Mrs. Fletcher, math troll.

Dear Dad,

Will Mudgett called me at home again last night. He told me he has been really sick. I don’t think he thought I believed him, so he said he could even bring the doctor’s note, if I wanted. I said I didn’t care. He told me he’d decided not to fight me right away. I was relieved. I almost started crying right there on the phone. Don’t tell that to anyone.

I’ve been thinking about that fight since he first brought it up, wondering if I would chicken out, if I would lose, even if he might actually stab me and I might actually die, with Misty Lee and all my friends looking on. And I thought about what you said, about how I should fight him, because that kind of stuff is part of living.

Maybe it helps a little, but man, Will Mudgett scares me so much I can’t eat.

Anyway, I went to school today, feeling more relaxed than I have since sixth grade. I saw Misty Lee and she showed me how she’d written our initials all over her book covers. M + T = L U V. It kind of creeps me out a little, but it’s kind of cool, too, in a dorky sort of way.

Will Mudgett came up and talked to me during P.E. I was standing behind the baseball backstop and he came over and stood next to me and basically repeated everything he said on the phone, about deciding not to fight me right away. He was still acting kind of cool, like he knew he freaked me out. I didn’t say a word back to him.

But he was right. He really freaked me out.

Donnie Joad was on the other side of me and after Will left he punched my shoulder and said, “Dude, how come you didn’t say anything? You acted totally gay. Now he knows you’re afraid of him!”

At lunch I sat by Misty Lee and Donnie and a few other people that I pretty much like. Donnie acted like he’d forgot all about me wimping out with Will Mudgett. Then after lunch I went to math class and Mrs. Fletcher said that we would be having a test on Monday. She listed out the kind of problems we’d be doing and the equations we were supposed to know. I felt so lost on most of them. I so don’t want to take that test. Mrs. Fletcher says I am a math idiot and she is right. If I could swap out all my math classes for English classes, I would do it in a second.

I drew a picture of Mrs. Fletcher and put it in with this letter. That’s pretty close to what she really looks like.

I think I may just stay home Monday and skip the test. I don’t feel very good anyway. But I have to go to school tomorrow, because tomorrow night I’m supposed to go with Misty Lee to this overnighter at her church and I kind of want to go. If I don’t go to school, I don’t think Mom would let me go with Misty Lee, even if her thing is at church.

I’ll keep you posted.

Your son,

Trevor

It makes no sense to me, thinking that I am dead.

Dear Trevor,

I’m proud of you for going back to school and facing your fears—at least one of them. The other one is still to come, I suppose.

The first time I kissed a girl was in 8^th grade, when I was a year older than you are now. My dad died that year, you know, when I was 14. It seems we’re both cursed with fathers who left us when we were young.

The girl I kissed was named Frances Wilkson. Her dad owned the Buick dealership in Renton. Frances had glorious red hair, clear skin with just a few freckles high on her cheeks and seemed to always wear these green, velvety dresses to school. She was lovely and knew it. I was the first boy she kissed, too, but she only kissed me once and then quickly moved on to older boys who had money or popularity or were good at sports. I was her training ground, I think, just to make sure she could do it. She could. I can almost still feel that kiss today. I can feel the velvet of her green dress crushing beneath my fingertips as I help her close. I feel the memory of it more than I feel anything here, in this foggy, uncertain place.

Writing these few letters to you and reading about your days in junior high school bring up all sorts of other memories for me—both of my own childhood and of the childhoods of your brothers. Your brother Steffan was 14 when I came to this place—when I died, I suppose you would say. It makes no sense to me, thinking that I am dead. I can’t see it. I am bored, certainly, but dead?

On one hand, I have not been reduced to nothingness. On the other, my body has not been glorified. I am not burning in hell or rejoicing in heaven. I am certainly not reincarnated as a gazelle. I’m still my same, old, five-foot-eight-inches of grizzled self. I still get dressed and undressed. I still eat and crap and eat and crap, although I doubt the amount I eat would keep me alive where you are. I still have to shave every morning. There is no barber here, so Carl, the other realtor, and I cut each other’s hair with a pair of kitchen shears we borrow from the restaurant.

There is nothing here to dread, yet nothing to look forward to. Again, I say to you, don’t squander your life. Your moments there on earth are rare and remarkable. Magical even, you might say. I wish I could promise you had more to look forward to after you’re done there. I can only tell you to cherish every moment.

Dad

I thought that kissing a girl would make me feel more grown up.

Dear Dad,

I hope you’re glad to know that I went back to school. Will Mudgett wasn’t there. It seems he was gone yesterday, too. Mr. Anders said he was home sick. I wonder if he was as scared as I was. Man, was I relieved.

Misty Lee was there, though. We stayed after school together and went to the girl’s soccer game. She sat next to me. I had my hands in the pockets of my jacket and she slipped her hand in next to mine. We held hands like that. My hand got really sweaty and I wondered if she thought that was gross. It was kind of cool, I guess.

At halftime, I followed Misty Lee, Rick Jarvis and Sharon King behind the school. They all walked around a corner of the classroom building. I followed. As soon as I turned the corner, Misty Lee grabbed my face with both hands and kissed me right on the lips for about ten seconds. I just kind of stood there with my hands at my side. My first thought was that it was so much wetter and sloppier than I expected. My second was that Misty Lee has a really big mouth. I think I pretty much did it all wrong, because her mouth was opened and mine was closed. I was afraid that if I opened mine, she might stick her tongue in it. She probably thinks I’m a dork who has never kissed anyone before. I guess she’d be right.

Anyway, I got that over with. But as soon as she was done, she smiled at me and said, “If you liked that, there’s more where that came from.” I don’t think I said anything. And I’m not really sure if I liked it or not.

I thought that kissing a girl would make me feel old—more grown-up, I mean—but it mostly made me feel really young. I bet it made Misty Lee feel more grown up.

