I have a lot to tell you.

Dear Dad,

Wow. It’s good to hear your voice. Or read your words. You’re actually back. Which means you’re actually there.

I have all your old letters, but there was this part of me that thought maybe I’d imagined our whole penpal thing. But there you are. And here’s another letter from you. And this is one from me. So it must all be real.

I’m really sorry about Carl. I really liked him. Is he gone for good? That sounded cold. I don’t mean it to. I don’t need to ask you any questions about Carl. Just know that I am sorry.

But I do want to know what happened. To you. In the woods. And please don’t ever go back there.

I have a lot to tell you. Donnie Joad and I went fishing and had a big talk. Then Mom and I went out for dinner and had another big talk. It’s been an exhausting weekend. But I guess I think maybe you should do some of the talking now. All I really want to say today is that I’m so happy or relieved or whatever to hear from you.

I think that’s enough for now. You’ve got plenty to read as it is.

Your son,

Trevor

I don’t want Mr. Schick exposing himself to me.

Dear Dad,

I told Mom I wasn’t going to play in the father-son basketball game. She frowned at me.

“Why do you want me to play in it?” I said.

“Because,” she said, “A boy needs to have a father figure in his life.”

“And you think—you think if I play in this game—“

“I don’t know, Trevor. I want you to be around some good adult males. They can give you things that I can’t.”

“I don’t even know any of these people. Except Mr. Schick. And he’s a complete—“

“—I think you need to give Mr. Schick a chance.”

“What?!”

“OK, maybe you’ve given him enough chances already. But there are bound to be other fathers there.”

“And? You think I should go up to them in the gym and ask them to take me out for ice cream?”

“Don’t get smart. I just want to make sure you’re getting exposed to male role models.”

All I could think about right then was taking a shower in the men’s locker room at the Y. “Like Mr. Schick? I don’t want Mr. Schick exposing any more of himself to me. Besides, I’ve got you and I’ve got older brothers and I’ve got Dad.”

“What do you mean, you’ve got Dad?”

“I’ve—I mean—he’s.” I took a breath. “I’m OK, Mom. I’m fine. Just don’t make me play in that game.”

She looked at me all heartbroken-like, with her eyes full to the brim and her hands grabbing at her sleeves.

“Let me think about it, OK?”

“OK.” That usually meant she would agree with me. I hope that’s what it meant this time.

I also hope you write me back tomorrow, Dad. I’m getting used to your being gone again. Is this permanent? Are you ever going to write?

Your son,

Trevor

I’ve proved that I don’t need you.

Dear Dad,

Mom wants me to play in the father/son basketball game!

Can you talk to her, please? I’m pretty sure if you walked in to her room, covered in dirt, and told her to back off a wee bit, she would.

But I know that’s not gonna happen. In fact, if you never even write to me again, I’ll survive. I’ve survived for 13 years. I’ve got Mom. I’ve got brothers and a sister. I’ve got friends. I’ve even got a dog now. I’ve proved that I don’t need you.

I don’t need to go to every stupid thing at school. I definitely don’t need to go to this dumb father/son game. I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me.

You know what I really want? I want to be normal. If everyone else’s dad suddenly dropped dead, I’d probably be happier, but I just want to get through this stupid year. I mean, I know I’ll get through it. 16 weeks to go and summer will be here.

You know who else won’t have a dad in the father/son game? Brian Haase. His dad is alive, but had some sort of nervous breakdown or something. He sits at home. He’s seems like a nice guy, but he’s really quiet. That’s gotta be hard, too. For Brian, I mean.

Once again, Brian and I are in the same boat.

It’s kind of a crummy boat.

Your son,

Trevor

The two words I hate most in the English language.

Dear Dad,

I hate that you’re not writing back.
I hate that you died.
I hate not having a dad.
I hate Mr. Schick.

Mom says I shouldn’t use the word “hate.” Instead, I should say, “dislike.” OK. I dislike Mr. Schick. I dislike him intensely. In other words, I hate him.

Yesterday at practice, Mr. Schick announced to the team that we’ll be having a father/son basketball game. He said, “As soon as you get home, go right up to your dad and really encourage him to come and play. What I’d like to see is every boy’s dad out there on the court!”

Then he turned to me and said, “Oh, and Trevor, you’re still welcome to come, even though you don’t have—even though your dad has uhhh, passed away.” Everybody looked at me to see how I would respond. My response was in my head, where I thought: Mr. Schick is a bastard. I wish he would pass away.

The two words I hate most in the English language are “passed away.” Just say “died.” My dad died. He’s dead. You didn’t pass away.

There is no damn way I’m going to a father/son basketball game. Heck, Mr. Schick probably wouldn’t play me anyway.

Your son,

Trevor

I started rooting for the dogs to win.

Dear Dad,

You’ve been gone too long and I’m really starting to get nervous. Part of my brain figures you’re never coming back. The other part reassures me that you will, any minute.

We had another away game on Friday. I didn’t go again, which sucks, but I’m starting to realize the whole team is pretty crappy and Mr. Schick is a dork, so I don’t really care that much. At least I knew ahead of time, so I went home with Rhett right after school, instead of having to wait around for a ride.

Donnie Joad’s mom dropped him off at our house after the game and we hung out. Donnie really likes to stay up late. Whenever he is at any kind of a sleepover, he figures the point of the whole thing is to see how late you can stay up.

Personally, I can’t stay up late to save my life, no matter how hard I try. If we’re just sitting around watching TV, I start nodding off at about ten and go in and out of sleep for a couple of hours.

