Dear Rachel Maddow

by Adrienne Kisner

  “Well, yes, of course,” she said.

  God, she was also cute when she was about to get pissy.

  She was cute a lot around me these days.

  “But I know all of you, and let me tell you, you don’t represent anybody but yourselves,” I said. It was true. The last time Sarah and the Honors kids were in charge of anything, homecoming and school spirit week planning devolved into a lot of shouting about funding for the public good. It annoyed the hell out of me even though I was the biggest fan Sarah and public services ever had. And I hate pep rallies with the fiery heat of a thousand toasters. Rachel, you and I know that if someone is elected to serve a constituency, she should represent the will of the people who elected her. And the Westing High people love themselves the shit out of football and cheerleaders. SGA thus had an obligation to provide pointless dress-up days and wig contests, but they failed to do so.

  Not cool, school elected representatives. Not cool.

  And word on the street (and by “street” I mean “a really freckled kid named Justin”) had it that the Honors cohort was gunning for a new Honors lounge and funding for exclusive field trips, among other perks not available to the masses.

  “But, Brynn”—back was Sarah’s if-you-loved-me voice—“we are Honors students for a reason.”

  “Luck,” I said.

  “No, dear,” she said. “Or everybody would be here.”

  Yeah, because that’s how luck works.

  I rolled my eyes and gave her back the clipboard. “Have Nancy sign it. I’m sure she supports your cause.”

  Sarah frowned but said nothing.

  This bothers me, Rachel. All of it. And it bothers me more that I have no idea how to change it. [This is great! Not only did you answer one of the questions, you have also pulled in your critical thinking skills on civic engagement! Also, it’s probably best if you speak with some of those resource people to whom I referred you about your romantic relationships and keep them out of your work.]

  Sincerely,

  Brynn

  Folder:

  Drafts

  To:

  Rachel@msnbc.com

  From:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  Date:

  October 15

  Subject:

  Home on the range

  Dear Rachel Maddow,

  Last year on this date, at this time, I would have been at Sarah’s house. But since there is no more Sarah, I am stuck at home. On the plus side, Fart Weasel was out buying a new hose (probably to use in strangling someone’s dreams). On the minus side, Mom stayed behind.

  “Get up, Brynn. It’s past ten,” she said from the doorway.

  I just mumbled into my pillow. There was no reason I should get up. I had no one to call, nowhere to go, nothing I wanted to do.

  “Brynn. Get your lazy ass out of bed.” She came over and batted at my blanketed feet.

  I squirmed away from her, but I only have a twin bed, so there wasn’t much room for escape. “Mph, sleep. I wanna sleep forever.”

  “I haven’t slept in since you were born. Get. Up.” She didn’t leave until I sat up. I got dressed and trudged into the kitchen. Mom eyed me.

  “So, any big plans for today?” I asked. I thought maybe a friendly approach would make her ignore me quicker.

  “Brynn…” she started. She sighed. Then she sighed again. Then she triple sighed and I knew I was in for it. “What are you doing? You should have a job. You should have plans for your future. You should have any kind of ambition at all. Nicky didn’t…”

  It was as if he entered the room, then. The temperature dropped twenty degrees, his icy corpse floating just outside our peripheral vision. The fact was that I never cared about what Mom or Dad and certainly not Fart Weasel thought of me. But I wanted to make Nick proud. He always saw the best in me, so I wanted to be the best. I thought if I tried hard for the both of us, then maybe he’d want to make me proud of him again. Before I could do enough, he gave up. Or couldn’t fight the drugs, or whatever. I still wondered that if I’d been a better sister, maybe he’d still be here.

  Maybe Mom wondered that. Maybe she felt responsible for Nick’s death, just like me.

  “Do you ever feel like Nick would still be alive if you were a better mom?” I asked. Maybe we could have a Hallmark moment of shared grief or some shit that would bring us together as mother and daughter.

  Mom’s eyes grew huge and round. She raised her hand to her chest and stepped away from me, like my words punched her. “I did everything. Everything for him. For you. How…”

  Definitely no Hallmark moment here.

  “No, I didn’t mean it like that,” I said. “I just mean, I don’t know, that I think I could have…”

  “Stop. Just stop.”

  “Listen! I’m not saying I think Nick died because you screwed up! I’m saying—”

  “Brynn!” Mom shouted. She wouldn’t let me explain.

  “Mom!” I shouted back, but Fart Weasel banged in the back door. Mom conveniently burst into tears as soon as she saw him.

  “What’d you do now?” he said, looking at me.

  “Just go,” Mom said, through muffled sobs.

  I grabbed my jacket and backpack off the shelf in the hall and ran off the porch before they changed their minds and made me stay.

  I don’t know if it was my fault Nick died. Or Mom’s, or Dad’s. It probably was at least a little Fart Weasel’s. But the giant hole he left was big enough for me to slip through. I could hide behind and in his memory. Mom couldn’t see me there, nor could I see myself. There was only the empty Nick-shaped void where he should have been.

