by Dawn Green
Loren: They did.
Me: Oh. I really hoped I was just imagining it.
Loren: You didn’t. It was weird. But, whatever, it’s their deal, not yours … How you been?
Me: Okay. You?
Loren: You know … hoping this year isn’t going to totally suck.
Me: Me, too. Sorry I’ve been kind of …
Loren: Nonexistent?
Me: Yeah.
Loren: I heard your parents made you go to a psychiatrist or something.
Me: Yep … a counselor.
Loren: What’s the difference?
Me: I don’t know. I don’t have to lie down on a couch or anything.
Loren: What do you do there?
Me: Talk. And she makes me write stuff down.
Loren: Like what?
Me: Just … stuff. (I didn’t want to tell her that I was writing to you.)
Loren: How’s that going for you?
Me: It sucks.
Loren: It would. Did you get your course list?
Me: Yep. Here.
Loren: Cool. Looks like we’ve got English, Math, and Spanish together.
Me: Cool.
It was the first time that I’d talked to Loren since the funeral. She messaged me a few times on Facebook. I just didn’t feel much like talking. I think she’s a little pissed that I haven’t talked to her in a while. It was nice of her to save me a seat, though.
The rest of the day was pretty uneventful—besides all the staring and whispering as I walked down the halls. I’ve kind of started getting used to it. I kind of have to.
Hasta luego.
Sticks
September 13th
Dear Stones,
When you left, things got weird. School is weird without you. Not weird in the way that everyone keeps pointing and whispering about me (because that’s starting to feel normal), but weird in the way that I keep thinking I’m going to see you in the bathroom (where we used to meet all the time to just get away from class for a while), at my locker, in the lunchroom, pretty much everywhere. The worst is the hallway, because sometimes I actually think I do see you. Like today when I was going to the library, I thought I saw you walking down the hall away from me. For a moment I thought it was you. For a moment I forgot about everything and I almost called out your name. It was only for a moment, though, because then the girl turned around and she obviously wasn’t you. She was some Grade 12 I’ve never seen before. But for that moment … for just that one moment, it was you and everything was normal again.
Then another weird thing happened when I was in the library. And yes, if you’re wondering, I’ve gone back to escaping into the library during breaks. I know you think it’s where the “losers” hang out, but I like it there. It’s quiet. It’s away from everyone’s stares and glares. It’s a place where I can just … be. So I don’t care if you think that makes me a loser. Why was I telling you this? Oh, ya, the weird thing that happened …
So there I was, minding my own business, tucked away in the corner of the history section, so I could read and secretly eat at the same time without the librarian kicking me out or telling me to throw away my lunch, when there was this girl watching me. I could feel her watching me before I saw her. You know that “creeper” feeling? So I looked up and saw her pretending to look at some books, when really she was looking at me. Watching me. I tried to just ignore her like I do everyone else, but this was different. She was different. I’ve never seen her before, so I think she must be in Grade 9. Her hair was in a ponytail and she was wearing a pair of those funky glasses that look like they’re from the 50’s—the ones with thick frames and pointy corners. You’d probably say they were cool and retro, but I don’t think that’s why she was wearing them. Anyway, she just kept watching me, even when she knew that I knew she was watching me. I tried to ignore her but, after ten minutes, I just couldn’t anymore.
Me: What?
Weird Girl: (saying nothing)
Me: Can I help you?
Weird Girl: (still nothing)
Me (totally creeped-out at this point): what’s your problem?
Weird Girl: You’re not supposed to yell in the library. And you’re not allowed to eat in here, either.
And then she left. It was strange but, sadly, also the most exciting thing that happened today.
Sincerely,
Sticks (aka, the loser, who hides out in the history corner of the library)
September 18th
Dear Stones,
When you left, life got boring. There really is nothing to tell you right now but the OC is on me about writing you more. I don’t know what to tell you. Things are fine. School is as boring as ever. I’ve been talking to Loren a bit more (mostly in class). Haven’t talked to Drea at all.
My parents are back to their ignoring each other phase. For a while they were getting along again. Talking more, mostly about me and about you. They even started up date night again … well, kind of. My dad wanted to take my mom out, but she told him she would rather stay home, order in, and rent a movie. It’s because she doesn’t want to leave me home alone at night. She told my dad that it was because she was tired, but he and I both know that she’s scared to leave me alone. She’s been like a 1950’s TV mom ever since you left. She does my laundry, makes my bed, makes me breakfast every morning, prepares my lunch for me, is home when I get home, and asks me way too many questions about my day. It was nice for a while, but it’s getting to be too much. I told her to back off the other day, that I just need some space away from her … and then she started crying. Moms know how to make you feel guilty like no one else.
That’s it. That’s all that’s been going on.
Sticks
September 21st
Dear Stones,
When you left, I became obsessed with you. Okay, I don’t know if obsessed is what you’d call it—you probably would—but I have something to confess … I’ve been watching you—a lot. Sometimes I spend hours in my room, just scrolling through my phone at old pictures and videos we took together. I can’t stop. I’ve tried but it’s like an addiction. My mom won’t let me have my phone at dinner, and sometimes I just sit at the table, thinking about running back up to my room … to be with you.