At ten, Mom was in bed, so we started watching some stupid movie about hot looking teenagers who go to an island where they start getting attacked by wild dogs. It’s pretty much the stupidest movie ever made. The humans are all dumb. A girl gets bitten by a rabid dog, but decides she doesn’t need to go to a hospital. Instead, she should make out with some guy in the dark while dogs are trying to kill them. The dogs are way smarter. They know how to untie knots with their teeth. The dogs untie all the boats so the teens can’t get off the island.

I started rooting for the dogs to win, then I started falling asleep. Every time I would jerk awake, some dog would be ripping some dumb, sexy teen’s throat to pieces. It really started freaking me out. And I was sleeping on a chair, which was really uncomfortable. Donnie stayed awake the whole time and thought I did, too, because he talked to me even when my eyes were shut. That’s because he never took his eyes off the screen to notice anything else.

Finally, I woke up and the TV was showing an infomercial about a cool-looking vacuum cleaner. Donnie was sleeping on the floor, right in front of the blaring TV. I turned down the volume, switched to the couch, watched the vacuum cleaner thing for a couple minutes, then went to sleep for good.

Mom never mentioned her date. She made a really big dinner Sunday and Steffan and Keith came home and ate with us. I figure the delicious food was to make up for her going out with some guy we don’t know. But the food was really good. Roast beef and mashed potatoes and gravy and rolls and pink Jell-o salad and nasty green beans. Yummm.

I feel like I’m just kind of rambling, mostly because I’m just talking to myself. When are you going to write back?

Your son,

Trevor

Mom went out on a date last night.

Dear Dad,

Mom went out on a date last night. She told us. Sort of.

After basketball practice, she was making dinner. Hamburgers and french fries, which I like. But she only made enough for Rhonda, Rhett and me. She didn’t eat. She said she was having dinner with a friend.

“Who?” Rhonda asked.

“You don’t know him,” said Mom.

“Him?” Rhonda said. Even Rhett stopped eating at that point and looked up. OK, maybe he didn’t completely stop, but he slowed down.

“It’s no big deal,” Mom said. I think she actually blushed. “It’s just dinner. Just a friendly dinner.”

“Who is this guy?” asked Rhonda.

“His name is John Simon. He builds kitchen cabinets. He’s a friend of–”

“Kitchen cabinets? You’re going out on a date with a guy who builds kitchen cabinets?”

“It’s not a date. It’s just dinner. He’s just a friend.”

“Who we haven’t met.”

“Sounds like a date to me, Mom,” said Rhett.

“Eat your dinner. I have to get ready.”

“You have to get ready!” shouted Rhonda. “If you have to get ready, then it is definitely a date!”

“Eat your dinner!” shouted Mom.

“Do we get to meet him?” I asked.

“NO!”

“Geez, I just asked a question.”

“It’s not a date!”

I’m pretty sure Mom was crying when she stomped out of the room. I’m not sure if I felt sorry for her or not, because it was so weird. Rhonda seemed really pissed about the whole kitchen cabinet thing. Rhett just walked to the front door and left. He didn’t seem mad, though. He just goes out a lot.

Mom left, too, a few minutes later. Rhonda and me stayed home lone and watched TV. I wanted to watch the Olympics, but Rhonda watched some stupid show about college girls decorating their dorm rooms. She was really on edge, so I didn’t try to change the channel. I’m pretty sure she would have punched me if I did.

I went to bed before Mom came home. I didn’t ask her about it in the morning. Should I have?

And are you ever going to write me back?

Your son,

Trevor

When she doesn’t look stupid, she looks kind of wise.

Dear Dad,

I’m starting to get nervous that you haven’t come back yet. I thought this trip into the woods would be shorter, since you should kind of know where you’re going this time.

If I don’t have you writing me letters, I’m glad I have this old black dog. She’s not really old, but she’s already gray around her mouth. And she lays her head on her front paws and stares right into my eyes. So when she doesn’t look stupid, she looks kind of wise. Or understanding. At least she pays attention. When I talk to her, she hangs on every single word. I know this is mostly her listening for words like “walk” or “snack,” but I still like it. I can talk to her abour Mr. Schick (the fathead), you (the stiff) and whether or not Mom is dating (the mystery).

Mom was right about this dog. Everyone needs a companion. I guess she needs one, too.

I asked Rhett if he thought Mom wanted to date. He kind of blew me off, because he was walking out the door to some mysterious thing. He was eating leftover spaghetti out of a tupperware container as he walked. He said, “Mom? Date?” Then he sucked up more spaghetti as he opened the front door with his hip and walked out. Halfway out the door, he stopped and said, “Huh.”

Boy, it’s great to have such a wise older brother.

Your son,

Trevor

Rhonda thinks Mom has a boyfriend.

Dear Dad,

You’re not writing back, so I guess you’re tromping through the woods with Carl. I say “tromping” on purpose, because it sounds less scary. I could say, “I guess you’re wandering lost through the shadowy forest of death,” because that’s how it really looks in my mind.

I’m sticking with “tromping.”

Mom has something to say to us, but she can’t quite get up the nerve to do it. At dinner last night—just Mom, Rhonda and me, because Rhett was out with some buddies—she said, “Rhonda, Trevor?” Rhonda and I stopped shoveling spaghetti into our faces and waited. Mom stared at us for a few seconds and said, “Hurry up and eat your dinner.”

“Hurry for what?” Rhonda said. “We going somewhere?”
“Do we always have to be going somewhere?”
“What?”
“Quit talking and eat your dinner.” Mom scraped her uneaten spaghetti into Blackie’s bowl—Blackie eats all leftovers—and started doing dishes. Mom really clanged those pots around in the sink.

Rhonda thinks Mom has a boyfriend and hasn’t told us yet. I think it’s better not to think about it at all.

You son,

Trevor

She claps her hands once and then pumps one fist into the air.

Dear Dad,

Are you gone back into the woods?

Another weekend. Another basketball game I didn’t play in. Not even close to getting in this time, as the score was back and forth the whole game. We lost by three.

