Dear Rachel Maddow

by Adrienne Kisner

  “Hey,” I said.

  “How are you? Are you coming back to the paper? We need you. Things are getting weird. I can’t even tell you how weird, because it’s kind of a secret? But if you were there, you would know and then we could talk about it. How are your grades? Are they up yet? I guess not because we’ve only had a few weeks of school, but maybe I could help you and, oh man, maybe you could just do a column or something with a pen name.”

  This is how Justin talks.

  “I can’t, in fact, come back to the paper. Summer school didn’t go so great.”

  “Maybe I could talk to someone.”

  “Good luck with that,” I said.

  “Listen, Brynn. This sucks. It all sucks. But don’t be a stranger? Okay? I’m around.”

  “Okay, sure, Justin.”

  “I’m serious.” Justin seemed to be staring at something over my shoulder. His freckles were kind of melting together.

  “Are you blushing?” I asked. I turned and saw Lacey was in the elevator. I looked back at Justin.

  “Shut up. I’ll talk to you later.” He turned and abruptly walked away.

  “Lacey, my friend,” I said, sticking myself in between the closing elevator doors. “I don’t suppose you want to take my quiz for me. I have one for Ms. Yee in about five minutes.”

  “Sure, Brynn. I’m positive no one will notice me doing that, and of course I don’t care if your teachers can tell whether you learned the material or not.”

  “You and your stupid ethics,” I said. The elevator door slid open.

  I emerged unto my basement kingdom, away from the one that used to be mine. Lacey made me go in the classroom first just to be sure I didn’t try to make a break for it away from the quiz at the last second.

  Sincerely,

  Brynn

  Folder:

  Drafts

  To:

  Rachel@msnbc.com

  From:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  Date:

  September 21

  Subject:

  Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?

  Dear Rachel Maddow,

  You have a brother. Is he nice?

  My brother was nice. When I was twelve, he got me a pair of ice skates for my birthday. I resented it because I felt too old for that sort of thing, but they were from Nick so I pretended to love them. The War Memorial used to host ice-skating every other weekend. It still would have, probably, if half of it wasn’t charred rubble from the fire. Earlier today Justin had showed me a clipping from the Tribune that investigators still weren’t releasing further information. That was still weird as fuck.

  Mostly people went there to get stoned in the bushes, but I didn’t know what that was back then. Nick had just gotten his license and drove us to the rink. It was filled with hockey dudes and their girlfriends. Nick was cool with everyone then, just this big guy with a too-big laugh and too-big sense of humor. He held me up and dragged me around and around the rink until I finally started to be able to balance on my own. When I finally made it around without falling, Nick bought me a slice of pizza. We sat at the long counter, and I watched couples skate—the girls backward, the boys guiding them around while trying to sneak their hands places they probably shouldn’t in public. Nick laughed, and we goofed on all of them.

  That was the last time Nick and I really did anything together. He started hanging with sketchier and sketchier people, and Mom wouldn’t let me go anywhere with him alone. Nick had always seemed like he was too large, too much for his own life. But then everything about Nick started to shrink. Now with Nick gone, I’m just a girl skating backward, only I don’t have a partner.

  Sincerely,

  Brynn

  Folder:

  Drafts

  To:

  Rachel@msnbc.com

  From:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  Date:

  September 22

  Subject:

  Mommy and Me

  Dear Rachel Maddow,

  Today is Mom and Fart Weasel’s anniversary. They have actually only been bound on a federal and cosmic level for two years. But Fart took a shower, and Mom folded a nice dress into a duffel bag to change into after her shift, so shit’s getting swanky up in here.

  My dad used to make a big deal out of their anniversary. He would wear a tie, and Mom would put on makeup and twist her hair into a perfect, shiny bun. I would raise my arms like I wanted to be picked up, and when Mom hugged me, I would shove my nose into her hair. The soft, sweet oil that smoothed down her chocolate-brown wisps smelled like Easter candy. My chubby little fingers messed it up. She didn’t yell, though. I think she liked me snuggling into her head. She’d laugh and push me off on Nick and pop into the bathroom to redo it.

  That’s how it was with Mom and me, up until Nick started to go downhill. Mom went down with him. My grandma, her mom, was really mean. Like, beat you and call you fat and leave all the money to her church and none to her only daughter kind of mean. She bounced back from that, a little, when she married my dad. She was pretty good at being a wife, and a mom to little Nicky and then to surprise but much-hoped-for baby Brynn. Mom went to night school to become a registered nurse and worked part-time when I started kindergarten. But Mom was tethered to us, to Nick in particular. Babies are supposed to be cut off from the mom and then both of them get to be separate people. That didn’t happen with Mom and Nick. His blood was her blood, his grades were her grades, his wrestling injuries were bullets to her brain.