I’m hoping and praying that Will Mudgett somehow never comes back to school.

I really want to know more about where you are, Dad. I mean, there is not a lot of information about life after death down here. Down here? Is that right? Are you up somewhere? Are you up in the clouds or in space? Or somewhere under the earth? How long have you been there? Have you seen other dead people you know? Is Grandma Griffiths up there, too?

Your son,

Trevor

Where am I? Not hell, certainly, but likely not heaven, either.

Dear Trevor,

The poor postman only just met me yesterday and by the way he frowns when I come in the door, he is already tired of me. I pestered him all day today, waiting for the mail to come. He never says a word—just shakes his head and scowls. But now I sit writing on the little bench right outside his door, with your letter tucked safely away in my hip pocket. It is such a treasure to me.

I will try my best to answer your questions about this place, but I first must say that I hope you do not wait at home for letters from me. You should go back to school. You should kiss the girl. You should fight the boy, if it comes to that. Do not spend your life waiting for things. Go to school, even if the things there fill you with so much worry they make you sick. As soon as you get this letter from me, take a vow to go back to school and face your fears.

OK, that’s enough fatherly advice for one day. I don’t know if I have earned the right to advise you at all, having only known you for five brief years before I left. And I fear that I spent far too little time with you during those years. The memories I have are some of my most cherished, but they are fading. I hope you can help me recall them.

Where am I? Not hell, certainly, but likely not heaven, either. Some of my neighbors disagree with me and claim it is one or the other. I’ll sit over a plate of fish and chips at the Laughing Gull with my two neighbors. Martin, who was a city councilman, will claim we’re in heaven. Carl, who was a realtor like me, is sure we’re in hell. My vote is neither. Meanwhile we’re all in the same place and all eating the same food.

It’s not a bad place, I suppose. We’re on the water—either a sound or a bay. There are a couple of shops—two restaurants, a general store, a small library and a post office. There’s a fishing pier that juts out over the water, but no one fishes there, so I’m suspicious of its real purpose.

I stay in a small cabin set about a quarter mile back from the shore. When I arrived here, the cabin lay empty and no one stopped me from moving in, so I did. The cabin has a single large room and a bathroom with a toilet and a shower. It has a covered porch with a porch swing, which is where I spend most of my day. From the swing, I can look out over the center of town and over the water. It’s very foggy here much of the time and you have to keep an eye out if you want a view of anything. So that’s what I do most of the time. I swing in my swing and look out toward the water. It probably sounds very boring to you, but it gets me from morning to night.

And no, I can’t see you from up here. I can’t see much of anything, except the tide coming in and going out, twice a day if it’s not too foggy. I suppose it goes in and out even if it is foggy, but then I can’t see it. I wish I could see you. I think about you and your sister and your brothers and your mother more than anything else, worrying about how you all are doing without me. I have so many questions that I want to ask you.

The first time I went into the post office, the postman looked at me suspiciously when he handed me your batch of letters. I’m guessing he doesn’t get many letters from your side of things. But he didn’t say anything. Matter of fact, I’ve never heard him say a single word. I don’t know if he can even speak.

I can tell you more about this place. Not a lot. But I’ll save that for another day.

Dad

I got your letter in the mail today!

Dear Dad!

I got your letter in the mail today! I stayed home from school again and when I saw the mailman come, I went out to check the mail and there it was, in this plain white envelope!

I don’t even know what to say, except that I really hope this is really you, and not some prankster or do-gooder down at the post office. And I hope it’s not Mom writing, just to help me cope.

I want to know where you are and what it’s like. Are you in heaven? Are the streets really paved with gold? Is there a house with many mansions? Do you have wings? Does it hurt to be dead or are all your tears really washed away?

I’m assuming you’re not in hell, because I just can’t picture a post office in hell.

I was surprised your letter wasn’t written in gold ink or that it didn’t come floating down from the clouds or something. It was just sitting in the mailbox, resting on top of the latest issue of Readers’ Digest.

I don’t know what else to write! Please write back, Dad!

Your son,

Trevor

Trevor’s dead dad writes back.

Dear Trevor,

Kiss the girl and fight the boy. Is this good advice? I don’t know. But I do know that I miss the pain of a bloody nose almost as much as I miss the wet and tender press of a pretty girl’s lips on mine. And there’s nothing else I miss more than that.

In case this letter disappears and all you ever hear from me are those lines, I want you to hear them. I filled a house with children and loved your mother more than I loved anyone, but I still feel I squandered most of my life. Don’t do it. Go back to school. Kiss the girl and fight the boy.

Dad

P.S. There is a post office here. I’ve never gone there before today, when I just happened to wander in. I discovered all your letters there, in a post office box with my name on it. There is even a postman.

I hope you keep writing. There isn’t much to do here, and I’ve enjoyed every word on every letter. As soon as I send this off, I plan on reading them all again.

If I go to school, I’ll have to either kiss a girl, fight a guy, or both.

Dear Dad,

I stayed home from school today. If I go to school, I’ll have to either kiss a girl, fight a guy, or both.

I feel like I spent half the weekend on the phone and the other half in the bathroom, because I barfed a lot this weekend.

Will Mudgett actually called me at home Friday night to tell me he was going to kill me. On Monday. After school. He actually called me and told me that. I told him that was fine. I’d fight him and he could try to kill me if he wanted. He said he’d talked to a cousin of his who was going to kill Misty Lee, too. I told him that sounded pretty stupid and I didn’t believe him. He told me to wait and see.

Misty Lee called me at home, too. About once every half an hour. Mom thought it was cute the first couple of times, and then started getting cranky about it. When it was past nine o’clock and she was still calling, Mom started saying things like, “What kind of girl calls boys at home at this hour?”