Mr. Schick must think I should be happy just to be on the team. Like it’s some great honor or something. He’s kind of right, I guess. I am glad I didn’t get cut. But it sucks to just sit there on the bench. And close games are the ones I want to be part of. I want to be in the heat of the battle, you know? I want some of the blood that’s shed to be mine.

You were talking about purpose. I’m not sure what the purpose of the team is. Is it to bring glory to Mr. Schick? No one gives a crap if his team wins or loses and no one like him, because he’s a total dorkus. Is it to bring glory to the school? Because hardly anyone goes to the games. Parents go. And a few kids who are all into school spirit or some weird thing like that. There’s this one girl—Greta Glaspar—she’s at every game. She sits all alone right behind our bench and cheers like crazy. “Come on, Warriors! Whoo-hoo!” And she does this weird clap-pump thing. She claps her hands once and then pumps one fist into the air. Clap-pump!

Maybe she’s practicing to be a cheerleader. I suppose ugly girls can dream, too. Boy, that sounded harsh.

I’m pretty sure the idea behind junior high school sports is that it’s for the kids, right? I’m a kid, aren’t I? Doesn’t that mean I should get to play, too? What they really mean is that sports are for the athletic kids—not all the kids. The jocks play more and get better. The clods play less and get worse. We all learn our places, I suppose.

Your son the clod,

Trevor

You bend everything into a dirty joke.

Dear Dad,

I wish you weren’t going back into the woods. But I’m glad Carl is going with you.

I kind of like Carl. He reminds me of the kind of friends I imagine you having, if you were still alive. A guy your age who would come over and help you build a fence and maybe give me sips of his beer when Mom wasn’t looking. I’d call him Uncle Carl even if he wasn’t really my uncle and he’d call me Trevorino or T-Dog or Sport-O and we’d punch each other on the arms.

Mom’s church friends don’t drink much beer. None of them have ever called me T-Dog.

If you had any of those friends when you were still alive, none of them are coming around anymore. None of them come around to take me out to breakfast or ask me about girls. That’s probably OK. It would just be weird anyway and I would feel strange going out to breakfast with some old guy.

I do kind of wish there was someone I could talk with about girls. They still pretty much scare me for the most part. Most of them, anyway. There are a few rare girls who don’t bring fear with them when they walk into a room. But most do.

I went roller skating a few weeks ago with some guys from school. It was for Gabe McCallister’s birthday party. His mom took us. I wonder if his mom knows that Gabe McCallister has a condom in his wallet. I bet she doesn’t, because she took us all to McDonald’s and bought us all Happy Meals, like we were kindergarteners or something. It was kind of cool, though, because we had a bunch of us guys making jokes about the little toys we got with the food. They were these chubby little space aliens with long, bendable arms. Gabe McCallister bent the arms of his aliens into dirty shapes, if you can believe it.

That’s what you do in junior high school. You bend everything into a dirty joke. Everything.

I was actually one of the best skaters. I’m pretty good at stuff that no one cares about. Gabe McCallister sucks at skating. He can barely let go of the wall. But somehow, he makes being a bad skater cool. One time, he wobbled his way across the rink right into a crowd of girls. He knocked one of them down and they laid there, tangled on the floor, laughing away. A few minutes later, that girl was guiding Gabe around the floor, holding hands with him.

How does he do that? If a girl asked me to hold hands with her, I’d probably barf all over the rink.

If you’ve left already, I hope you come back soon.

Your son,

Trevor

Brian is only kind of a loser.

Dear Dad,

Your story about the woods is still pretty much freaking me out. I’m glad you came back. It sounds awful in there. I hope you never go back. I noticed twice that you said you planned on returning. To save Julia? Don’t do it.

What have you told the others in town? Why can’t someone go back with you? I don’t think you should go alone.

You’ll be happy to know that I survived the weekend—including a completely non-eventful Valentine’s Day—with no issues. In elementary school—even in sixth grade—we exchanged valentines, which I always thought was pretty stupid, but it was still fun. Bee mine with a picture of a bee and that sort of stupidness. In junior high you don’t do anything fun. No recess and no valentines. One lousy teacher, Mr. Anders, mentioned Valentine’s Day at all. And all he did was talk about the origins of the holiday. He said that Saint Valentine was some guy who was killed for his Christian faith way back in like 200 A.D. The whole romance thing didn’t start until more than a thousand years later. That’s it. Then we went back to Washington State history and talked about the terminus of the railroad. Woohoo.

Thanks for making it such a special day, Mr. Anders!

No girls gave me any cards. I saw quite a few floating around the school, but none came my way. Donnie Joad got one from his old girlfriend, Jodi. He tore it up and threw it back at her. She ran away and started bawling.

“I was just trying to tell her I didn’t like her,” Donnie said. “I don’t know why she had to get so upset about it.”

Donnie’s kind of a dork. I think he felt pretty bad. Poor Jodi. She felt worse. In junior high, everyone gets their fair share of pain.

Brian Haase and I talked at lunch today about the stupid basketball team. Other than being with Brian, I still kind of hate basketball. Maybe that’s Mr. Schick’s evil plan. Maybe his goal as coach is to see how many kids he can get to hate the sport. Maybe he actually works for the NFL or something, and his job is to make kids hate basketball and play football instead.

Here’s a question for you. If Brian and I become friends just because we’re the worst players on the team, is that lame? Does that make me more of a loser?

Brian is only kind of a loser. He has cool parts to him, like he is totally into cars. He always has a car magazine with him and he gets mad if you bend the pages. I’m pretty sure he is actually really interested in the cars, but those magazines have some amazingly hot girls in them, with huge boobs.

