by Dawn Green
I don’t know much about religion. Mom and Dad stopped taking me to church when I was really little. All I can remember is having to get up early and wear a dress. When my soccer games started happening on Sunday, we all just stopped going.
I don’t even know if I believe in God.
Most of the “isms” say that what you did was wrong. That you won’t get to go on to whatever comes next because of it. I don’t believe that, though. You were a good person. You could be a bitch sometimes, and we fought, and there was that one time you stole a chocolate bar from the convenience store … but you were a good person. That has to count for something. It has to.
I don’t know if I want to believe in a heaven, because that means there could be a hell (doesn’t it?), and I can’t think about you or anyone else being there. I like the idea of reincarnation. I was reading that some “isms” believe we live multiple lives, and sometimes we even get to meet up with the same spirits, which would mean that you and I might meet again … and I like that.
It’s almost 5:00 AM. I should try and sleep.
Kacey … wherever you are, I really miss you.
Sticks
November 4th
Stones,
I’m taking guitar lessons. My mom signed me up without even asking if I wanted to go. I’m pretty sure this is her way of getting back at my dad for getting me the dog—I still don’t know what to call her. And she’s chewing everything I own. She completely wrecked my backpack and my favorite runners. Yes, the green Converse! AND my room smells like pee. It’s not funny.
Okay, maybe it’s a little funny.
My mom said she feels like I need to be doing something other than going to school and coming home. I’m sixteen; isn’t that enough? She goes to work and comes home. I think she just really wants me out of the house. I’ve been kind of annoying, asking a lot of questions about God and religion. I think my sudden interest in religion is freaking her out. She told the OC about it, and I had to have this really awkward conversation about why I have this sudden interest in God.
It’s not like I want to go and join a cult or anything. It’s amazing how uncomfortable people get when the topic of religion comes up. The OC told my mom not to worry but that maybe I should have some extra-curricular outlets … and so the guitar lessons.
At first I told her that I didn’t want to take the lessons, but she looked so happy and hopeful. Anyway, I finally agreed to go. I don’t know how you’re going to feel about this, but I’m going to be using your guitar. You know how I told you that our moms were getting to be friends—well, that’s still happening. Your mom has been phoning my mom a lot lately. When I see it’s your number, I try not to answer the phone cuz … well … you know, it’s weird. I know she wants to talk to me; it makes her feel like she might be talking to you … maybe. I don’t know. I just know I feel uncomfortable talking to her. We have nothing to say to each other. It’s just awkward.
Anyway, I guess my mom told your mom about me needing to get out, and it was your mom’s idea that I take guitar lessons. She told my mom that I should use your guitar … that you would have wanted it that way. I’m not so sure you would have. I hope you’re not mad about it. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about our moms making plans for me together. I feel bad for your mom. I know she misses you. She asked my mom if I could babysit your little brother. I miss Owen and, I know I told you I’d look out for the little booger, but I just can’t be in your house. Not without you.
Sticks
November 7th
Stones,
I’ve finally come up with a name for the dog! I’m calling her Hershey, like the chocolate bar. My mom is still pretty mad that my dad got her, but at least they’ve stopped fighting. And on a plus note, with Hershey here, she’s finally stopped complaining about my hair.
Sticks
November 9th
Dear Stones,
I’m getting good grades … really good grades, straight A’s and crap. I didn’t think it was possible either, but I just brought home the first term report and I’m getting, like, 90% in all of my classes. I told you I was becoming a nerd. What’s really funny is that my parents and I got called into the Dictator’s office. The meeting isn’t until Monday morning but my mom is all concerned about it. She asked me if I’ve been cheating. We had a big fight about it. I don’t blame her for thinking I’m a big cheater. I wish I was cheating. It would be a lot cooler than the truth—I’ve become a giant geek. I pay attention in class. I get my work done. I read ahead of everyone else. I spend my lunches studying in the library. Turns out, school isn’t all that hard. Maybe you really were a bad influence on me … kidding! I just don’t have a life anymore. I don’t know why I have to go to Kline’s office. They probably think I’m cheating, too. I don’t care. I don’t even care about my grades. I’ve stopped caring about stuff. I just feel like I’m going through the motions every day. I feel numb. Is this how you felt?
Oh, and update on Weird Girl—I haven’t seen her at all since “that” night. Not in the halls, not in the lunchroom, not anywhere. It’s like she’s disappeared. Maybe she’s scared of me now. Maybe she said what she had to say and is avoiding me now. I was kind of getting used to her. I’d never tell anyone but you this, but I kind of miss her and her strange pointy glasses.
Sticks
November 10th
Dear Stones,
I came home from school today and your guitar was just sitting on my bed. I knew my mom was going to pick it up from your mom at some point, but I wasn’t really expecting it to … I don’t know … bother me this much.
I walked in and it was just sitting there. Like some foreign object that didn’t belong. On my bed! She could have put it anywhere else.