Here’s one thing I’ve learned. Misty Lee can talk for a long time. Here’s another thing: she has nothing to say. She just talks. Is this what all girls do? I don’t really like talking on the phone. I don’t even answer it unless Mom yells at me.

Misty asked me if Will Mudgett had talked to me. I told her he wanted to fight me, and she said, “Really? Are you going to?” I said I would if he wanted to. I didn’t tell her that talking about it made me want to puke. She seemed to think that was pretty exciting and kept asking me all sorts of questions about it. “Have you ever been in fights before?” Yes. I didn’t tell her that I was pretty sure grade school fights were pretty different than it would be to fight with Will Mudgett and his knife, if he had one. “Where would you fight him?” I don’t know. Wherever. “Could I watch?” I guess. “Aren’t you afraid of getting in trouble?” I haven’t really thought about it.

I didn’t tell Misty Lee that Will Mudgett said he was going to kill me and I didn’t tell her he was going to kill her. I mean, come on. The whole thing sounds so stupid right now, as I write this. Will Mudgett is not going to kill anyone. Especially because of a frizzy-haired girl like Misty Lee.

Of course, if Will Mudgett killed Misty Lee and then went to jail, all my troubles would be over.

On Saturday night, Misty Lee started calling again. She told me she asked her mom if I could come with her the next weekend to an overnight event at her church. She said that Rick Jarvis and Sharon King would be there, too. I said it sounded OK and that I’d ask my mom. I know my mom will say yes, because she always says yes to anything that has to do with church. If I asked if I could go to a public hanging, she’d say yes, as long as it was at a church.

Misty Lee said that when I come to school on Monday, she is going to give me a real kiss, on the lips. She said she’d give me a French kiss if I wanted. I didn’t say anything. I know a French kiss has something to do with tongues, which sounds pretty gross to me, but that’s about all I know. Maybe it’s wonderful, but what the heck am I supposed to do with my tongue? Stick it in her mouth?

I had the worst butterflies in my stomach all weekend. Every time I thought about going to school on Monday, I just wanted to barf. I did, about half the time. Mom thought I was really sick. Rhonda kept looking at me like she knew something was going on. I did get to stay home from church on Sunday, which I suppose was good, but all I did was lay around and watch nothing on TV and try not to barf.

Now it’s Monday. It’s about 11 o’clock in the morning. I stole some more stamps out of Mom’s purse last night. I don’t think she’d mind if she knew I was writing to you, but if I ask her, she’ll think I’m crazy and she’ll want to talk. And probably pray.

I want to make sure I get this letter in the mailbox before the mailman gets here. Because I want you to tell me what I should do. I mean, I stayed home from school today. I can say I was sick, right? Because I was barfing. But I suppose I’m kind of chickening out, too. Should I fight Will Mudgett? Should I kiss Misty Lee? And what the heck do I do with my tongue?

Your son,

Trevor

I officially have a girlfriend. And a death threat.

Dear Dad,

I officially have a girlfriend. And a death threat. I’m not sure which one scares me more.

Walking in to the lunchroom today was a weird experience. A bunch of my friends and a bunch of girls were lined up against the wall. Misty Lee was sitting at a table by herself. I walked over to Donnie Joad and said what’s up, but he just kept smiling like a dork and nodding his head toward Misty Lee. All my friends and all these girls were there to watch it go down. “Watch it go down.” That sounds like a line from a movie. Anyway, I felt like a performing monkey.

Finally, I walked over to Misty Lee’s table and sat across from her. I said hi. She said hi. She bit into a potato chip and then said something about how much she loved sour cream and onion potato chips. I said me too. Even though I don’t really like them. I prefer barbecue. Or even plain. Sour cream and onion make my breath feel kind of warm in a way I don’t like. Then Misty Lee said, “If you were to ask me something, I’d probably say yes.” For a second, I thought about asking her if she would do all my math homework. Or split firewood for me. I wonder if she’d say yes to that. She’s probably good at math, but I bet she couldn’t split a knotty piece of fir. Then Will Mudgett walked through the door and saw me.

This is the second time I’ve seen Will Mudgett get mad. His face gets really red and his eyes look really dark and he makes me think of Yosemite Sam, except with glasses and without the big moustache. He could totally snap and kill someone.

None of my friends seemed to give a crap about Will Mudgett possibly stabbing me. I looked over at Donnie Joad and he was still smiling and nodding his head toward Misty Lee. So I nodded my head toward Will Mudgett, the psychopath. Donnie looked over at him, shrugged, smiled, and nodded his head toward Misty Lee.

Right then, I figured it out. I was entertainment. I was a performing monkey. Whether I asked Misty Lee to go with me or fought with Will Mudgett, my friends just wanted to watch. Sex and violence. That’s all that people want to see these days.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to have sex with Misty Lee.

But I also didn’t want any violence from Will Mudgett.

But I still liked the idea of Misty Lee wanting to be my girlfriend. So I asked. “Do you?”

“Do I what?” she smiled at me.

“Do you want to go together?” And even though she’d already told me that she’d say yes, I started panicking. What if she said no?

But she didn’t. She said yes. Then she looked around, leaned across the table, and kissed me on my cheek. A bunch of my friends hooted like the idiots they are. I looked over and saw Will Mudgett, who glared at me until I thought his eyes would bug out of his head and steam would come out of his ears. Then he turned and stomped out the door. “Now what?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” asked Misty Lee. “Now I’m your girlfriend, that’s what.”

Honestly, right then I thought I was going to barf. What the heck did I want with a girlfriend? How the heck am I supposed to act around her? I don’t even like Misty Lee.

How long do you think I need to wait until I break up with her?

Your son,

Trevor

I found out why Will Mudgett was so freaked out.

Dear Dad,

We won our first game 3-2. I played at the end of the first half and the end of the second half. It was pretty cool. I felt like I did OK. No one scored when I was on the field, so I guess I didn’t screw up too bad. Mr. Schick didn’t say anything to me one way or another.