  Maybe there are guys who could understand this. Dad wasn’t one of them. He got angrier and angrier with Nick, which Mom took personally. She felt like when Dad was mad at Nick, Dad was mad at her. There was nothing pretty, nothing soft about the last few months before Dad peeled out of our driveway. With these pieces of her ripped away, she bled and bled until there was little of the mom I knew left. Maybe Mom found Fart Weasel because he had already settled at rock bottom; at least she knew where he stood from the beginning, so there were no new failures to slice her apart. Maybe she ignores me because I am the last thing that can really ruin her.

  Sometimes I wish I could just bury my face in her hair and I’d look up and be ten again and the last few years would all be a horrible, sucky dream. But Mom won’t let me close enough to even try.

  Sincerely,

  Brynn

  Folder:

  Drafts

  To:

  Rachel@msnbc.com

  From:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  Date:

  September 24

  Subject:

  Lost and found or just lost maybe

  Dear Rachel Maddow,

  I finally worked up the nerve to take the long route past Sarah’s locker today. It’s the particularly scenic way because her homeroom is on the second floor of the building and mine is two floors below.

  In a different wing.

  She was there. I stopped a few feet away, trying to look engrossed in a hygiene poster. But of course I stared at her. Her blond hair brushed her shoulders. She had a pencil stuck behind her ear. She was biting the eraser of another pencil looking up at the sky, lost in thought. I traced her body with my eyes. I missed her narrow shoulders and her narrow waist and at this moment even her narrow little way of seeing the world. What would it take to go over there and just ask her what she thought of the growing size of the Republican districts in Pennsylvania?

  She looked up at me suddenly, as if psychically called by the thought of another GOP win come midterms. Our eyes locked. But she frowned and shook her head a little. We both knew I was far afield of where I belonged. Or at least she did. She turned away and went into a classroom, and I slunk down to mine. Where we both knew I mattered more than up there.

  Or at least I did.

  Sincerely,

  Brynn

  Folder:

  Drafts

  To:

  Rachel@msnbc.com

  From:

  Brynnieh0401@gm
ail.com

  Date:

  September 25

  Subject:

  Friends

  Dear Rachel Maddow,

  Is it hard to be famous? Like, does that net you more or fewer friends? You aren’t an actress or whatever. You’re you on TV. Well, you’re you with makeup and no glasses and perfect hair, but still. It’s not like people think they are meeting a character when they see you on the street who are then shocked and come away thinking, “Actually, she’s kind of a dumb-ass who isn’t that into politics.”

  At least, I don’t think they do. Maybe they are just like, “Huh, I thought she’d be wearing a blazer.”

  Does fame bring you a better quality of friends? Nick’s friends all kind of sucked. Tip from me to you: Being well known for scoring a high does not gain you a lot of quality associations. Most of the assholes didn’t even come to his funeral. Granted, Nick’s parole officer was there and a lot of them probably had stuff to hide, but still. Only two of them, Leigh and Erin, bothered to speak to me.

  “Hey, kid,” I think Leigh had said first.

  “Hi, honey,” said Erin.

  I could count on one hand the number of times we’d spoken before this. “Hi?” I tried.

  “Listen, this sucks donkey dicks,” said Leigh.

  Erin elbowed him in his side. “What Leigh means is that we’re sorry. Nick really was a great guy. Even lately…”

  This was one hot mess of a nice gesture. He hadn’t been great for a long time. We all knew that. And yet, here were two people who had also lost Nick trying to be nice to me, so I wanted them to keep talking forever.

  “No, really, Brynn. Really. We saw him, what? A month or two ago? And he talked about you. He was proud you were still in school and on the honor roll. He was real proud of that.” Erin had shaken her head.

  “Okay” was all I could think of.

  “Here, kid. Take this.” Leigh shoved a folded piece of paper into my hand. “These are our numbers. Text us yours and we’ll keep an eye on you. It’s only right.”

  “Okay,” I said again.

  They nodded and went to pay their respects to Nick’s closed casket.

  Not long after that Mom had fainted. Honest to God I think she was faking. But Fart Weasel made a big show over her and growled at me that I had to come home with them. How messed up is that? Though at least they both came to the funeral.

  Unlike Dad.

  Sitting here, two years later, dictating this to my laptop, really brings it home. Nick is not coming back. That’s why it’s nice to know you, Rachel. You’ll be there to talk to me for an hour, give or take commercials. Being famous makes you a friend to people you don’t even know about! A friend to shitty, lame-ass people like me, maybe, but that’s what a lot of regular people have anyway. So. Thanks for that.

  Sincerely,

  Brynn

  Folder:

  Drafts

  To:

  Rachel@msnbc.com

  From:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  Date:

  September 26

  Subject:

  Dead air

  Dear Rachel Maddow,

  Mr. Grimm is still on my case about writing back to you. He said it would be polite to send you a brief follow-up e-mail. I will answer you, but it might take me a while. My brother died two years ago today. September 26 always sneaks up on me and jumps me in the bathroom. I need to hide out someplace for a while.