Brian can recognize any car in two seconds. When we were sitting on the sidewalk in front of the school the other day, he would see a car go by and say, “2002 Mazda 3. 1.6 liter engine with a dual hemi thingamajig.” Of course, he could be making it all up, for all I know. But he sure sounds like he knows what he’s talking about.

Anyway, Brian and I talked about quitting the team to protest being left behind last Friday. But then Brian said that Mr. Schick would probably be glad that we quit. So we decided to stay on the team just to piss Mr. Schick off.

I think it’s a pretty good idea. We’ll see if he notices.

Your son,

Trevor

We watched the Schickhead Express drive away.

Dear Dad,

I didn’t mean to sound like a total jerk in my last letter. You’ve been through some pretty serious crap. I get that. Thanks for telling me a few more details. And please let me know what happened next. You’re still leaving me hanging.

Down here, I want you to know that not all my days are crummy. I mean, I think junior high school pretty much blows, but I don’t want you to think I hate every minute of my life.

That said, today pretty much sucked. I showed up for school, thinking I’d have a basketball game afterwards. It was an away game, so I figured we’d all be piling into the bus and driving there together. After science, I walked to the locker room to change into my uniform. Everyone else on the team was already there, getting dressed, snapping towels, making rude jokes. So I started getting dressed, too. I was stripped down to my boxers when Mr. Schick came said, “Brian and Trevor, can you come here a minute?”

As Brian Haase and I walked over to Mr. Schick, the locker room grew quiet. The jokes stopped. The towels stopped snapping. The eighth graders pretended to keep getting dressed, but they were all looking our direction. The kind and gentle Mr. Schick said, “Fellas, we’ve got an away game today, as you know. Unfortunately, we don’t have access to the bus for basketball, because the high school is using it. That means we’re taking the Ford Econoline.”

For some reason, Mr. Schick thought I cared about the brand of our school van. Brian and I stared dumbly at Mr. Schick. He finally said, “The Econoline only has seating for 14.”

We stared some more, but I heard a few painful “oohs” from the kids behind me.

“We’ve got 15 players on our team, plus me. That means two of us will have to take one for the team and stay home.”

It was starting to make sense right about then.

“But don’t think I don’t value your contribution to the team. And next week’s a home game, so we’ll get you right back in there. OK, fellas?”

I’m pretty sure I heard Donnie Joad say, “Holy crap.” Brian Haase and I walked back to our lockers and changed into our street clothes. I borrowed Donnie Joad’s cell phone and called my mom to come and get me, but she was stuck at work. She said she’d leave a message for Rhett. Brian and I sat on the sidewalk in front of the school. We watched the Schickhead Express drive away, then sat there waiting for our rides.

“That Mr. Schick is a real dillrod,” said Brian. I agreed. I was glad Brian was there. I mean, it totally sucked at an unbelievable level, but it would have sucked a million times worse if it had been just me.

Anyway, I hope you figure out all your afterlife crap. By the way, this coming Sunday is Valentine’s Day. Thought you might want to know.

Your son,

Tom

I’m still here. You’re the one who died.

Dear Dad,

You’re driving me crazy. I’ve received two letters from you since you returned and you’ve told me nothing except that the experience was awful and there was lots of moss. What am I supposed to do with that? You’re like Aunt Bronwyn who rambles on about old relatives I’ve never met. Get to the point, please!

I know I’m supposed to be patient. And I know that I’m still supposed to be amazed to even be writing back and forth with my dead father. Super spiritual experience and all that. But geez, Dad, you’re sounding kind of nuts. And you haven’t asked me one time about basketball. Nothing.

I mean, YOU left ME. I’m still here. You’re the one who died. Not me. You’re the one who left Mom with five kids and not enough money. And you know what? It kind of sucks.

Mr. What’s-his-face—Mr. Schick—he had a Team Talk today about last week’s game. He told us what we did right and what we did wrong. I don’t take any blame, because he didn’t even put me in for a second. He talked about that a little bit, too. “We’re in a very competitive league, so not all of us are going to play in every game. But you’re still an important part of this team. You still contribute in your own little way. Never forget that.”

Trust me. I will never forget that.

Mr. Schick is an ass. And you’re dead.

Your son,

Trevor

If it was that awful in the woods, I don’t think you should go back.

Dear Dad,

I’m glad to hear from you. I mean, I’m really happy. Geez, these words just don’t work. Let me try again.

When I saw your envelope sitting in the mailbox, my stomach kind of jumped. I tore the letter open and read it right there. It felt like I started breathing again, after holding my breath for a week.

Now I sound like I’m writing to my girlfriend or something. This is isn’t getting any better. Anyway, when I read your words, I felt—I don’t know. It sounds so weird and scary. It makes my life here seem like a half-life.

Why do you need to go back into the woods? What happened to Martin? I’m guessing something horrible, but you didn’t say. And where is Julia?

If it was that awful in the woods, I don’t think you should go back.

Last Friday, in this half-life of mine, I had my first basketball game. Guess how much I played? Zero minutes and zero seconds. Mr. Schick, the kind and loving coach that he is, kept coming over to the bench to choose subs to go in. Every time he’d come over, I’d kind of perk up, just like Blackie Dog does whenever anybody comes into the room. I hope I didn’t look that stupid, but I probably did.

We won by 22 points, which seems like a big enough gap that I could have played. I know how it works. I don’t expect to play if it’s a five-point game. But 22 points? I didn’t think I was that bad.

Oh well. Brian Haase didn’t play, either. I’m pretty sure everyone else did. Even Donnie Joad, and he’s like 5’2”. We have an away game next Friday. Maybe I’ll get to play then. Who cares? What difference does it make? I didn’t want to go out for the stupid team anyway.

Your son,

Trevor

You probably fell down a hole.

