his dad for help.

  “But the project might suffer,” his dad finished. “You know what—I need to get some propane for the grill anyway. We can drop it off on the way.”

  Five minutes later they were in the van heading toward the shopping center.

  “I guess your . . . situation . . . has moved forward,” his dad said.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Need any first date advice?”

  Oliver sucked in his gut. “It’s not a date. I’m just dropping this off.”

  Weird dad smile that meant something. “Maybe you’re smoother than I thought.”

  “I am the opposite of smooth. I’m just giving her the binder.”

  They pulled into the shopping center and slowed outside Starbucks. “Send me a text if you need backup.”

  “Uh-huh.” Oliver spotted Ella and her dad through the window; she was reading, and he was on his laptop in front of him. Suddenly Oliver wondered if this was a terrible idea.

  He shook his head. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans.

  He just had to go for it.

  Oliver had never been in a Starbucks before. His parents were more make-your-coffee-at-home people. The slow rock music and burnt coffee smell were weird. He walked over to Ella.

  “Hi.”

  She didn’t look up from her book.

  “Yes,” Mr. Berry said.

  Oliver shifted from foot to foot. Maybe Ella’s scorecard was wrong. “I’m just here to give this to Ella.” He held out the binder to Mr. Berry. “She left it at the—”

  “Nope,” Mr. Berry said.

  “Yeah,” Oliver said, “she dropped it yesterday.”

  “Adam, hold on, would you?” Mr. Berry turned his head toward Oliver. “Oh—hey. Oliver. What’s up?”

  Oliver saw the Bluetooth device in Mr. Berry’s other ear. “Uh—sorry, I didn’t know you were on the phone. Ella left this at the park and I was just dropping it off.”

  “Ella,” her dad said. No response. This was worse than falling down the hill. He was impaling himself on his own stupidity. “Ella, baby.” Mr. Berry tapped her book.

  Ella glared at him through her hair. “What?”

  Mr. Berry pointed at Oliver.

  Ella took out her earbuds buried in her hair.

  Oh.

  “Hey,” Oliver said. He held out the stupid freaking binder again. “I was running errands with my dad and thought I’d just drop this off.”

  “Thanks.”

  Oliver had expected her to be a little more happy/impressed/anything. He hadn’t really planned what to do next.

  So he just stood there.

  Awkwardly.

  “Do you want to sit down?” Mr. Berry asked.

  “Why, so he can listen to you and your buddies talk about money?” Ella asked. “I’m pretty sure Oliver would rather be dead.”

  Mr. Berry’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He took the Bluetooth out of his ear and sipped his coffee. He looked a little sad, actually.

  Ella got up and walked to the bathroom.

  Mr. Berry and Oliver stared at each other.

  “I almost bayoneted myself yesterday,” Oliver said. Nothing like the story of his greatest humiliation to fill the silence. “It was my own bayonet. That was the most embarrassing part. And the falling down the hill.”

  “. . . Sorry to hear that. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. That’s why Ella forgot the binder. She came over to make sure I wasn’t hurt.”

  “She can be very kind, when she wants to be.”

  Oliver felt like he’d wandered into a conversation he shouldn’t be in.

  Ella came back to the table and gathered her stuff. “I’ll be in the car.”

  “Ella.” Mr. Berry said her name like he was tiptoeing around a landmine. “Oliver came all this way to give you your binder. Why don’t you get him something to drink?”

  “It’s fine,” Oliver said. Ella didn’t seem happy to see him. Did he misread the love note somehow? “My dad’s just over at Sears getting some propane. I gotta go anyway.”

  “Get something to go.” Mr. Berry took out some cash and gave it to Ella. “Come on—don’t be rude.”

  Ella took the money.

  “Let’s go,” she muttered at Oliver.

  He followed her to the line. “Uh, sorry—about this.”

  Ella glanced over at her dad, who was back on the Bluetooth. She looked down at the cash in her hand. “Ollie, I have a very serious question for you.”

  Oliver swallowed. Was she going to ask him to go out? Was he even ready for this level of commitment?