  Sincerely,

  Brynn

  Folder:

  Drafts

  To:

  Rachel@msnbc.com

  From:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  Date:

  October 16

  Subject:

  Good times

  Dear Rachel Maddow,

  October used to be my favorite month. The wind whips bloodred and sunset-orange and lemon-yellow leaves through the air and hides all the gray. It’s some picturesque-ass shit if you ask me.

  Sarah was my October year-round. She is picturesque as fuck, true. And God knows she can stir chills in me. But it was more that she was a crisp sense of possibility. She was a fresh-lined sheet of loose-leaf and a perfectly sharpened pencil.

  Back in the early days, we had a routine. I’d go over to her house. We’d read each other passages from It Takes a Village and vow that we’d be the women leaders of the next generation. She’d try to talk me into doing my homework, and I’d try to talk her out of doing hers. She’d let me talk about Nick. She seemed to understand that reading and writing and math took me five times as long as it did anyone else in my class. That letters turned in funny ways and numbers looked like a foreign alphabet. She got that all of my energy for school died with Nick. So we’d end up in a tickle fight, and then we’d start kissing and then. Well. Let’s just say the sky was blue over every perfect autumn day right there in her room.

  Sarah was … is … generous. If she considers you to be hers, then she hates your enemies and loves your friends. She loathed Dad and Fart Weasel. She remembered Nick’s birthday and even went to the cemetery twice when I went to stomp on the flowers I’d put on his grave.

  But when one is not Sarah’s, one simply is not. One ceases to exist. It meant so much to me to matter to her. She knew that. And to then not matter? God. How can you do that to a person? I wasn’t exactly the best girlfriend, but I loved her. And she left.

  Typical of people, isn’t it? Typical of life.

  Fuck people. Fuck life.

  This makes me know that we can’t go back. I started not mattering even when we were together. That was worse than being alone.

  I think.

  Sincerely,

  Brynn

  Folder:

  Drafts

  To:

  Rachel@ms
nbc.com

  From:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  Date:

  October 16

  Subject:

  I might believe

  Dear Rachel Maddow,

  Are you religious? I’m not. Mom and Fart Weasel are, so that’s enough to make me run from any church. Sarah used to say (maybe she still does, actually) that she’s “spiritual.” I don’t know what that means. I don’t think she really does, either. I think she just wanted to be able to hang with the kids who talked about Zen and finding yourself on a work trip over the summer or something.

  I bring this up because something happened that made me think that maybe, just maybe, God is a thing. A real thing or idea or bearded guy in space just outside the Earth’s atmosphere that today looked down and thought, “Brynn, you ridiculous little shit, maybe you should get a life.” I know that people are starving or suffering, and the woes of a failing seventeen-year-old junior really aren’t high on the priority list. But maybe God sneezed and accidently gave me the side-eye, and since he’s God or whatever, he thought he’d throw something good my way for funsies.

  Space God gave unto Brynn in study hall today. Lacey had just finished rattling off a fifteen-minute explanation of an algebra problem to us. It took her four tries until she found a way to explain it that we all understood.

  “Honestly, why do you bother?” I asked her afterward. “When are we ever going to use this stuff in real life?”

  “It’s fun to explain things. You can practically see a light bulb flicker over Riley’s head once he gets something.”

  “Isn’t it boring as balls talking about the same thing over and over and over again?”

  Lacey chuckled. “Nothing is ever boring with you, Brynn.”

  I opened my mouth to argue with her again, but stopped short when the door opened and in walked the most beautiful creature Space God had ever created.

  “Um, hi?” the beautiful creature said. “Is this room zero-zero-five?”

  I wondered at the notion that the blue room did, in fact, have a number.

  “Yes.” Ms. Yee, Applied math, science, and study hall enthusiast, smiled and got up from her chair. “Are you Michaela Jordan? Welcome!”

  Michaela nodded. I watched her walk up to Ms. Yee and shake her hand. She was perfect. She had these light gray eyes that pierced. Damn.

  “That’s me,” she said. She looked around the room. She smiled at Lacey and then glanced around, her gaze stopping on me. She smiled wider. I couldn’t help but stare.

  “Class, Michaela has joined us at Westing High after moving from…” Ms. Yee paused. “Michigan?”

  Michaela nodded.

  “She has been assigned to the blue room as a peer tutor. She’s joining us for her free period, which happens to also be study hall for all of you. Let’s be friendly. Michaela, feel free to have a seat wherever you want!” And Ms. Yee went back to her desk.

  And Lacey went back to knowing everything.

  And Michaela went to the back of the room to sit right in front of me.

  I did not go back. For the first time in years, my brain moved on to new thoughts. Thoughts that made sitting in the uncomfortably confining blue room desks nearly impossible.

  Oh my Space God. What the Space hell do I do now?

  I have a best new thing in the world today, Rachel. This segment hasn’t been on The Brynn Harper show in a long, long time.

