Dear Rachel Maddow

by Adrienne Kisner

  “Primaries.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Erin, I’m afraid it’s essential for my mental health for you to become an informed voter,” I said.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “You owe it to yourself and your country.”

  “Even in the fucking psych ward you are lecturing me. They need to adjust your meds.”

  I glared at her.

  “Too soon? All right. Too soon,” she said.

  But I laughed in spite of myself.

  “All right, I gotta jet. I look forward to putting you back on the schedule. These new girls are just in it for the discount.”

  “Yes, and I work at Aerie for the love.” I rolled my eyes.

  “Damn right you do.” Erin leaned down and kissed the top of my head. “Later.”

  I have group therapy in ten minutes. The social worker that runs it kind of looks like Christiane Amanpour. It’s good for the recovery process.

  Sincerely,

  Brynn

  Folder:

  Drafts

  To:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  From:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  Date:

  April 11

  Subject:

  A new day

  Dear Rachel Maddow,

  I’m glad to be out. Every day cost a shit ton of money, and even though Mom has some kick-ass insurance, there was a limit on me being there. Mom stopped by once to tell me that I better not have to come back, or else Fart Weasel would find out. I’m fucked up on my own, I know, but I can’t help but thank her stellar parenting for me being partly the way I am. My inpatient team is hooking me up with a social worker and a legal aide and another social worker and oh, what now? Another social worker! There is a lot of social work in my future. Eighteen-year-olds can drop out of school, but being a minor who nearly (ACCIDENTALLY, THANK YOU VERY MUCH) died out of desperation can occasionally net you some support, especially if your mom-who-doesn’t-want-you-anymore works at a really good hospital.

  That is some fucked-up ironic shit right there.

  “I’m still unwell,” I said to Erin when she picked me up from the hospital. I could sign myself out, being eighteen and all.

  “Point me to the person who’s really happy, truly happy,” she said.

  “Sorry about the beer,” I said.

  “It’s okay. There won’t be any more in the house for a long time.”

  “I won’t drink it. It’s the worst thing on Earth.”

  “Do you feel like dying anymore?”

  “I never did,” I said. “Not really. That wasn’t it. I just … I was tired. Tired of Adam. Tired of Mom. Tired of being responsible for possibly ruining Michaela’s life again. Tired of being tired. I should have just gone to bed. But…” I trailed off.

  I was still too tired to explain.

  So, at Erin’s I went to sleep. For hours and hours. I’d wake up, strangled with thoughts of Nick or Michaela and some Sarah in there because my mind hates me.

  What helped most was reading Lacey’s e-mails. And Mr. Grimm’s. They cared about me. And so did Leigh and Erin. That was more than a lot of people get.

  I wondered if Nick was tired. Is that what he wanted, the night he overdosed? Rest? Peace? A new skin, a new life? I’d never know. Right now, alone and raw in the safety of Erin and Leigh’s place, it was too much to think about him. How I almost did end up like him. I didn’t want that. I want … something else.

  I’ll think of it later. After I sleep.

  Sincerely,

  Brynn

  Folder:

  Sent

  To:

  Rachel@msnbc.com

  From:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  Date:

  April 14

  Subject:

  RE: Questions

  Dear Rachel Maddow,

  Hello! Remember me? Queen Overshare? Humor helps me cope!

  Part of me hopes you didn’t read all of my letters. Part of me is just mortified thinking of the staffer who suffered through any of it.

  Although, this means that I did technically send you all the answers to Mr. Grimm’s questions, relieving myself of the existential guilt carried by having disappointed him in yet another way. He always kept asking if I replied to you from the beginning of the year. That might have made this past year almost worth it. (Almost.) Maybe one day you’ll get to meet him. You’d like him. He’s sure to save the world at least once and merit a spot on The Interview.

  I still write to you (offline, oh my e-mail, OFFLINE). I hope you don’t mind. You’re like my patronus or at least my Patron Saint of Reporting Stuff That Sucks but Still Encouraging Civic Involvement Anyway.

  Thank you again.

  Sincerely,

  Brynn

  Folder:

  Drafts

  To:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  From:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  Date:

  April 15

  Subject:

  Back to the Future

  Dear Rachel Maddow,

  I went back to school today. Not much had changed.

  Lacey was happy I was still alive.

  So was Mr. Grimm.

  Bianca, Riley, Lance, and Greg also seemed pleased.

  Happiest of all was Justin. He is thrilled that I’m back on the paper, even if I’m just going to help brainstorm and maybe edit for a bit. (Which is comical. Me. Edit. Maybe Justin can read the articles out loud to me. I can tell him how they sound. Actually, I think the computer does that. Maybe I’ll ask.)

  Investigative journalist that he is, he had found out who had tried to frame me before the election. And then he had the unhappy task of dropping that truth bomb about Sarah on me.