Photos of you. Of us. At the beach. At school. Your house. My house. Loren’s house. Last Halloween. The movie theater. The mall—there’s a ton of selfies we took in that hat store. Various parties … there are even some I took at the party that night. You’re not really in any of them, though, but if I zoom in, I can see you in the background. Like an eerie photobomb.
And I have that one video that I took of you singing at the beach. You’re just sitting on a piece of driftwood, playing your guitar and coming up with random improvised lyrics. Then you turn your head and see that I’m holding up my phone. You ask me if I’m recording you and then you yell, drop the guitar, and come running after me. The video goes all crazy and it looks like an old episode from COPS, except that you can hear us both laughing hysterically. You wanted me to erase it … I’m so glad I didn’t.
I just keep watching it over and over and over again. I just want to hear your voice. I keep thinking I’m just going to listen to it one more time and then, as soon as it’s over, I play it again.
I might have a problem.
Sticks
Sept 22nd
Dear Stones,
When you left … you left—as in gone—not here—absent—disappeared—missing—nonexistent …
October 6th
Dear Stones,
It’s been a while. You might not know that, because you’re not actually here and I’m not actually writing you. This little realization is part of the reason why I haven’t written in this thing for the last few weeks. When the OC asked me why I stopped writing to you, I kind of spazzed and told her it was stupid to write letters to someone who isn’t here and can’t read them … or respond to them. My spazzout kind of worked because she said that I could take a break from
the writing. I heard her tell my mom that I made some kind of breakthrough, and she thought the sessions were really helping me. BTW, I hate it when adults talk about you like you’re not even there.
Anyway, according to the OC, the writing break is over and I have to start up again. Only this time I can do it my way, none of the “when you left” stuff. I’m never going to tell the OC or anyone else this, but I don’t mind writing to you (for the most part). To be honest, you’re the only real friend I have right now. How pathetic is that? My only real friend is a dead friend who can’t talk to me or write me back.
So, there are a few things I should update you on. Where should I start?
Well, school still totally sucks. Nothing new there. Oh, except that Weird Girl with the pointy glasses has become my official stalker now. I see her everywhere. Or I should say, she sees me everywhere. It’s creepy. I’ll be in the hall, getting something out of my locker, and I can see her watching me from the stairs. She’s sitting on them and pretending to read a book but, every time I glance over, I can tell that she’s looking at me, not the book. Or I’ll be coming out of a class and she’ll just happen to be walking by the door when I leave. I think she knows my schedule. I know—I should be freaked out by this. And I’m not crazy—Loren has seen her, too. We were standing in the cafeteria line together and Loren was, like, “I think there’s a girl over in the corner staring at us.” When I looked, for sure it was her. I told Loren a little about the stalking stuff, which she laughed hysterically at, and then I asked her if she knew the girl and she said no, that she had never seen her before. Here’s the thing—the really strange thing: when I checked her out in the yearbook, not only did I find her (her name’s Melissa Hunter), but she’s in our grade and has been since elementary school. How can I not recognize a girl that we have gone to school with for years?
Are we all that invisible to one another?
I wonder if you knew her. Maybe a secret friend I didn’t know about? Anyway, I finally tried to talk to her, and she just turned around and walked away. At least I know she’s real and not some figment of my imagination. For a while, before Loren saw her, and before I looked her up in the yearbook, I was starting to think that I was going a little crazy. Like writing letters to my dead friend isn’t enough!
Speaking of crazy—my mom and your mom have started to become friends. And by that I mean they talk on the phone and go for coffee and stuff. I know—crazy, right?! I didn’t think they liked each other. Well, let’s be honest, my mom didn’t like your mom. But my mom doesn’t really like anyone. Sometimes, I don’t even think she likes me. No one can live up to her standards—that’s something I heard my dad yell at her once. I didn’t get it then but I do now. It’s like we’re not perfect enough for her. Nothing is ever good enough for her. Like she has this idea of what our lives should be like, and we’re not living up to it. I think she still wants me to be the little girl who danced in pink tights and went shopping with her every Saturday. I can’t help feeling that I’m not turning out the way she was hoping … whoa … off track … Oh, the OC would love this. More crap about my messed-up life to talk about. If you’re reading this, OC, just stop … my mom and I have a great relationship and everything is just fine.
Anyway, back to our moms. I’m going to keep an eye on them. It’s probably good for your mom that she has mine to talk to. I just hope my mom isn’t doing this out of pity or something. I feel like your mom has been through enough lately.
Sticks
P.S. Seriously, OC, ignore what I wrote above about my mom. It’s just normal teen / parent stuff. I’m fine. We’re fine. I do NOT want to talk about it.
October 8th
Dear Stones,
I’m writing to you in English class. We have a new student teacher, Miss Baker. What a keener! We’re about to start a poetry unit, and she’s acting like it’s the best thing ever. Ugh, I hate poetry. Why do they make us do this every year??