Keith had all sorts of advice for me. I should attack the ball more. I should stay between the ball and the goal. I should dribble with my head up. I should talk more. I kind of wish he’d just lie and tell me I was good, but he’s always coaching me. He probably figures you would do the same thing if you were here and he needs to be a father figure for me. He’s nice, though. He takes me to Denny’s for ice cream sundaes, because his girlfriend works there and can give us ice cream for free if her manager’s not paying attention. Talk about real boobs. She’s got them big time.

I found out why Will Mudgett was so freaked out. He asked Misty Lee to go out with him and she said no, because she liked someone else. He asked who, but Misty wouldn’t tell him. Then Misty told Sharon King the story and Sharon King told Will Mudgett that Misty liked me. And now Will Mudgett wants to kill me. I don’t mean he is mad at me. I mean he literally wants to murder me. Murder. I heard all this from Rick Jarvis.

Then Rick Jarvis says, “Are you going to?” Am I going to what? “Are you going to ask Misty Lee to go out with you? Go out where? “Go out! You know, go out.”

I don’t know. I don’t know if I even like Misty Lee. But now if I don’t ask her to go out, everyone will think I’m scared of that crazy punk, Will Mudgett. Maybe I am.

What would you do?

Rick Jarvis said that tomorrow, Misty Lee was going to sit by me at lunch. “That is the perfect time,” he said. I didn’t ask him to explain, because I know what he expects me to do. And I definitely know what Misty Lee expects me to do. Misty Lee is really popular. I can’t figure out why. And I sure can’t figure out why she likes me so much.

I bet I’m six inches taller than Will Mudgett. I bet if it came down to a real fight, I would slaughter him. Unless he stabbed me or something. He probably wouldn’t do that. He probably doesn’t even have a knife.

I have a math test on Monday. I haven’t studied for it at all. I know I should, but I haven’t. I hate the homework. I haven’t done it for the last two days and now I don’t really know what Mrs. Fletcher is talking about in class.

I’m assuming you haven’t got any of these letters. I don’t really expect you to, being that you’re dead and all. But if you got a letter from me, you’d write back, wouldn’t you? I mean, if you could. If God allowed you to and if you had a body and a pen and envelopes and stamps.

I suppose it would also require there to be a post office in the afterlife. I don’t know if there is one.

Your son,

Trevor

Will Mudgett told me he was going to fight me.

Dear Dad,

Today at school, Will Mudgett told me he was going to fight me if I asked Misty Lee to be my girlfriend. I have no idea why he would say such a stupid thing to me. What do I care about Misty Lee? She’s not that cute. She doesn’t have buck teeth like Mrs. Edsel the music teacher, but her front teeth still stick out. And her hair is frizzy.

I don’t understand why someone like Mrs. Edsel doesn’t get her teeth fixed. She’s kind of pretty, except she looks like she cuts her own hair, and not very well. And she’s icy. Do you know what I mean by icy? She looks like she’d be cold to touch, although I can’t imagine touching her. OK, so maybe I can imagine touching her, but I still bet she’d be cold. She has dark hair and pale skin and doesn’t smile, even if she thinks something is funny. She smirks. I’ve never heard her laugh. She’s married, but it’s hard to imagine her ever being snuggly with her husband. Maybe they just have serious discussions and never really snuggle with each other.

Tomorrow is our first soccer game. I’ve never played in an actual game on a real team before. Mr. Schick has me playing right fullback. Mom said she won’t be able to come to the game, because it’s right after school, so she’s still at work. Keith is home from college. He said he’d come and then give me a ride home.

You know what I’d really like to do with Will Mudgett? I’d like to take him up to the top of the old marina and dare him to jump. I bet he’d be so scared he’d piss himself. I bet he’d wet his pants, just like Lee Reel. I’d pay money to see that.

That’s all I got today.

Your son,

Trevor

Will Mudgett is a punk. I shouldn’t be afraid of him.

Dear Dad,

I wish I was Catholic, so I could pray to you. Catholics do that. They pray to dead people.

Mom says you were never religious, but that you became a Christian before you died and that you’re in heaven right now worshipping Jesus. I don’t know. You never really struck me as the worshipping kind. I prefer to picture you sitting next to Jesus in matching leather chairs, taking naps after Sunday dinner, like you used to do with Uncle Dick. Maybe Jesus has one of those cool ashtrays like Uncle Dick, too, and you and Him smoke those little cigars with the plastic mouthpieces on them. Or maybe you’re cooking Jesus a mess of mussels that you collected from the beach. If I was Jesus, I’d way rather have some mussels or a nap then a bunch of Christians singing to me. I mean, let’s face it. The music you hear in church is simply not that good.

Mom makes me go to church with her Sunday morning. And Sunday night, too. Although last night I pretended I fell asleep about a half hour before we had to leave for church. Then when she tried to wake me up, I pretended I was really tired and she let me stay home. I watched reruns of some old show called MASH. It’s not that funny, but nothing else was on.

There is a kid at school called Will Mudgett who sits by me in Social Studies. He’s kind of a dillrod, but he doesn’t know it. He dresses like a dillrod, in long-sleeved, plaid shirts that he buttons all the way up to the top and he wears glasses that are way too big for his face. But he acts like a stoner and talks like he’s tough. I guess his hair is pretty cool.

Today he grabbed my peechee and wrote AC-DC Rules on it in huge letters. I do not like AC-DC. They are not very good, although Back in Black is a pretty decent album, especially the guitar solo on You Shook Me All Night Long. But I definitely don’t like them enough to write their name on my peechee. I like Wolf Mother and The Raconteurs. In fact, I downloaded Wolf Mother’s first album this weekend. I’ve already promised myself that Dimension will be the first song I play on my iPod, when I buy it and get it all set up.