  I stared at him after he told me she had definitely been the one to log in to my fucking school e-mail and send the pictures of Adam from my account. I knew it was a possibility, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe it was true until Justin told me.

  “Say that again,” I said slowly.

  Justin repeated the story. The library cameras showed her going into the library. She had logged in as me. Logged in to the e-mail as me. They knew it wasn’t me because the time stamp of the e-mails matched the time stamp on the video.

  Thanks, surveillance state.

  My mouth hung open. It felt like my blood stopped pumping and my lungs stopped expanding.

  Justin shifted uncomfortably.

  After a moment, I realized that my body hadn’t ceased to function because Sarah had actually been the one who tried to seriously fuck me over. Blood pumped. Oxygen entered and exited just as before. Sarah had broken my heart, multiple times. But Erin and Leigh and Lacey and Mr. Grimm and some medication and meditation at Mom’s excellent hospital had welded those few pieces back together. It wouldn’t shatter in the same places again.

  The scars still burned, though. I could physically feel her betrayal in my chest. In my entire body. I had loved her and in the end she had only ever loved herself.

  Because how else could she have done that?

  How?

  “How could she have done that?” I asked Justin.

  “I can’t even imagine,” said Justin.

  And he had as much of an imagination as I did.

  We sat there with our silent, failed imaginations together.

  That helped a little.

  I’m glad I’m only allowed back half days this week. The thought of staying here, in school, where everything happened … it was still too much. Next week I’ll be back to full days.

  Justin feels we should now spend our time looking in to the materials used to renovate the War Memorial and what role that played in the fire.

  I admit I’m intrigued.

  But. One day at a time. That’s what my counselor says.

  I’m not dropping out yet, at least. If I did, I wouldn’t get to be on the paper.

  Michaela hasn’t been back, eithe
r. Lacey’s aide said she is doing homeschool temporarily. She couldn’t find out if Michaela was ever coming back.

  Sincerely,

  Brynn

  Folder:

  Drafts

  To:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  From:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  Date:

  April 16

  Subject:

  Filters

  Dear Rachel Maddow,

  Holy fuckballs. MICHAELA WROTE TO ME AND IT WENT TO SPAM. She might think I’m dead. I should get a new phone. Mom and Fart Weasel never gave me mine back. But I’ll be back at Aerie eventually, and can afford my own. Though, her number was stored in the one they took, damn it all.

  Folder:

  Drafts

  To:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  From:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  Date:

  May 1

  Subject:

  Filters

  Dear Rachel Maddow,

  I’m back to work at Aerie. It is strangely therapeutic.

  “Erin,” I said at the end of the night.

  “Mmm,” she said, shuffling papers on the desk in the back office.

  “If you had to find someone who didn’t want to be found, what would you do?” I asked.

  Erin looked up. “Huh?” she said.

  “I need to find someone. A girl. My girlfriend. Or … at least she was.”

  “Does she go to your school?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Then find her at school.”

  “That has not been successful.”

  “I doubt you really tried,” she said.

  She was right, but still.

  “Though,” Erin said, looking thoughtful. “Don’t you have any clever ne’er-do-wells in your life who could help you out with this sort of thing?”

  “Ne’er-do-well? Who says that anymore?”

  “I do,” said Erin.

  I thought about that. I did have several such people at my disposal.

  In case God creeps on e-mails like a cosmic Homeland Security operative or whatever, I want to put in an application for Erin, Patron Saint of Girls’ Underwear and Likely Doomed Love Affairs. She inspired me to action, if nothing else.

  It was too late to go tonight. But … tomorrow. Watch this space.

  Sincerely,

  Brynn

  Folder:

  Drafts

  To:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  From:

  Brynnieh0401@gmail.com

  Date:

  May 2

  Subject:

  All is fair

  Dear Rachel Maddow,

  Thanks to Lacey’s aide, I had in my possession Michaela’s home address.

  Michaela lives two bus rides and a steep hike away from Leigh and Erin. I looked her address up online over and over just to make sure. I panted my way up the hill, trying to channel the little blue engine who applied or whatever that book is. As I summited the avenue, I muttered internally about mountain dwellers because I didn’t have breath to spare to curse out loud.

  After I caught my breath, I slogged along the poorly maintained sidewalks until I reached the address saved in my new phone. The house looked … normal. Brown tiles. Roof. Windows. Not even a moldering couch or anything on the porch. Just … house. I kept walking. When I got a block away and the street started to slope down again, I turned around, crossed the street, and went back. I stared at her house across the asphalt and concrete. Was she even home? Was this legal? This was surely a terrible idea. She hated me. What was I even doing?

  This went on for at least a half an hour. Eventually it started to rain so that I had to either shit or get off the pot. So I stepped onto the porch. I went to the door, and before I could think better of it, I rang the bell. A moment passed. And then another one. “Oh, whelp, gotta go, hey, at least I tried…” I thought. But then the door swung open. A tiny woman with silver hair wearing a tentlike robe stood in front of me.