I dropped my backpack and walked around it like there was some force field surrounding it.
I know it’s just a guitar—but it’s not “just” a guitar—it’s your guitar. It’s you. It’s us. It’s everything.
I couldn’t open it. Not yet. I didn’t even want to touch it.
I finally put it in the corner of my room. It’s there now.
I’m looking at it.
Sticks
November 14th
Dear Stones,
We had to fill out one of those career profile things at school today. Spend (more like waste) an hour on the computer, filling out things we like or don’t like and, voila, out pops our career choice … for life???
You should have seen how seriously everyone was taking this today. How can a computer tell us what we’ll be good at? And who makes up these tests, anyway? What if it’s just a bunch of computer tech nerds who were picked on in high school and, to exact their revenge, they came up with a test to mess with everyone else’s life. Actually, that would be pretty funny. Doctors become actors; actors become police officers; police officers become accountants … total anarchy. Maybe I should become a computer tech nerd just so I can do that. Except I would have to be good with computers, and we both know I’m not.
On a scale of 1 to 5, how lame did I think today’s career profile was? 1 = strongly disagree and 5 = strongly agree … I would have to go with a 7 = super strongly agree that it was super stupid and lame.
And I know what you’re wondering. What did the magic fortune-telling computer say I should be? Well … apparently I am best suited to be a Veterinarian, a Flight Attendant, or a Writer. And I know what you would say if you were here … “Well, Sticks you did want to be a vet when we were really little.” Yes, I did … when I was eight, for about a month. I also wanted to be a marine biologist, an archeologist, and a spy. It would have been awesome if the computer popped out spy. Just because I said that I liked animals does not mean that I want to be a vet. And a Flight Attendant??? Can you imagine me in one of those tight skirts, asking if you need a pillow or want some ice with that? I guess the travel part would be exciting. I do want to travel. Okay, I get the other two, but a Writer … come on, I hate writing … I get that I�
�m doing it now, but that’s only because I have to and I’m not exactly “writing,” I’m just writing to you. It’s like talking to you. Only it’s not. I think any English teacher I’ve ever had would laugh if I showed them that. It’s all ridiculous, anyway. I wonder how often the computer gets it right, though. Like, the percentage … 10-15% maybe.
I wonder what it would have said for you—Singer, Writer, Artist, or something crazy like Lawyer, Professor, or Chef. I guess it doesn’t matter … and I guess I’ll never know.
Kacey, I know you’re gone. And I know you’re not coming back. But today, when I was filling everything out on the computer, it just kind of hit me (and now I understand why people use that expression. Because that’s how it felt. Like someone hit me in the stomach) that you’re not going to be here to grow up with.
We used to talk about all the stuff we were going to do together. All the places we were going to go when we graduated. What about our plans to backpack through Australia? I was going to learn to surf and you were going to play your guitar barefoot on the beach. We were going to blog and make a mini-documentary of our trip together. See how many people we could meet from around the world. What about living in the same dorm room? Living next door to one another? Having our kids play together? Growing old together? And, okay, maybe we wouldn’t have done all that but … now what? Where do I go from here … without you?
You didn’t just take your future away. You took mine, too.
Sticks
November 16th
Dear Stones,
You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve become a teacher’s aide and peer tutor. I feel like I can hear you mocking me from … wherever you are. Anyway, that’s what the meeting with the Dictator was about. Miss Baker was there and she told my parents what a pleasure I was to have in class, and that my work shows higher-level thinking or some educational crap like that. Everyone talked about me like I wasn’t even there. “Sara this” and “Sara that …”
“For a while we were worried about Sara …”
“Sara had that outburst in the bathroom …”
“Sara’s become a model student …”
“We feel Sara needs to be challenged.”
Sara is sitting right in front of you, listening to all of you sound like idiots.
So, basically, they’re all pleased that I’ve dealt with the Kacey situation so well. That’s what you’ve become to them, a “situation.” They don’t want to talk about what really happened. No one does. Yes, it’s true that the school brought in some grief counselors at the beginning of the year, but they came and left within a week, and students only had to go see them if they wanted to.
I remember when we were in middle school and there was that girl who died of cancer. Hardly any of us knew who she was because she had been homeschooled for so long but, when she died, the whole school made the biggest deal about her. We had that assembly. They called it a celebration of life and then they named the playground after her. When you died, they didn’t do anything. You became a “situation” they wanted to get through. Don’t talk about what really happened. Don’t “glorify” what you did. Don’t let anything change. Just keep things as normal as possible.
I think that’s why I bother Kline so much. Every time he looks at me, I remind him of you. I think for a while I was also a “situation” for them, but now I’ve become the perfect student—which makes me laugh. What I’ve become is this mind-numbingly boring freak who has no friends and no social life. I don’t speak up in class. I don’t talk to anyone. The only reason I get my work done and do what they ask is because it keeps me busy and keeps my mind off of … “things.”