Dear Dad,

Tomorrow is our first basketball game. I kind of like basketball practice. Or at least I don’t hate it as much as I thought I would. Not that I’m good at it or anything, but I kind of like getting all sweaty and tired and hanging out with friends. Not in a gay way or anything. In a sports way.

Does it make sense to call these guys friends? I guess they’re the closest thing I’ve got. I mean, I don’t want to tell them my deep secrets or anything. There’s no way I would talk to them the way I talk to you, about girls and your being dead and stuff like that. And if I was hanging off a cliff and had to call one person to come and save me, I probably wouldn’t call any of them. I’d call Mom, I guess. Is that weird?

I don’t think it’s all that weird, because Mom would actually come and save me, where even Donnie Joad, who I suppose is my best friend, would stop and call people to tell them the news before he actually did anything helpful.

I had a math test yesterday and got a C on it. I was actually pretty happy about that, because for some reason, this whole pre-algebra thing is somehow starting to make sense. I mean, I’m not a math whiz or anything. But I don’t think even that hag Mrs. Fletcher would call me a math idiot anymore. C means average, right? If I could be average in math, I’d be pretty happy. Is that wrong?

Is it?

Answer me!

I don’t know why I keep writing these stupid letters to you. You don’t write back anymore. You wandered off into the woods, where you probably fell down a hole and now your flesh is slowly burning off in a lake of fire.

OK, I hope that’s not true. I hope you found heaven.

I don’t really think you did, though.  I mean, I love you and everything, but you don’t sound like you’re ready for heaven. In your letters, you kind of just mope around. Now you’re probably moping around in the woods and can’t find your way back.

I kind of hope you don’t read this letter, because I sort of sound like a jerk in it. I sound like I don’t like you very much.

Please write back,

Your son,

Trevor

I wish I knew if you were happy or at least less unhappy.

Dear Dad,

I wish you would write back to me. Or I wish I could somehow know where you are, if you’re OK, if you’re happy, or at least less unhappy.

Today after English class, Mrs. Henry asked how I was doing. I said fine. She asked if I had any news from The Other. Then she kind of tilted her head to the side, like our new dog does when it hears a high-pitched noise. It almost made me laugh out loud. But then I thought about how much I wanted to talk about you and it almost made me spill my guts to her. It almost made me tell her all about our letters back and forth and the bargain you made with me when you took on my fear of Will Mudgett. I almost told her about the bloody boat and the woods and about how much I’m wondering where you are right now.

But I didn’t tell her anything. I just stood there looking at her, thinking all that stuff. Then I said, “No. No news.” Then I left, still thinking about it all.

It made me think about that day of the fight and it reminded me that I forgot to tell you about Gilman, that 8th grader who almost killed Mudgett and who I somehow managed to knock down. He doesn’t go to our school anymore. He never came back after Christmas. I’ve heard about a million stories about why he’s not here anymore. Donnie Joad says that Gilman was so ashamed by my kicking his butt that he asked his parents to let him go to another school. Mudgett said that his mom talked to the principal about how Gilman beat him up and they kicked Gilman out. Brian Haase said he heard that Jordan Sackett told someone that Gilman’s parents moved away.

I don’t really care why he’s gone, but I’m glad he’s gone. Sometimes things just work out.

You’re gone, too. How long should I keep writing these letters to you?

Your son,

Trevor

Some kids are really dumb. I think it’s a personal choice.

Dear Dad,

I still haven’t heard from you. I wonder if my letters are stacking up again at your tiny little post office. Now that people up there know that I write to you, maybe someone else is reading my letters. Maybe Sung-Hee or Carl or Gordon or the silent postman are reading these words, right now. If so, hello. I don’t mind so much, really. I want to have someone to talk to. I’ve gotten used to it.

The dog is still nameless. Rhonda disagrees. She insists its name is Cassandra, but no one else will call it that. Rhett calls it Black Dog. I kind of like that. Rhett says Black Dog is the name of a cool old song by Led Zeppelin. He tries to sell the name to me that way, just like he’s always trying to sell me something. Mom calls it Doggy or Puppy or sometimes Blackie. I just call it Dog.

Names matter, I think. Your name is Hugh. Kind of a weird name, really, but the meaning is cool. “Bright in mind and spirit” is what the internet tells me. You named me Trevor, which I’ve always liked, but the meaning is pretty lame. “From the big settlement.” Who the hell cares about which settlement I’m from? I know that you named me after Uncle Trevor. I guess someone must have cared what settlement HE was from. Zo ztrange.

A couple of months ago, this kid at school said, “Your family all has weird, old-fashioned names.” I said, “They’re not old-fashioned. They’re Welsh.” He said, “Welch? You mean like the grape juice?” I said, “No, you idiot. WelSH. Like, from Wales.” He said, “Whales? Like the fish?” I said, “No, like the country. Wales. Next to England. And whales aren’t fish, you retard. Whales are mammals.”

Some kids are really dumb. Mom would say it’s from playing too many video games, but I think it’s more about a personal choice. Like, “I choose to be dumb. Please don’t teach me anything. I take pride in my total dumbnosity.”

OK, I looked up the song Black Dog on the web. Here are some sample lyrics:

Hey hey mama said the way you move, Gon’ make you sweat, gon’ make you groove.

That sounds pretty dirty. Just saying. Kind of a weird song to name a dog after, if you ask me.

Your son,

Trevor

Maybe I’ll never get a reply to this letter.

Dear Dad,

I haven’t heard back from you. I’m hoping that’s a good sign. My mailbox seems depressed about it, though. I can’t get the little flag to stay up. It just keeps falling back down.

The dog still doesn’t have a name. Rhonda calls it Cassandra, but that’s obviously not a good dog name. Dogs are named Prince and Sparky and Snoopy and stuff like that. Maybe if it was a poodle you could call it Cassandra. But this dog is clearly a mutt. It should have a name that fits its muttness.