So I told Will Mudgett to knock it off and called him a jerk. He told me I’d better watch it. Or what? I said. Then he told me that he always carries a knife and that if I didn’t watch it, he’d stab me. Then he told me he has a cousin who just got out of prison and Will could have him stab me, too.

I told him to show me the knife. He told me he couldn’t pull it out at school, because if he got caught with him, they would throw him out. But he swore that he had it on him right then. “So you don’t wanna fight me,” he said, “because I would totally stab you.” I am not making this up.

I didn’t say anything. He’s a complete freak. I’m 99% sure he didn’t have a knife. And even if he has a cousin, I doubt that his cousin would do anything to me. But I wish I’d said something more. I should have punched him in the face. If he does anything else to me, I’m not going to back down. You wouldn’t want me to, would you?

At least I hope I won’t back down. Will Mudgett is a punk. I shouldn’t be afraid of him.

I bet Mom would be really steamed if she found out there was a kid at school who was threatening to stab me. I mean, this is a private school and all. You shouldn’t have to worry about getting stabbed at a school that costs money. It’s just not something you should have to worry about.

Your son, Trevor

Misty Lee looks like a good girl. She wears plaid skirts.

Dear Dad,

I was hoping you would have written back to me by now. But I probably have your address wrong. Or the post office thinks I’m a complete lunatic and just throws my letters away. I like to think that somehow you know what I’m writing to you. That you can look down and see. Even though that creeps me out quite a bit, because there’s stuff I do that I don’t really want you watching. Can you see everything? I mean, can you see me when I’m in the bathroom? Or is it more like Google Earth and you just look down like a satellite camera? That’s something I’d really like to know.

Two things happened at school today. One was that Misty Lee broke up with Rick Jarvis. The other is that Sharon King, another new girl, told me that Misty Lee likes me.

How can Misty Lee like me? She doesn’t even know me. We’ve gone to school together for two weeks and I don’t think I’ve ever talked to her once. I think that Misty Lee is one of those girls who probably chased boys all over the playground in grade school. I don’t think she’s a skank. I don’t think Rick Jarvis would have gone out with a skank. I can’t imagine her doing it with Gabe McAllister, who, by the way, actually carries around a condom in his wallet. I don’t even have a wallet and he has a wallet with an actual condom in it!

Anyway, Misty Lee looks like a good girl. She wears plaid skirts.

By the end of the day, Rick Jarvis was going out with Sharon King. I ask you again, where do they go out? Go outside? Go out and play? It’s so stupid.

Rick doesn’t waste any time. Sharon King is pretty cute, I guess. She is tall and blonde and skinny, but her face is kind of flat. So is her chest, for that matter. Whenever I look at her, I think, “She looks not smart.” She doesn’t look dumb, just not smart. If I were to describe her to someone, I’d say, “See that girl over there? The one who looks not smart?” And whoever I was describing her to would say, “You mean that one?” And I’d say, “That’s the one!”

The creepiest thing is that Rick looks not smart, too. When Sharon King and Rick are together, they look more like brother and sister than boyfriend and girlfriend. Thinking of them kissing each other grosses me out.

I wonder what I look like—to other people, I mean. In your pictures, you generally look pretty smart. Sometimes you look goofy, like in that one Halloween photo where Mom is dressed up like a cavewoman and you’re dressed up like a caveman. You have a really goofy smile on your face, but I can tell you know you look goofy and that you approve of it. That’s OK.

My favorite picture of you sits on the bookcase by the couch. It’s a little picture in a gold metal frame and it’s just of your head. You’re wearing a blue and white striped tee-shirt and it looks like the wind is blowing your hair around, or at least trying to, because you only have a crew cut worth of hair. It must be closer to the end of your life, because your hair has some gray in it. Mom calls it salt and pepper. You look pretty cool. Like a sailor. Or more like a guy who owns a big boat.

I miss you. Or missed you, since I barely ever knew you.

Your son,

Trevor

I’m not 100% certain you made it in

Dear Dad,

Mr. Schick announced the starters and captain for our first soccer game. Guess what? I am NOT the team captain! And guess what again? I am NOT a starter.

I don’t blame you for not coaching me when I was younger, like you did with Steffan and Keith. You weren’t here. Not your fault, except in the sense that you smoked and then died from cancer. But Uncle Felix smokes at least two packs a day and he’s still alive and he’s way older than you. And he’s super fat, too, so by all rights he should be dead and you should be alive, smoking or not.

Here’s a question: How do I know if I have the right address on these letters? Or the right amount of postage? This will be the ninth one I sent and I have yet to get one back. I figured at least one would be sent back by the mailman by now. I keep waiting for Mom to walk all teary-eyed into my bedroom with a return-to-sender letter in my hand, asking me if I want to talk.

For your address, I’ve kept it simple. It says:

Hugh E. Griffiths, Jr., deceased.

The Afterlife

Why didn’t I address it to heaven? No offense, but I’m not 100% certain you made it in. Mom is. She says you asked Jesus into your heart and that you’re definitely there. But she says it a bit like she’s trying to convince herself. I really hope Mom doesn’t read this, because she would definitely start crying about that sentence.

I’m only using one first-class stamp, because I figure that if that’s not enough, the letter will come back with one of those insufficient postage marks on it.

I wonder, if in all the history of the world, anyone has ever tried to mail a letter to heaven. Or wherever. Or gotten a reply back.

Skip Hendrickson is the captain of our soccer team. I like Skip. Everyone likes Skip. Teachers loooove him. His dad is a doctor who did the physicals for all the team players for free, which is good because I don’t think we have medical insurance right now, because Mom’s job is kind of lame and you didn’t exactly leave us with loads of money.

Skip’s mom is the school nurse. Skip’s a straight-A student and is good at sports, but his hair looks like a Brillo pad is sitting on the top of his head, and sometimes he has a booger hanging out of his nose and no one tells him. If it was Larry Melding with the booger, he’d get pounded for it. But with Skip, people just pretend the booger isn’t there.