  “Do you like lattes?”

  He blinked. “Huh?”

  “Lattes,” Ella said. “Do you like them?”

  “Uh, I don’t know. I never had one.”

  “It’s milk and coffee with tons of sugar and hot steam shot through it.”

  “Sounds pretty good.”

  “Oh, it’s incredible.”

  “Next,” the barista called out.

  “Two Venti Chai Tea Lattes—dirty—no water, extra hot, with five pumps of vanilla syrup,” Ella ordered.

  The barista wrote the order details on each cup with a Sharpie. “. . . Did you say five—”

  “Yes—five pumps of vanilla syrup.”

  “And a shot of espresso in each.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s going to be—”

  “Really expensive. I know.”

  The barista rung up the total and blinked. “Twenty-four thirty-five.”

  “Twenty-four dollars?” Oliver said. “That’s like a month’s supply of Capri Suns at my house.”

  “Here’s fifty,” Ella said. “Keep the change.”

  Ella stalked over to the far counter and folded her arms tightly.

  “Isn’t your dad going to be upset?” Oliver asked. He had never even seen a fifty-dollar bill before.

  “Who cares? He deserves it.”

  “For what?”

  Ella nodded toward her dad, who was hunched over his laptop concentrating really hard. “That—the nonstop working. Ignoring life and everybody in it.”

  He saw tears gather under her eyes. Should Oliver hug her? He had no scorecard for this.

  Who knew these things?

  “They talk about two things: Charlie and money. And he brings me here like we’re on some father-daughter outing and he works. It’s completely inane.”

  “Insane?”

  “In-ane. It means silly and stupid.”

  “Right.”

  “Two Venti Chai Tea Lattes—dirty—no water, extra hot, with five pumps of vanilla syrup,” the barista called out. Oliver wondered if you had to have a degree in made-up languages to work there.

  Ella handed Oliver one of the gigantic drinks and tapped her cup against his. “Cheers.”

  Oliver took a sip. “Holy crap.”

  “Good, right?”

  “Incredible.”

  Ella grinned.

  She walked over to the trash can, hovered the drink over the top for a second, and then dropped it
in.

  —CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT—

  THE FIRST EMAIL

  To: info@wellergroupfinancial.org

  Subject: Henry Weller

  Dear Weller Group people,

  My name is Oliver Prichard and I’m a seventh grader at Kennesaw Middle School. I’m doing a social studies project about a Civil War soldier from my town, and I discovered something I think relates to your company and former bank president Henry Weller.

  Basically, my theory is that Henry Weller paid the soldier I’m studying, Private Raymond Stone, to enlist in his place with the 68th Pennsylvania Volunteer Regiment in 1862. I don’t really know if that’s even possible, because the draft didn’t exist that early in the war, so paid substitution definitely didn’t. The only thing I have to prove this is a few letters, which I scanned and attached for you to check out. What I’d like to know is if you have any family records of this happening, or could give me any information at all to confirm that the Henry Weller who wrote my letters is the same Henry Weller who took over as president of your bank in 1871.

  I’m sure this probably sounds a little crazy, but I promise I’m not like a scammer or anything. Although I bet that probably happens a lot because you have a lot of money being a bank and all.

  Anyway, I’m sure you’re probably really busy, but I’d love for you to check it out and let me know if you find anything. The project is due in a week and I’m kind of under a deadline and my friend who’s helping needs to get a hundred or she might have to repeat seventh grade. But no rush.

  Thanks for reading this. Have a nice day.

  From,

  Oliver Prichard

  —CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE—

  THE IMPORTANCE OF CONTEXT

  Oliver pushed through the overgrown brush along the path to school. He couldn’t stop thinking about the letter. He’d definitely read it right. It definitely said “I love you.”

  In all the confusion, he’d completely forgotten the H. Weller discovery. It wasn’t until ten at night that Oliver had gone back to his research and decided to email the Weller Group to see if they could maybe confirm that their bank president after the Civil War, Henry Weller, was the H. Weller that Stone substituted for.