I had a weekend off from basketball practice. We have our first game next Friday. It’s a home game. I wonder how much I’ll get to play. Not many people come to middle school games, other than parents. It’s not like the high school games I’ve gone to for Stephan or Keith, where the stands are packed with people. At our soccer games, it was all moms talking to each other and dads watching. Mom couldn’t come to many, because she had to work. You couldn’t come because you were dead. Both are pretty good excuses, I guess.

I think about you all the time, wondering where you may be right now. Are you lost in the woods? Did you somehow make it to heaven or some other place? I can’t get my head around what kind of place you might be in. And you don’t know anything except that there’s water nearby and woods nearby. For all you know, you could be on a dinky little island. You might get a mile into the woods and come to the other side of the island. Or maybe you’re on the edge of some huge continent, like Russia, and you’ll just keep walking and walking and walking.

And maybe I’ll never find out. Maybe I’ll never get a reply to this letter.

Your son,

Tom

We got a dog yesterday. I drew a picture of it.

Dear Dad,

I hope you’re gone. And I hope you come back. And I hope you’re still there. And I hope I never hear from you again. And I hope I hear from you again every day.

I hope you get this letter and I hope you never get this letter.

If you get it, you’ll know that we got a dog yesterday. I drew a picture of it.

Mom picked me up after basketball practice and had Rhonda in the car with her. We went straight to the animal shelter. The shelter is split up into two sections—cats and dogs. We were let in by a woman named Cassandra—she had like three piercings in her lip, but still talked mostly normal. She took us behind a counter and then opened a big metal door. As soon as the door opened, the room behind her exploded in barking. The room was long and narrow, lined in three levels of wire cages on both sides. Cassandra told us to take our time, look around, and ask questions.

Rhonda had her book of dog breeds with her. She would walk up to a cage, look at the dog inside, then flip through the book as if she were some kind of botanist or something. No, wait. A botanist is a plant scientist. What do you call a dog scientist? A doganist?

I’m pretty sure there weren’t any purebred dogs in there. They all looked like different kinds of mutts to me. Some were little and hairy. Some were big and hairy. They were all loud, as if each one thought, “If I’m the loudest one, maybe they’ll pick me.”

One thing that’s weird about mutts is that they all have tails that curl upwards. There must be some kind of dog breed with upward-curling tails that gets around a lot, if you know what I mean.

We looked around for about half an hour and finally got the choice narrowed down to two—one was a black dog with pointy ears that was kind of medium-sized. The other was a little, dirty white dog with hairy legs. Mom didn’t like that one, because he had one goopy eye. Cassandra kept saying, “Don’t worry about his eye. That’s just a temporary condition.” Mom would nod and smile, and then whisper under her breath, “How does she know it will go away?”

So we picked the black dog. The lady referred to her—it’s a girl dog—as a shepherd-lab. A schlep, for short. That’s what I call it. I wanted to name it, “Schlep.” Rhonda said we should name it Cassandra, because I’m pretty sure Rhonda thinks of herself as someone who will get piercings when she gets old enough. We argued about names the whole way home. The dog sat in the back seat, between Rhonda and me. First time I can remember that we didn’t fight over who got shotgun.

I’ll write more tomorrow. Right now, I want to go play with Schlep or Cassandra or Dog X or whatever its name is.

Your son,

Trevor

At the seventh line, your head explodes. Then you start over.

Dear Dad,

My school is kind of lame sometimes.

So after all that crap about cutting kids from the team, Mr. Schick said that he has decided not to cut anyone. Everyone who tried out made the team. 15 kids in all. I’m not sure if this makes me feel good or not. It’s like being on a team where every kid gets a trophy, even the kids who suck.

Even so, I don’t mind not getting cut. I get a jersey with a number on it and the shorts are long and pretty cool looking. I can see why hip-hop guys wear so much basketball gear. It does look pretty tight.

Mr. Schick said I’ll be playing guard, so I need to work on my dribbling, defense and outside shooting. I think I’m a pretty good shot from outside. And if that means I don’t have to do layups, I’m all for it.  I still have to do them in practice, though. That stinks. I stress out every time I run toward the basket.

Nothing in basketball comes naturally for me. “Keep your head up when you dribble, Trevor!” shouts Mr. Schick. “Keep your eye on the ball, Trevor!” shouts Mr. Schick. How am I supposed to do both? And whenever you don’t do both, you have to run these things called “lines.” Did you ever have to run lines? I bet if you ever figure out where hell is up there, you will find Satan making the really evil people run lines. I suppose it’s good for me. That’s what Mom says. But it doesn’t feel good for me. It feels like I’m going to die.

You start at one end of the court, which, by the way, is covered in painted lines. Then you run as fast as you can to the first line, bend down and touch it, and run back to the end. Then you run as fast as you can to the next line, bend down and touch it, and run back to the end. You keep doing this until you get to about the fifth line. At the fifth line, you also start cursing Mr. Schick under your breath. You can only do it under your breath, because it’s impossible to actually talk. At the sixth line, you start grabbing your side, because it feels like weasels have crawled down your throat into your stomach and are trying to eat their way out. At the seventh line, your head explodes. Then you start over.

Anyway, Mom says we can get a dog tomorrow, to celebrate. I’m pretty sure that if I hadn’t made the team, she would have said we could get a dog tomorrow to help ease the pain. Mom’s kind of a genius sometimes.

I hope you get this letter. I hope you’re not lost in the woods. But I’m glad you’re going for it. Funny. You wanted me to go out for this stupid  basketball game. I wanted you to try to go somewhere. We’re both doing it, for better or worse. Hopefully for better.