I guess if you’re as wonderful as Skip is, people don’t mind overlooking something like a booger.

Your son,

Trevor

They seem to have grown magically over the summer.

Note to readers: This post is a bit more adult, in a Judy Blume kind of way.

Dear Dad,

I realized another big difference between grade school and junior high school. In junior high school, the girls have breasts. They seem to have grown magically over the summer.

Misty Lee has little ones and you can’t tell if they’re real. Definitely no bouncing. For all I know, they could just be wads of Kleenex stuffed into her bra. I wouldn’t put it past her. Daisy Reel, who Rick Jarvis says is a skank and who I carpool with three mornings a week, has serious breasts. They bounce when she walks, so I know they’re real. Daisy is the girl who tells dirtier jokes than all the boys and who Rick says has actually done it with Gabe McAllister. She talks about penises like she’s seen a few.

By the way, Daisy Reel’s mom’s car smells like pee. Daisy has a brother’s named Lee and he has some kind of bladder problem that makes him wet his pants every now and then. He’s in ninth grade and in Rhonda’s class. He’s a fat kid. Rhonda said she was sitting behind him once and actually saw a puddle form on his chair. I have no idea if that is true, but if it is, it is so gross. She says they call him Leak Reel. I’m pretty sure he’s let loose in the car a few times, because it really stinks in there. The mom is nice, though. And Lee is actually a nice guy, for a pants-wetter.

I’m hoping you don’t think I’m some kind of a perv for talking about breasts. I figure that the only advantage of writing to a dad who is dead is that I can say whatever I want, right? I mean, if you were here, I would have a hard time walking up to you and saying, “Hey Dad, how about you and me talk about breasts for a while?”

I would never in a million years ever talk to Mom about this sort of thing, for which she’s probably grateful. I don’t think she wants to talk to me about it, either.

Your son,

Trevor

Misty Lee said I was cute.

Dear Dad,

Today Jodi Ragg told me that Misty Lee said I was cute. This is weird, because Misty Lee is still going out with Rick Jarvis. Not that they go out. There is no going out. Where, I ask again, are they going to go? It’s not like anyone even drives and I bet you a girl would think you were a total dork if you rode over to her house on your bike.

I saw Misty Lee at lunchtime holding hands with Rick in the corner of the cafeteria, until Mrs. Edsel, our buck-toothed-but-kind-of-pretty music teacher, told them to separate. I don’t know much about girls. Heck, I didn’t even know I was supposed to like girls until last week. But it seems weird to me that the girlfriend of one guy would say that another guy is cute. We’re on the same soccer team, for goodness sake! And between you and me, he may actually be a better soccer player than I am.

It must be nice to be a grown-up and not have to worry if you’re good at soccer or not. Personally, I’m only vaguely interested in it. I mean, I like playing and all, but I don’t freak out if I miss the ball or something.

We have our first game next week, by the way. I wish you could come. But I suppose that’s pretty unlikely.

Here’s a question for you: Did you ever jump off the old marina into the water? I’m pretty sure it’s at least 40 feet up, even at high tide. Maybe 50. Or did you jump off anything like that? I’m not afraid of heights or anything. I mean, I climb the cedar tree in our front yard way up to the top where it sways back and forth when the wind blows and I’m just fine with that. But I don’t have any desire to jump off the tree. Or the marina. I just don’t want to. Is there something wrong with that?

Your son,

Trevor

I actually like my English class.

Dear Dad,

I guess I should tell you why I’m writing you these letters. I kind of have to do it. I mean, I don’t have to write letters, but I have to write in a journal every day for my English class homework. No one gets to read what I write, not even my English teacher, Mrs. Henry. I asked her if, instead of writing in a journal, I could write letters to you. She knows you’re gone, so at first she gave me a funny look. Then she nodded and said that it actually seemed like a really good idea. I don’t think she knows I’m mailing them, but if she did, she probably wouldn’t care.

I actually like my English class. Mrs. Henry is pretty cool. She’s kind of an old hippie. Not in a good-looking way or anything. I don’t think she’s all that old, but she’s kind of wrinkly. I think she may have spent a lot of time outside or something. She calls her wrinkles smile lines and says that she tries to smile a lot to keep them growing in the right direction. Yesterday she played a record by Simon and Garfunkel, which was dorky, but at least she made an effort, you know? While it was playing, we were supposed to just write however the music made us feel. The only rule was to keep the pencil moving the entire time. I wrote a couple of pages of complete nonsense. Parsley, sage and Rosemary’s baby. That was my best line. Simon and Garfunkel. Lame.

Mr. Anders, my homeroom teacher and P.E. teacher, slapped a kid in the face today. Mr. Anders is really young for a grownup. I think this is his first job—after college, I mean. Gabe McAllister was standing toe-to-toe with Mr. Anders and totally mouthing off. Mr. Anders’s face turned bright red and then he smacked him. It totally freaked us all out. I think it freaked out Mr. Anders, too. Right afterward, Mr. Anders grabbed Gabe McAllister by the collar and hauled him out of the gym. The rest of us just stood there. Donnie Joad said if that happened to him, he’d sue.

I bet you wouldn’t sue. You would have sided with Mr. Anders, because Gabe McAllister was being a complete jerk. He deserved to be slapped.

Your son,

Trevor

We all have to get naked.

Note to readers: Today’s post is a bit more adult, in a Judy Blume kind of way.

Dear Dad,

So I got my math test back from Mrs. Fletcher and guess what? She says I am officially a math idiot. Me and two other kids who look completely retarded—Eugene Tinkham and Larry Melding. These guys are the dorks of the school. Mrs. Fletcher even invited the three of us up to the front of the class to correct our mistakes on the board. I bet these new kids think I’ve always been a math dork, even though I swear I really was good at math last year. What I don’t understand is how all the other kids from Mrs. Rommel’s class did so much better than me. Did they take secret classes over the summer?

