“He’ll send another letter,” I say. I’m sure of it.
ChapterFour
THE HANGNAIL PREDICAMENT
Luca
Alot had changed in the three years between fifth grade and the end of eighth. I had kissed a girl for the first time the summer before sixth grade. I’d had seven girlfriends since then. My mom and dad brought a puppy home when I was in seventh grade. I named him Rocky, and he became my best friend. I had gone from being a skinny elementary school boy to what I imagined Naomi’s older cousin called high-school-hot. Back in fifth grade, I had taken a long hard look in the mirror and determined that Naomi might be right. I was skinny, and had done nothing to earn the abs I was so proud of. My dad bought some home gym equipment that summer, set it up in the garage, and we started working out together.
A lot had stayed the same, too. Ben and I rode our bikes to school every day, and we had almost every class together. I was still living in the same house, in the same city. Sometimes when I stepped outside and smelled the salty ocean air, I thought of Naomi and smiled, knowing that she was jealous of where I lived. I was still writing letters to her. There was so much I could have told her in the three years that we’d been writing to each other, and yet none of what we wrote ever had any substance.
Instead, it had become a competition to see who could outdo the other. We weren’t always mean. Sometimes I could tell that she was growing bored with writing to me, and her letter would be the most uninteresting thing I’d ever read. When she did that, I always returned a letter that was equally or – I hoped – more boring.
Dear Luca,
I woke up this morning. I brushed my teeth. I went to school. I did homework. I went to bed. I ate meals in between.
Xoxo,
Naomi
Dear Naomi,
I forgot to put the toilet seat up when I peed, and a little bit splashed onto the seat. I didn’t clean it up.
Xoxo,
Luca
My parents were the only two people who knew I was still writing to Naomi. My mom thought it was sweet, but that’s because she never read any of the letters. My dad never offered an opinion on it. Ben had asked about Naomi only once after we started sending the letters to our home addresses instead of the schools. I had shrugged and pretended I didn’t remember what he was talking about.
I tucked the latest letter from Naomi into my backpack on my way to school one morning. It was the last week of eighth grade. My mom had forgotten to check the mail the day before and, curious about whether I had received a letter, I had checked the mailbox on the way out the door. Ben was rolling up on his bicycle when he saw me slip the unopened envelope into my backpack.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
I zipped my backpack closed, slung it onto my back, and got on my bike. We were both quiet on the ride to school that morning. It seemed like Ben always knew when I wasn’t in the mood to talk. I was tired that morning. I had been awake all night, trying to drown out the sound of my parents arguing by blasting music in my headphones. I had managed to drown out their voices, but I could still feel the vibration in the walls from the doors slamming as they made their way through the house, fighting in every room but mine.
When we were a block away from school, I started pedaling faster to outpace Ben. His bike was better than mine, though, and he caught up quickly. We locked our bikes on the rack in front of the school entrance and went inside.
“Is it your report card?” Ben asked.
“What?”
“That letter that you put in your backpack.”
I frowned. “Report cards haven’t gone out yet.”
“What is it then? Why are you being so sneaky?”
“I’m not being sneaky. It’s just none of your business.”
“It’s that girl, isn’t it?”
I turned to look at him. “No. What girl?”
He rolled his eyes. “Your pen pal from Mrs. Martin’s class. You never stopped writing to her, did you?”