Your son,

Trevor

My main job is to wave my hands around a lot.

Dear Dad,

Today is the last day of basketball tryouts. Next time I write, I’ll let you know if I made the team or not. So far this week, I think it’s pretty clear I’m not the next LeBron James. I’m pretty fast and I feel like I’m working pretty hard, so I’ve got that going for me.

I still do pretty good at foul shots. I suck at layups. I have no idea if I’m any good at defense. From what I know, my main job on defense is to stand in front of the other guy and wave my hands around a lot. In that sense, it’s not that much difference than taekwondo. When I wave my hands around, I feel like yelling, “Ha! Hiya!”

When I’m on defense, I also feel like going into my boxing stance and right-crossing the guy right in the face. That would draw a foul for sure, but I guarantee it would keep him from making his shot. And it would feel good. Especially if the other guy was Dirk Fossler. He thinks he’s so hot. He’s an eighth grader. His dad is some kind of fancy basketball coach somewhere. He’s also got about the dirtiest mouth you’ve ever heard in your life. No matter what you say, Dirk can make a sex joke out of it. He can even do it with numbers. It’s kind of creepy, but kind of amazing, too. Who knew numbers could be dirty?

Brian Haase also went out for the team, like I told you. I’m glad he’s here, because he’s worse than me. He’s tall, though. He must be almost six feet. But he’s skinny as a rail.

At home, dog fever has struck my sister. Rhonda has this book about dog breeds and she’s been sitting around looking at it all day long. She has all these pages dog-eared (ha!) on her favorite breeds, like standard poodles and Dalmatians and girly dogs like that. I bet those purebred dogs are pretty expensive. If mom doesn’t want to pay for me to get a taekwondo suit, I don’t know why Rhonda thinks she’ll pay for a purebread dog. I mean purebred. But a pure bread dog would be cool, too. If your dog was pure bread, and you didn’t like him, you could just eat him.

You sound really glum in your letters lately. I guess I get that, because you’re dead and all. But I never really pictured you as a glum guy. Mom always talks about you as kind of happy and crazy. She never mentioned you being depressed.

If I was in your situation and you were giving me advice, what would you tell me to do? You already know you’d tell me to go. Do something. So that’s what I’m telling you. If you don’t want to get on the bloody boat, go check out the woods.

I mean, if nothing ever changes, then what are you waiting for?

Tom

He told us we were all winners just for coming out.

Dear Dad,

I like your drawing of Julia. I’ve got a picture for you, too. Here’s another drawing of Mr. Schick, blowing The Whistle of Satan, as I like to call it. You’ve never heard a sound so shrill as that shrieking whistle.

I started basketball tryouts yesterday. They go this week. Then, at the end of the day on Friday, Schick will tell us who made the team and who didn’t. Yesterday he told us we were all winners just for coming out. Then he had us run a set of lines and told us we were the most pathetic bunch of slackers he’d ever seen. He seemed more sincere on the last statement than the first.

I’ve already resigned myself to not making the team. When I’m cut on Friday, it will be a relief and I won’t have to come to these stupid practices anymore. Then I can go home after school and play X Box. Or maybe I can finally start taekwondo lessons.

I know all about your Dad dying at the gravel quarry. Mom’s dad died when she was a kid, too. Burst appendix. According to Mom, her dad was a real jerk. All this dying doesn’t feel so much like a joke to me as a curse. Sometimes, I wonder if it means I’ll die when I have kids. I also wonder if it means Mom is gonna die soon. Then I’d be an orphan. What would happen to me then? Rhett is a senior, so he’d probably just live on his own. Me and Rhonda would have to live with someone, though. Maybe Aunt Fredi, but I think she’s an atheist, so Mom would probably never let us go there. She probably has in her will that we go to live with some church friend. Hopefully it would be with someone whose house doesn’t smell weird.

Some of the houses of church people have weird-smelling houses. Like Mrs. St. Claire. She’s got a really fancy house, as jammed full of knickknacks and doilies as a house can be. If there’s a flat surface, you can bet Mrs. St. Claire has put a doily on it. And there’s not a doily in the place that doesn’t have some porcelain ballerina or glass elephant on top. You can’t walk into the place without breaking something. Last time we went there, Rhonda pushed me and I knocked a glass clown off its doily. It’s little umbrella broke off. The grown-ups were all in another room, but I still I freaked out and started looking through drawers for some glue. Rhonda told me to relax. She opened a window and just chucked the broken clown into the bushes. Then she took a little glass panda from a group of other glass pandas and put it on the bare doily.

“Mrs. St. Claire will never notice,” said Rhonda. “Let’s go get some chips.”

Rhonda is the smartest person I know. Or at least that’s what she tells me.

Your son,

Trevor

Mom has not started dating anyone, but I think she’s thinking about it.

Dear Dad,

Who is Chairman Mao? Is that someone you used to work for?

Mom has not started dating anyone, but I think she’s thinking about it. I mean, this is pretty much just theory on my part. And on Rhonda’s. But I think there’s something to it.

Here’s why: We don’t have a dog right now. We had Val when you were alive. Based on all the stories Steffan tells, Val the German shepherd was The World’s Greatest Dog. I’m pretty sure Steffan thinks Val could levitate at will and poop gold. Supposedly, you trained the dog remarkably well and it never did a wrong thing ever.

After you died, we got another German shepherd. I guess they figured the last one was so wonderful, they should stick with the breed. Mom or someone named it Floyd. I hated that dog. Or feared it, I guess is more accurate. Whenever I went outside, it would jump on me, stand on my chest, and bark in my face. I remember being about five years old and trying to run from our house to Barry Barton’s house before Floyd could catch me. I rarely ever made it. Luckily, Floyd ran away. Good riddance.