I remember you tried to get me to like it once. You told me to stop thinking about them like poems and start thinking about them like song lyrics. You said—and I quote—“Everything is better if it is set to music.” You thought music could fix anything … but I guess it couldn’t fix everything.
So I moved to the back of the class. It’s better here. No one can look at me without me knowing. Even though the new teacher is super peppy and hyper all the time, I kind of like her. She doesn’t look at me the way everyone else does. I guess she doesn’t know. Drea is in this class, too, and—surprise, surprise—she is sitting in the middle. Center stage, right where she wants to be. Loren sits in the back with me—not next to me, though; she’s across the room. All she ever does is draw in her notebook and stare at Mateo.
I like it back here. I’ve got the corner by the window and Jake, that big hockey kid who is almost never here, sits next to me. If he ever comes to class, he’s usually sleeping. Apparently he’s headed for the NHL or something. Don’t you have to pass school to play in the NHL? OH, GOD, now Baker is reading out a poem in front of the class. She’s actually standing on the desk and trying to say it like a rapper—a small white-girl rapper. Everyone’s laughing at her and taking pictures with their cell phones. You’d be rolling your eyes and making so much fun of her right now … actually, I think you’d like her, too. The bell just went.
Later.
Sticks
P.S. Two sightings of Weird Girl today.
October 10th
Dear Stones,
Señor Fuckhead confiscated my phone in Spanish class today. It’s not like I was bothering anyone, or like we were doing anything that mattered. He was up at the board, going over the past tense—which I aced on the last quiz, BTW—and then he just came over and took it out of my hand. He said some bullshit about not paying attention in class and then put it in his desk. The whole class “ooohed” like it was some big deal. Asshole.
When I went to get it from him after class, he told me that next time I tried to text during his class, he would send it and me to the office. I told him that I wasn’t texting, I was looking at pictures of you. I wasn’t trying to play the sympathy card (not really); it was the truth, but it worked like a charm, because he got really awkward and looked like he felt really bad. He actually apologized and told me that if I ever felt like I needed some time to myself, to just tell him and he’d let me go to the bathroom, or whatever. I’m still pissed that he took my phone in the first place, but I guess he’s a nice guy. I’m just glad he didn’t tell my parents—that’s all I need right now.
Sticks
October 12th
Stones,
I’ve been thinking about death a lot. And I’ve been thinking about you. Wondering how it felt, if it hurt, if you were scared, if you thought about me … and then I think about how selfish I’m being, wondering if your last thoughts were about me. I do wonder about your last thoughts a lot, though. I’ve been thinking a lot about death since the whole thing happened. I’m not telling anyone about that, though. It would just freak them out. They’re already freaking out enough.
I’ve got people watching me all the time. My mom is always poking her head in and wondering how I’m doing. That OC won’t leave me alone. The teachers at school keep looking at me during class. Then I catch them looking, and they get all uncomfortable and pretend they were doing something else. I think they’re scared I’m going to do something crazy. All I feel like doing is taking off for a while. All I want is to be alone for a little while, maybe go to that place on the beach where you and I used to go when we wanted “Sticks and Stones” time. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be alone again. I feel like I’m in a prison, surrounded by a cage of people who won’t let me out of their sight. I get it, though. I think they all think that they’re doing the right thing. Maybe if I hadn’t left you alone … probably wouldn’t have changed anything. Right?
Sticks
October 14th
Dear Stones,
You know “The Famous Published W
all of Work in English?” The one with stuff up there from all the way back to the 60’s? The one that Mr. Harper made a ginormous deal about when a student wrote something that according to him was “so amazing … so fantastic … so brilliant …” it deserved to be published and added to the wall. The one that he told us stays up FOREVER so future generations will have something to aspire to. That wall!! Well, I guess forever doesn’t include you anymore because, I’m sorry to break it to you, there’s an empty space where your poem (I think it was a poem—about the ocean? Or was it rain?) used to be. And it is so obvious that something is missing, because now there’s just this dark blue rectangular shape with a paler-blue sun-faded border around it—bordering nothing. And I can’t stop looking at it.
What do they think? We won’t think about you if we can’t see any of your things around? That they can just slowly disappear pieces of you and we won’t notice? Won’t remember? It’s like some sci-fi dystopian novel where the government tries to manipulate the past, thinking that the citizens just won’t notice. Next they’re going to try and remove that section of my memory … although, sometimes I wonder if that would be so bad. It probably wouldn’t hurt as much as this.
They also moved your desk to the side where all the dictionaries are stacked. I know it was your desk because, from where I’m sitting, I can still see where you carved: K-STONZ sits here. Do they think the desk is cursed or something? The “death” desk!? It’s just a desk, people. Don’t know why I’m telling you this. Just thought you should know.
Oh, and I took a piece of paper and wrote: KACEY'S (AKA, STONES) POEM WAS HERE, and put it up on the published board when no one was around. I thought you should know that, too.
Sticks
P.S. Only one sighting of Weird Girl today.
October 15th