  Sincerely,

  Brynn

  Folder:

  Inbox

  To:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  From:

  Mail Delivery Subsystem

  Date:

  September 27

  Subject:

  Hi Dad

  Delivery to the following recipient failed permanently

  RaymondHarper4509@gmail.com

  Technical details of permanent failure:

  Google tried to deliver your message, but it was rejected by the server for the recipient domain gmail.com

  by gmail-smtp-in.l.google.com. [2a00:1490:400c:c0b::1b].

  The error that the other server returned was:

  550-5.1.1 The e-mail account that you tried to reach does not exist. Please try

  550-5.1.1 double-checking the recipient’s e-mail address for typos or

  550-5.1.1 unnecessary spaces. Learn more at

  550 5.1.1 https://support.google.com/mail/answer/6596 c67si9004821wma.125-gsmtp

  ——Original message——

  Dear Dad,

  It’s been a few years. I don’t know if this is still your e-mail address. I found it on a card in the desk. I’m a junior in high school now. You’ve missed a few birthdays. And Christmases. And Easters. And school plays, awards banquets, softball games, and debate competitions. Oh, and Nick’s funeral. Don’t worry—I don’t really celebrate any of those things anymore, so you don’t have to feel guilty about not contacting me.

  And Nick’s already dead, so he isn’t going to have another funeral.

  I hope you are happy with your new family. Your wife is damn pretty. And your little girl and baby boy, too. I liked looking at their pictures until you blocked me or deleted your account online or whatever.

  Did you know I was looking at the public photos?

  Were you afraid I’d show up one day and want to play happy family?

  Don’t worry. I’ll stay in the one you helped destroy.

  Fuck you, Dad.

  Sincerely,

  Brynn

  Folder:

  Drafts

  To:

  Rachel@msnbc.com

  From:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  Date:

  September 29

  Subject:

  Family Ties

  Dear Rachel Maddow,

  Stepparents get a bad rap. Stepmothers, actually. But let me tell you, in my experience, stepfathers deserve all the shade thrown at them from every direction. Or at least mine does.

  I mean, I never liked the guy. I never even tried—this is true. But he never tried, either. And he never cared about me or Nick and who knows about Mom. And he’s the grown-ass adult and I am a kid, and grown-ass adults are supposed to be better.

  Today’s interaction with the Failed (Grown) Ass (Adult):

  Me: Do we have any bread?

  Him: Did you buy any?

  Me: No.

  Him: Do you have money to buy any?

  Me: How could I?

  Him: Quit fucking loafing and maybe then you’d have some goddamn bread.

  Me: *snort*

  Him: You think that’s funny? Get a job.

  Rachel, he failed to realize his lame pun. This kind of stupid pissed me off as much as not being able to make even a fucking PB&J. PB&J should be a human right. Or whatever the cultural equivalent of a PB&J is all over the world.

  At least I could hide in my room with the peanut butter and eat it straight out of the jar with a spoon. It could be worse.

  Sincerely,

  Brynn

  Folder:

  Inbox

  To:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  From:

  Mail Delivery Subsystem

  Date:

  October 3

  Subject:

  Making contact

  Delivery to the following recipient failed permanently

  RayNHarp0945@gmail.com

  Technical des of permanent failure:

  Google tried to deliver your message, but it was rejected by the server for the recipient domain gmail.com

  by gmail-smtp-in.l.google.com. [2a00:0973:400c:c0b::1b].

  The error that the other server returned was:

  550-5.1.1 The e-mail account that you tried to reach does not exist. Please try

  550-5.1.1 double-checking the recipient’s e-mail address for typos or

  550-5.1.1 unnecessary spaces. Learn more at

&nbs
p; 550 5.1.1 https://support.google.com/mail/answer/6596 c43si9004801wma.125-gsmtp

  ——Original message——

  Hi Dad,

  I got this e-mail from an old permission slip. I have tried to contact you at another old e-mail, but I guess you don’t have that address anymore? How does an e-mail address go away? Physical mail you can forward, I know. And phone numbers are reassigned. But, do you close an e-mail account? To avoid that? Or maybe you block certain people?

  Anyway, I thought you might want to know how I’m doing. That I’m still alive and kicking. And maybe you’d like to see me again? I’m not so bad, am I? Unlike Nick, I neither drink nor do drugs. I don’t have the stomach for either. And I write a lot of letters.

  Do you remember that about me? That I liked to write? Do you remember the newspapers I’d made for you and Mom and Nicholas? I could teach your kids to do that. I could be a good influence. If you’d let me.

  Sincerely,

  Brynn

  Folder:

  Inbox