The perfect student: a quiet freak with no friends, who does her work and doesn’t ask questions. Yep, I guess that’s me.
Sara needs to get a life!
Sticks
November 17th
Dear Stones,
You never told me how silly guitar lessons were. I feel like I’m in kindergarten again. No, seriously. There’s, like, a bunch of eight-year-olds in my class and they all play better than me. I can play some scales, though, and I know what a chord is. Oh, and you never told me how much it makes your fingers hurt. Seriously, my whole left hand is numb.
Every time I screw up, I feel like you’re laughing at me from somewhere.
The case still has some sand in it from when we used to skip class and go to the beach. I think it smells like you—like … I can’t explain. Like wood and polish mixed with a little bit of campfire and outside air.
I found the spot where you carved your initials—KA—on the back of the neck where my left thumb sits. I feel it every time I adjust to a new chord. It’s like you did that on purpose so I’d be reminded of you every time I play it. I remember the night you did it—the New Year’s Eve sleepover in my basement with Loren and Drea.
My parents were having that big party upstairs. The adults were all drunk and busy playing some kind of game, Pictionary or something. No one noticed us sneaking a bottle of champagne downstairs. I remember when the cork hit the ceiling and then fell back and hit Drea in the head. We laughed for an hour after that. It didn’t taste very good. But we decided to mix it with orange pop. Was that your idea? We were so paranoid that we were going to get in trouble that we drank the whole thing in about five minutes … then we had that burping contest. That was the first time I’ve ever been drunk—at least, we all thought we were. We felt so grown up. Loren and Drea passed out before midnight, and then it was just you and I, sitting around, chatting about life, listening to the adults upstairs … you took the metal wire thing from the top of the champagne bottle and turned the guitar over …
Me: (laughing and drunk) What are you doing?
You: Carving my initials.
Me: Won’t your parents be mad?
You: (shrugging) It’s my guitar. And besides, I don’t want to forget this night. Now, every time I look at it, I’m going to think about when I did it.
I miss you so much right now.
Sticks
November 21st
Dear Stones,
Well, the worst has happened … brace yourself … I’ve become a teacher’s pet. When I agreed to do the teacher’s aide thing, I didn’t think about the repercussions. My parents were so proud of me when they asked, that I couldn’t say no. But I should have. You should see the looks I get. They’re worse than the sympathy looks.
What the hell am I doing? A year ago, I would have hated someone like me. Actual, real hatred. I would have wondered why “that” girl (me) is such a keener; I would have judged me instantly, as I’m sure half the class is doing right now. You were so much better at not judging people than I am. Remember how we used to argue about stuff like that? You would get so mad at me, and then I’d get mad at you for getting mad at me, but mostly I was just mad because I knew you were right, and I’d feel bad. Anyway, yesterday Miss Baker asked me to collect the class tests. I could feel their judging eyes on me as I walked around the class.
“Why her?”
“Teacher’s pet!”
“Miss Baker’s probably taking pity on her.”
“She thinks she’s so special because Kacey was her best friend.”
Obviously none of them actually said that stuff, but I know they were thinking it. I would have. So this is me now—straight-A student, peer tutor, teacher’s pet, loner, and “that girl” who was friends with Kacey Anders.
I’ve changed so much since you left. Seriously. It’s more than the good grades and teacher aide thing. I feel like … like I’m starting to lose—or have already lost—a part of myself. Was that part of myself you? I’m not sure who I am without you.
Sticks
P.S. Jake said something to me. When I was collecting the tests and I got to him, he looked up, handed his test to me, and then said, “Thanks.” I know it’s stupid, but it was the way he said it. I didn’t say anything back.
November 24th
Dear Stones,
I went to a concert with Loren. Well, actually, it was this open-mic-night thing for beginner artists. My mom saw the ad when she dropped me off at guitar lessons. She’s been so happy with me, with my grades, with my attitude lately, that she bought me tickets to this singer-songwriter thing. I asked Loren to go. She was really happy that I asked her. She didn’t stop talking to me the whole night—Mateo this, Mateo that—and she apologized for not telling me about seeing a counselor. She said it made her feel better but that it also made her feel weak, like she couldn’t get through this on her own, and that’s why she didn’t want anyone to know. I told her, “I totally get it.” I feel the same way sometimes …
Anyway, that’s not what I want to tell you about. I want to tell you that the open-mic night was really amazing. You would have loved it. In fact … I can’t believe I did this but, on the way home, I was so excited to tell you about it that I phoned you. I did it without thinking. I realized what I was doing as soon as your voicemail picked up, and I tried to hang up before I heard your voice but I was too late. You sounded so normal, so you, so … alive.
By the way, I can’t believe that your parents still haven’t canceled your phone.
I missed you tonight. I know I say that a lot, but tonight I missed you more than usual. It was totally your thing. You would have loved it. I realize I already wrote that you would have loved it but, seriously, you would have. I think you are were better than half the people who performed. I really missed you. It should have been you and me there instead of Loren and me.