  “Um. Hello, ma’am,” I said. I really should have prepared a script. “I was wondering if Michaela is home?”

  The tiny lady’s face lit up. “Are you a little friend?” She beamed. “Come to play with Chaela! Oh, how nice.”

  “Gram, don’t stand by the door. It’s getting cold,” I heard Michaela call from inside.

  I don’t know if my heart stopped, but it felt like it did. The tiny lady withdrew from the doorway, and I heard her say something. Then Michaela came to the door.

  “We don’t want any…” she started, but froze the instant she saw me.

  “I’m-so-sorry-the-whole-thing-was-my-fault-I’m-so-not-into-politics-but-Lacey-you-know-she’s-going-to-Penn-so-it’s-all-good-but-Rachel-Maddow-is-so-damn-cheerful-maybe-you-don’t-watch-her-MSNBC-anyway-I’m-so-so-so-sorry-actually-okay-I-really-am-into-politics-but-not-like-that-and-I-love-you.” Everything came out in one breath.

  Holy Cable News Networks, I said the L-word to her. If one leg of this journey or another didn’t cause me to pass out or die, then I’d have only luck to thank.

  But I wasn’t even done.

  “YOU ARE PERFECT IN EVERY WAY!” I shouted.

  She opened her mouth to speak.

  “I’M SORRY I RUIN LIVES,” I said.

  Next time, Rachel, mark my words: teleprompter. Notes on clipboard.

  Actually, fuck that. There will be no next time.

  “You didn’t ruin my life, Brynn.” Michaela sighed. “Others beat you to it.” She looked at the ground. “I beat you to it. Come in. You’re freezing.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I stepped inside the house and looked around. It was like a gingerbread home. The couch appeared to be shrink-wrapped in plastic. Every flat surface had a round crocheted thingy on it, with little bright ceramic thingies perched on top.

  “Gram loves tchotchkes,” Michaela explained. “She calls them her ‘whimsies.’”

  I was sorely tempted to ask what the fuck tchotchkes were, but I gathered they involved ceramics and yarn.

  “Listen, I don’t have to stay. I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry. If you hate me, I’ll…”

  I didn’t know what.

  “I get it. Really. But I’m sorry. And…” I trailed off.

  Michaela came close to me. “You keep saying you’re sorry,” she said.

  “I am.”

  “For what?”

  “For running for stupid SGA so that Adam went after you to get back at me. For him finding and putting up all that stuff. I’m sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “But…”

  “Brynn, that wasn’t your fault. I didn’t blame you. Believe me, I blame that asshole Adam for that shit.”

  “Oh.” I looked around quizzically. China dolls from a glass cabinet returned my confused glance. “You left. You didn’t come back. I didn’t…”

  “How could I possibly come back? Why would you want to talk to me?”

  “How could I not not want to … wait, what?” I looked to the china dolls for answers. They didn’t know what the hell was going on, either.

  “That’s what happens. When people see the pictures. They don’t want to talk to you, right? They whisper behind your back, sure, but not to your face. Stuff got out of hand at my old school, and I wanted the hell out of there. Ol’ Ma and Pa thought that Gram wasn’t doing so hot, so they thought that they could kill two birds with one stone. Get me a fresh start, and get Gram a cheap caretaker. My uncle lives nearby. But he works afternoons and nights.”

  “Oh.”

  “I couldn’t face you.” Michaela sank onto what appeared to be a plastic-wrapped couch. “How could I?” She put her face in her hands.

  I gingerly sat down on the condom couch next to her. “You’re facing me now,” I said, more gently than I thought myself capable.

  “Yeah, well, you found me,” she said.

  “Do you hate me?” I asked.

 
; “No.”

  “Do you want me to go?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” I just sat there. You know, Rachel, things often go better with people the less I speak. Or do anything, really.

  “He found that online someplace, I guess,” Michaela said finally. “I don’t search anymore. Most are gone. But. You know.”

  I just nodded and eased a little closer to her. Her body relaxed.

  “Don’t think I’m a victim. Or, maybe I am, even though my shrink doesn’t like that word. But I’m not innocent. I was with a guy. Well, two guys. And another girl. I dated a lot, but only one person at a time. Well, within a pretty short time. But there was this party, and I got shit-faced. And I don’t even remember any of that, any of those pictures. I’m not proud of that. And there was this other girl who none of us liked and God knows what happened to her. She pressed charges, over the pictures taken of her. She wanted me to go in with her, but I wouldn’t. Even so, it became ‘Michaela is a slut,’ you know? God, I’m not making any sense. But you can … the pictures got online and it went around the school. And that other girl, the one I wouldn’t help? I was so mean to her. Brynn, it was fucked up. I fucked up. So I moved here to get a new start and a new shrink, but some things follow you. Forever. And I guess I deserve that.”

  She stopped talking. She put her face in her hands again, tears streaming down her cheeks.