I’m pretty sure Mrs. Fletcher is doing something wrong with this whole testing thing. Either that, or the whole school system is evil and corrupt. It’s possible.

I’ve been trying to imagine what must have happened to Mrs. Fletcher during her childhood to make her so mean now. I’m guessing she was always ugly and unpopular and that kids were always mean to her. Her back was always covered in kick me signs and boys wiped their boogers on her book covers. So when she grew up, she decided to become a teacher to get her revenge. Now she is the evil math troll.

Speaking of trolls, today I got dressed for P.E. right next to Rusty Foster. We have to wear jockstraps in P.E., which means we all have to get naked right next to each other. It is totally gross and further proof of the evilness of the whole school system. What is the point of making kids my age get naked? Anyway, Rusty is this red-haired kid whose entire body is covered in freckles. He’s one of the tallest kids in our class and a total dork, but not like Eugene or Larry. But let me tell you, his thing is huge. It looks like the penis of a grown man. And hairy, too. It reminded me of when we used to all go to Steel Lake to go swimming. We’d change in the men’s room and there’d always be some naked old guy coming out of the showers and standing right next to you, like he wanted to make sure you saw how naked he was.

Nothing like a giant, naked, hairy thing to make a kid feel inadequate.

This may be a weird question, but, based on your own anatomy, do I have any chance of getting anywhere near that big? Is this something I should worry about?

All in all, it was a lousy day.

Your son,

Trevor

None of the girls are even that cute.

Dear Dad,

Donnie Joad broke up with Jodi today. The whole thing was so stupid. Within two weeks he went from not even talking about girls to having a girlfriend to breaking up. I bet they didn’t even kiss. He’s such a dork sometimes. I can call him that because he’s my best friend.

Now at least Donnie and I can eat lunch together again. Maybe Brian Haase will sit with us.

You can buy food at the cafeteria in Junior High, but Mom still packs me a lunch. Mom’s food isn’t too terrible, even if she only gives me three cookies. They have store-bought cookies in the cafeteria. I know Mom’s are better, but there’s something pretty good about those store-bought cookies. Maybe it’s all those delicious preservatives.

I’m still not going out with a girl yet. It all seems so completely pointless to me. And none of the girls are even that cute.

Today is Friday and I’ve finished my first week of Junior High School. That means tomorrow I can sleep in, if Mom will let me, except that a truck dumped two cords of unsplit wood on the side of our house yesterday, and Mom wants me and Rhett to start splitting and stacking it. I hate splitting wood. Mom says it builds character, but I know we do it because it’s cheaper than buying gas for the furnace. The wood stove really doesn’t cut it in our old house, though. I mean that. It can get frickin’ cold. I don’t know if it was that cold when you were here, or if Mom was a total Hitler about the thermostat then like she is now. I swear, our house gets so cold in the winter that last year the water in the toilet froze over during the night. That is not a joke. It really did. Ask Rhett.

Rhett is a senior this year, in case you didn’t know. I’m assuming he’s not writing you letters like I am. His hair was really long over the summer, and he looked like a total stoner. Personally, I’m pretty sure he is a stoner. Mom made him get his hair cut before school started, so he’d look nice for his senior pictures. He got a really dorky haircut and hates his pictures. He looks like some kind of a math geek. But there’s no way Mom is going to pay to have them redone.

Rhett says he doesn’t mind splitting wood, because it’s a good workout. He says I’m a pansy for not jumping off the marina with him and Barry Barton last summer. I say he’s crazy for jumping because the top of the marina is at least 40 feet above the surface and one false move and pow–your neck is broken and you’re drawing pictures of doggies with a pencil in your teeth. 

Rhett keeps bringing it up, though. I wish he’d give it a rest.

Rhett made the high school varsity soccer team. Another benefit of going to a small school, I guess, because honestly he’s not that good. Not like Keith or Steffan for sure. You coached them, before you left. I wish you’d been around to coach me, although I think I’m pretty good on my own, considering I’ve never played on a real team before.

Oh well. Can’t have everything.

Your son,

Trevor

Mrs. Fletcher, Math Troll

Dear Dad,

I officially do not love Junior High School.

Big surprise there, I know. I didn’t expect it to be like Disneyland or anything, but you know, I thought it would be cool to hang out with only teenagers. Now all I do is school. School has taken over my life. I don’t think school should be that much of a priority. It seems to me that the whole school system is a bad way to learn. I mean, personally, I am much more excited about summer vacation than I am about school. And so is every other kid. So doesn’t it make sense to make school more like vacation and do away with all this annoying crap like teachers and classrooms and stupid posters on the wall about dental hygiene like the one in our homeroom with the worm coming out of the apple?

Now that vacation is over, I get up, get ready for school, get driven to school, then go from homeroom to P.E. to social studies to Bible to English to lunch to math to science and then to soccer practice (the school team!) and then home to do homework (from school!) and then to bed. Tell me one person who thinks that is a good way to live? No kids, for sure. And you know all the teachers would rather be on vacation, too. So why do we do it?

My math teacher’s name is Mrs. Fletcher and she looks like a troll. She’s about five feet tall with short, red hair cut like a boy, a red nose and tons of wrinkles and she talks like a troll, too, like she’s smoked too much or got punched in the throat. It wouldn’t really surprise me if she did get punched in the throat, because she is an evil woman and there are probably 10,000 kids who wouldn’t mind taking a swing at that saggy, wrinkly throat of hers.

Mrs. Fletcher doesn’t look interesting enough to be a smoker. When I think of smokers, I think of people like Aunty Iola, who holds the cigarette in one hand and the whiskey glass in the other. Aunty Iola is still around, by the way, meaning that she hasn’t died. She’s still really cool and actually really smart, too. I like how you can smell the smoke and whiskey on her breath when she kisses you. Man, she’s got an awful cough, though.

