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 know a lot about J.J. already. 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 such 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 skirt. 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.
She's already firing, but not at me. At J.J., who hasn't gotten down.
But Esteban deliberately drops and Carla—Carla's half a step behind me, launching herself as well.
Together we tackle Lizbet, and I pry the pistol from her hands. Carla and I hold her as people come running from all directions, some adults, some kids holding letters.
Everyone gathers. We have no handcuffs, but someone finds rope. Someone else has contacted emergency services, using the emergency link that we all have, that we all should have used, that I should have used, that I probably had used in another life, in another universe, one in which I didn't write a letter. I probably contacted emergency services and said something placating to Lizbet, and she probably shot all four of us, instead of poor J.J.
J.J., who is motionless on the floor, his blood slowly pooling around him. The football coach is trying to stop the bleeding and someone I don't recognize is helping and there's nothing I can do, not at the moment, they're doing it all while we wait for emergency services.
The security guard ties up Lizbet and sets the gun on the desk and we all stare at it, and Annie Sanderson, the English teacher, says to the guard, “You're supposed to check everyone, today of all days. That's why we hired you."
And the principal admonishes her, tiredly, and she shuts up. Because we know that sometimes Red Letter Day causes this, that's why it's held in school, to stop family annihilations and shootings of best friends and employers. Schools, we're told, can control weaponry and violence, even though they can't, and someone, somewhere, will use this as a reason to repeal Red Letter Day, but all those people who got good letters or letters warning them about their horrible drunken mistake will prevent any change, and everyone—the pundits, the politicians, the parents—will say that's good.
Except J.J.'s parents, who have no idea their son had no future. When did he lose it? The day he met Lizbet? The day he didn't listen to me about how crazy she was? A few moments ago, when he didn't dive for the floor?
I will never know.
But I do something I would never normally do. I grab Lizbet's envelope, and I open it.
The handwriting is spidery, shaky.
Give it up. J.J. doesn't love you. He'll never love you. Just walk away and pretend that he doesn't exist. Live a better life than I have. Throw the gun away.
Throw the gun away.
She did this before, just like I thought.
And I wonder: Was the letter different this time? And if it was, how different? Throw the gun away. Is that line new or old? Has she ignored this sentence before?
My brain hurts. My head hurts.
My heart hurts.
I was angry at J.J. just a few moments ago, and now he's dead.
He's dead and I'm not.
Carla isn't either.
Neither is Esteban.
I touch them both and motion them close. Carla seems calmer, but Esteban is blank—shock, I think. A spray of blood covers the left side of his face and shirt.
I show them the letter, even though I'm not supposed to.
"Maybe this is why we never got our letters,” I say. “Maybe today is different than it was before. We survived, after all."
I don't know if they understand. I'm not sure I care if they understand.
I'm not even sure if I understand.
I sit in my office and watch the emergency services people flow in, declare J.J. dead, take Lizbet away, set the rest of us aside for interrogation. I hand someone—one of the police officers—Lizbet's red envelope, but I don't tell him we looked.
I have a hunch he knows we did.
The events wash past me, and I think that maybe this is my last Red Letter Day at Barack Obama High School, even if I survive the next two weeks and turn fifty.
And I find myself wondering, as I sit on my desk waiting to make my statement, whether I'll write my own red letter after all.
What can I say that I'll listen to? Words are so very easy to misunderstand. Or misread.
I suspect Lizbet only read the first few lines. Her brain shut off long before she got to Walk away and Throw away the gun.
Maybe she didn't write that the first time. Or maybe she's been writing it, hopelessly, to herself in a continual loop, lifetime after lifetime after lifetime.
I don't know.
I'll never know.
None of us will know.
That's what makes Red Letter Day such a joke. Is it the letter that keeps us on the straight and narrow? Or the lack of a letter that gives us our edge?
Do I write a letter, warning myself to make sure Lizbet gets help when I meet her? Or do I tell myself to go to the draft no matter what? Will that prevent this afternoon?
I don't know.
I'll never know.
Maybe Father Broussard was right; maybe God designed us to be ignorant of the future. Maybe He wants us to move forward in time, unaware of what's ahead, so that we follow our instincts, make our first, best—and only—choice.
Maybe.
Or maybe the letters mean nothing at all. Maybe all this focus on a single day and a single note from a future self is as meaningless as this year's celebration of the Fourth of July. Just a day like any other, only we add a ceremony and call it important.
I don't know.
I'll never know.
Not if I live two more weeks or two more years.
Either way, J.J. will still be dead and Lizbet will be alive, and my future—whatever it is—will be the mystery it always was.
The mystery it should be.
The mystery it will always be.
Copyright © 2010 Kristine Kathryn Rusch
[Back to Table of Contents]
Short Story: FLOTSAM by K.C. Ball
Desperate times call for . . .
Quin and Zoe had swept away the orbiting debris field and were almost back to the Mary Shelley airlock when Jill broadcast her warning over the corporation's open radio band.
"Heads up out there! We've got incoming."
Zoe canceled her momentum right away. Quin slid past her, managing to stop his own progress just three meters from the lock. He spied a streak of light beyond the leading edge of Mary Shelley, movement against the matte black of space that could be nothing else but sunlight thrown back from a fast-moving object, and the thirty-meter-long extended-range work vehicle shuddered as if it was a great bone caught up by some invisible Brobdingnagian mutt. Everything was still for one long instant and then vapor and debris spewed into space at the edge of Quin's vision.
It was from the life support and propulsion module.
"We are hit, Cayley Station."
Jill's transmitted voice was dead calm now, and at the sound of it a chill skittered down Quin's spine. He sucked in a deep breath of pure, cool oxygen.
"I repeat,” Jill said. “We are hit but still in one piece. I am evaluating damage."
In the next instant, she switched to the team's private band.
"Zoe, are you all right?"
There was no reply. Jill tried again.
"Zoe?"
"I see her, Jill,” he said.
Her back was to him and she was turned one hundred eighty degrees off his orienting line. Her figure was contorted, bent at the waist to the limits of the suit, with both hands clasped upon her left thigh. Quin called to her this time.
"Zoe?"
"I'm here,” she replied. Her voice was weak, reedy.
"Zoe, what's wrong?” Jill asked. Her words were hesitant now, worried.
"Something hit me, punched straight through my thigh, I think. I can't make it back inside on my own."
"Damn it, Quin!” Jill said. “Help her."
The measured pace of his progress was maddening, and Jill's goading itched like an old scab. Even so, now was not the time to lose focus and follow his emotions, as he so often did, to rush forward without thought. He drew another deep breath and reached for that calm center the yoga instructor at Sonny Carter Training Center had encouraged.
Breathing is involuntary, an essential part of life. You can't control whether or not you breathe, but you can control the way that you breathe. Inhale on a four-count and exhale on a four-count. Match the rate for both. Control can save your life.
As his respiration slowed, he forced himself to think the situation through. He had to be analytical. It was what Zoe would do if the situation were reversed.
One humid Wednesday at Sonny Carter, Quin had scrawled faster than a speeding bullet in his notebook after the instructor had told them an object maintaining orbital velocity at a crossing orbit would travel at multiples of the velocity of sound.
So if Zoe had been hit, and Quin was certain she wouldn't say it if it wasn't so, it had to be debris from Mary Shelley. If it were the object that had hammered the work vehicle or a traveling companion of that object, the systemic shock of the impact alone would have killed her. And whatever hit Zoe had to be tiny, because even debris as small and thin as a potato chip would have blown her leg away.
Analog SFF, September 2010 Page 12