  Sincerely,

  Brynn

  Folder:

  Drafts

  To:

  Rachel@msnbc.com

  From:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  Date:

  October 17

  Subject:

  Belief, continued

  Dear Rachel Maddow,

  Michaela came back today. Michaela will come back every day. Michaela gave up her study hall to come peer tutor us, having been at Westing High only a week. She was a peer tutor at her school in Michigan. Michaela likes peer tutoring.

  Michaela, Michaela, Michaela.

  Today she helped Lance for twenty minutes on the intro paragraph to a persuasive essay.

  Then she was going to help me with something, but instead Lacey checked Michaela’s bio lab for her. It took Michaela like two minutes to figure out the awesome that is our blue room leader.

  So she really is smart.

  With curly dark hair and eyes that I swear fucking twinkle.

  Michaela looked over to witness me totally creeping on her, and like always, she smiled. I tried to smile back, but I think my face didn’t understand the messages coming from my brain, it was so out of practice. I just sort of grimaced.

  Every day, she’ll come back, Rachel. Every. Day.

  Sincerely,

  Brynn

  Folder:

  Drafts

  To:

  Rachel@msnbc.com

  From:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  Date:

  October 18

  Subject:

  Every day

  Dear Rachel Maddow,

  Today, Michaela sat down next to me.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Um. Hi?” I said.

  “Lacey said I should talk to you.”

  “Oh yeah. She gets sick of helping me with math all the time.” I looked down at my hands.

  “She didn’t mention math.”

  I snuck a glance over at Lacey. She was noticeably turned toward the opposite side of the room.

  “Oh.”

  “But I can help you with that if you want. I love math!” Michaela beamed.

  “Okay.” I prayed that Lacey hadn’t exaggerated my conversational skills.

  I didn’t say much as Michaela bent over my math book, explaining a theorem to me. I watched as the black coils of her hair bounced when she moved her head.

  “Are you listening to me?” she asked.

  “No. I was too taken with your glorious hair. Also, your eyes,” I said, nervous truth-spewing in full effect.

  I could feel the heat in my face as I watched attractive red blotches rise on her neck.

  “Oh, wow. Um. Thanks.” She pulled at a dark lock next to her chin.

  “But I’m impressed by your mathematical, uh, prowess. As well. You are impressive.”

  “Oh, wow. Um. Thanks,” she said again.

  If I kept speaking, I thought both of our heads might just spontaneously combust. Just then, the bell rang.

  “Well. Okay. I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” she said, mostly to me. Lacey turned around and grinned. I just shook my head back at her, kind of stunned.

  I don’t know what the hell happened there, Rachel. Something. Something happened. But that’s all the news that’s fit to print at the moment.

  Sincerely,

  Brynn

  Folder:

  Drafts

  To:

  Rachel@msnbc.com

  From:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  Date:

  October 19

  Subject:

  Freckle Juice

  Dear Rachel Maddow,

  If you are in the market for a relentless and indefatigable high school intern, I know a guy.

  “Brynn.”

  “Justin.” We basically had a ritual greeting at this point.

  “The paper—”

  “Needs me. Only, yeah, no, it doesn’t. I read your piece about cafeteria trays. Who knew it actually was better for the Earth.” I rolled my eyes. “In the pocket of SGA now, are we?”

  Justin grimaced. “Listen. I stand by the reporting on that. But I’m telling you, things are weird. Like, War Memorial weird. I’ve been working that story since it broke, and I think if you just look at all the accounts, you’d be able to see how conflicting everyone’s explanations are. Maybe if you could just come down to the journalism room once in a while to visit?”

  “No.”

  “Sarah’s not even there anymore. You know that. Neither is Adam. Or Nancy.�
��

  I raised my eyebrows.

  He shrugged. “This is not news to you. But what could be news is this War Memorial stuff. I think maybe even people we know could have been involved. People from here at school, Brynn.”

  A tiny spark of interest thrilled with in me. It quickly fizzled when I realized a 2.3 was still far away. I sighed. “I’ll think about it.”

  “No, you won’t. You are saying that to get rid of me.”

  “Well, okay. I probably won’t. But Mr. McCloud would be there and I can’t look him in the face. I’m not trying to get rid of you. You could come down to the blue room sometime, you know.”

  Justin flushed red. “Oh. You think?”

  “Yeah, sure. Why not? Nothing’s stopping you.”

  Justin blushed again. “Maybe I will. Um. Lacey Willis is usually down there.”

  “Why, yes, she is, Justin.” I looked at him again. “Oh my God. You’re in love with Lacey.”

  “I’m not in love,” he said defensively. “But you know she took Academic Bowl last year as captain. She’ll probably do it again. That’s hot. And then there are those dresses she always wears.…” He trailed off.

  “Well, come on down, friend. I’ll be your wingman.” I grinned. All of that was hot, I had to agree. Justin was a dude and actually had a shot with woefully straight Lacey, damn him.