I can’t imagine Mrs. Fletcher drinking whiskey. I guess I can imagine her drinking something else, though. Something really awful. Milk that’s gone bad. Or maybe just plain old human blood. She so clearly doesn’t like kids. She said that anyone who got less than a C on the take-home test last night was what she likes to call a “math idiot.” A C? I swear, Mrs. Rommel didn’t teach us half that stuff last year, so I’ll probably be in that group, but at least I’m not a troll. She’s a math troll.

Why do people who don’t like kids become teachers? It makes no sense. Mrs. Fletcher should have got a job in a laboratory or the city morgue or some place where she wouldn’t have to talk to people. She’d get along great with dead bodies. Or she should be a guard in a woman’s prison. Then she could get punched in the throat every day.

You probably don’t know this, but there was this guy in grade school named Brian Haase. We used to fight all the time. His best friend from last year, Max Baxter, left to go to another school. Brian and Max were the biggest bullies of grade school. He is in almost all my classes and comes up and talks to me all the time. He actually seems pretty cool. Since Donnie is now always having lunch with his “girlfriend,” I’ve been eating my lunch with Brian. We talk about all the fights we were in over the years. I won most of them, by the way, even if he says he won his share. I don’t blame him for lying. I’d lie too if I lost fights. I don’t think I lost any. Maybe a couple. Anyway, Brian is a lot nicer this year.

I guess that’s another thing that’s different about junior high school. Everyone changes.

Your son,

Trevor

Trevor’s first soccer practice

Dear Dad,

I had my first soccer practice today and guess what? Not that many kids tried out for the team and Mr. Schick said no one would be cut. That’s good news for me. He also said I have a real strong kick and would make a natural defender. I’m pretty sure that’s what he tells kids who aren’t any good, but still, it was pretty cool of him to say it to me. Honestly, only a few of the kids look any good at all and I don’t think I’m any worse than the rest of them.

He asked if I was the brother of Steffan and Keith. When I said I was, he said, “Well, if you’re half as good as either of them, it will be a pleasure to have you on the team.” I just nodded. I’m probably not half as good as either of them. He didn’t mention Rhett at all, even though he played soccer, too.

There are a lot of new kids at school this year. I guess that’s another thing that happens in junior high. There are still kids I know from sixth grade, but a bunch of other schools dump their sixth graders here, too. Like the goalie on our soccer team—he’s a new kid named Rick Jarvis. He thinks he’s some kind of superstar soccer player, but he’s only better than me because I bet he’s played on club teams. He wears one of those shiny black jackets around school and it says “Hawks” on the back in orange stitching, which is probably the name of his other stupid team. He told me he is going out with a girl named Misty Lee. She’s new, too. Is every one in seventh grade required to have a girlfriend by the end of the first week? Misty Lee is cute, I guess, in an annoying sort of way.

I had my first math homework today. A take-home test. I just finished it. It took a lot longer than I thought it would. I’m hoping it was one of those tests where they just want to see how much you know, because there was a lot of it I didn’t know at all. I’m guessing that everyone else did about as bad as me, because I was kind of a math ace in sixth grade. Were you any good at math at my age? I know you were an English major at college, but I assume you did some math in seventh grade, right?

Not that I need it, but I wish you were here to help me with my math. Anyway, time to stop writing and mail the letter. I hope I have your address right. And I hope one stamp is enough.

Your son,

Trevor

Trevor’s first day of junior high school

Dear Dad,

I went to my first day of junior high school today. The first person I saw there was my best friend, Donnie and the first thing he told me was that he was going out with some girl named Jodi. Going out? Going out where? He can’t drive.

I saw Donnie like 20 times over the summer and this did not come up once in our conversation. I spent the night at his house last Thursday and he didn’t say a thing about liking girls. Am I supposed to like girls now? The last thing I remember was chasing Desiree Hancock around the playground and trying to plant my sneaker into her big, annoying butt.

Junior High works differently than sixth grade. In sixth grade, I had one teacher all day long. Mrs. Rommel. She was annoying, but I didn’t hate her or anything. One day she wore a wig and told us she was her twin sister, even though she knew we didn’t really believe it. That was really stupid, but I didn’t hate her for it. Anyway, now I have a zillion teachers and I go to different classes all day long.

My homeroom teacher is Mr. Anders. He is really young for a teacher, but he’s already boring, so he’ll be a natural. What happened to him that he could become so boring that fast? Maybe it’s because he’s already married. He owns map vending machines all over the city. He told us that on the first day of class. Am I supposed to be impressed that he owns map vending machines? How completely boring can you get? He’s also the P.E. teacher and the history teacher, so I get to be bored by him three times every day.

I’m trying out for the boy’ soccer team. The first practice is tomorrow after school. The coach is Mr. Schick, my Bible teacher. I don’t like him much. He taught Rhonda a couple of years ago and remembered her. He actually said to me, “I had quite a lot of trouble with your sister. Hopefully I don’t have the same trouble with you.” Great. He thinks I come from a family of hoodlums. And Rhonda is totally not a hoodlum. She’s one of the nicest people I know.

Once last year when Mom was gone, I was really sick—barfing and everything. Rhonda kept mopping my forehead with a wet washcloth while I was barfing into the toilet. Not that it really helped or anything, but still, mopping someone’s head with a wet washcloth while they’re barfing is a nice thing to do. Rhonda’s downfall is that she can’t stand boring, judgmental people like Mr. Schick. I bet she totally let him have it a couple of times for just being so boring. That’s probably why he didn’t like her, because she totally let him have it.

I’m going to stop writing now and mail this letter to you. Couldn’t hurt, I figure.

Your son,

Trevor