Then we had Horace, which was an ancient beagle that some crazy lady gave to Rhonda. The crazy lady lived in a beach rental and when she moved, she asked Rhonda if she wanted a dog. Rhonda was eight years old, so of course she said yes. So she came home with this gray-muzzled, half-blind old dog who barked at anything that moved. I guess Mom couldn’t bring herself to take the dog away from Rhonda.

The best story about Horace, which is the same name as Mom’s brother, Uncle Horace, was that one summer, Uncle Horace was coming to visit all the way from Minnesota. Mom warned us kids, “When Uncle Horace is here, don’t call the dog by its name. Uncle Horace would be very offended if he found out that old dog had the same name as him.” On arrival day, we were all steeling ourselves to stay steady, when we saw Uncle Horace’s rental car pull into the driveway. Horace the dog saw it too and started barking like mad. Uncle Horace, who looked about a million years old, stepped out of the car. Mom opened the front door. Horace the dog was barking like mad. Uncle Horace was walking toward the house. Then Mom yelled, as loud as I’ve ever heard her yell anything, “Horace! Shut up! Horace! Shut up!”

Uncle Horace was really confused.

Anyway, Horace the dog died after just a few years and we’ve been dogless ever since. Recently, Mom’s been talking about how we should get another dog. This surprises all of us, as Mom doesn’t exactly love the beasts. But she’s been saying all this stuff about how important it is to have a companion and how bad it is to be lonely and Rhonda says Mom isn’t talking about us. Rhonda is pretty smart about this stuff, or so she tells me. She said, “Just you wait. Mom’s gonna start going out on dates.”

That’s all I know for now.

Your son,

Trevor

I can’t imagine that I’ll make the team.

Dear Dad,

I’ve been trying to figure out who else is going out for basketball. Some of them are easy to figure. Donnie Joad is going out, because he does anything that’s free. Skip Hendrickson is, because he’s good at everything and likes to make sure everyone knows. Rick Jarvis isn’t, because he plays soccer year around on his fancy club team. Mudgett isn’t. He doesn’t do regular sports. Just taekwondo, which seems way cooler than basketball to me. I hear that Rusty Foster is. I hope I don’t have to get dressed next to him. Yikes. A bunch of eighth graders are and I hope like heck that Gilman isn’t one of them. I still haven’t seen him around school since the fight.

Brian Haase is going out for the team, which I never expected. He’s not much of a sports guy. Maybe him and I will get cut together. It would be a relief to not be the only kid to get cut.

Because, you see, I can’t imagine that I’ll make the team. I mean, I’m gonna try and everything, but I’m just not very good at this whole basketball thing.

Dad, I have a question for you: that Julia woman up there with you. Are you, like, interested in her? I mean, would you ever date her or anything? Do people do that sort of thing up there?
 
Here’s another question for you: If mom were to date, what would you think about that?

Your son,

Tom

I was at a table for two with my mom.

Dear Dad,

I guess I’m going out for basketball. How’s that for commitment?

Last night for dinner, just me and Mom were home, so we went to Round Table and ate pizza. It’s weird going out for dinner with just your mom. I saw Brandy Saylor there from school and she was with a group of girls I didn’t know. No parents in sight. And there I was at a table for two with my mom.

Mom must have noticed my pain, because she said, “Honey, you’re not embarrassed to be here with me, are you?” I lied and said no. I hope no one heard her call me honey.

Anyway, the pizza was pretty delicious. I like eating out in restaurants, even if the food isn’t as good as Mom’s. I’m convinced there is no such thing as bad pizza.

Mom asked me about basketball again. She said she thought I should do it for the exercise at least, if for no other reason. I said I was going to do taekwando lessons and wasn’t that exercise enough? She asked how much it would cost again and I said I still hadn’t figured it out. She said I needed to do that before we signed up and that there was no reason I couldn’t do basketball and taekwando.

“Boys need to be active,” she said.

“I’m pretty active already.”

“Video games don’t count.”

There is a rule among all moms everywhere that all video games are inherently evil. It’s funny, because Mom bought me a BB gun, no problem. If I told her I shot a bird, she’d probably think it was cute in a farm boy sort of way. But if I tell here I shot a zombie, which is a way better thing to kill than a bird—she acts like I just kissed Satan on the lips.

Anyway, she said, “So it’s settled? You’ll go out for basketball?”

“I guess.”

Tryouts aren’t until next week. So I’ve got a few days until I have to spend more time with Mr. Schick.

Say hi to Carl for me.

Your son,

Trevor

Basketball is a stupid game. I suck at it.

Dear Dad,

Mom is still harping on me to go out for basketball. I really don’t want to.

In sixth grade, I actually got a basketball hoop and backboard for my birthday. I remember the conversation about it before. “Trevor needs a place to play basketball,” Keith said. By which I’m pretty sure he meant, “If we put up a hoop, I’d have a place to play basketball.” Neither one made much sense to me. Basketball is a stupid game. I suck at it. I don’t really need a reminder of that hanging above the driveway. And Keith doesn’t even live at home anymore. What’s he gonna do? Come home on weekends just to kick my butt in a game of horse?

Anyway, they got me a hoop and a real backboard and Rhett put it up on the garage. Only problem is that our driveway is gravel. So when you try to dribble the ball, it always hits a weird rock and goes shooting off in a random direction. When Rhett notices me playing, he says, “You better not hit my car.” Then, as soon as I start to dribble, boing! The ball hits a rogue piece of gravel and smacks into his passenger door.

“I told you not to hit my car!” Rhett yells.

“Don’t park there if you don’t want me to hit it.”

“Hit it again and I’ll hit you.”

“You’re the one who put the hoop on the garage. What am I supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to stop hitting my car.”

I play anyway, mostly by myself when no one is watching. I can’t dribble real good, mostly because of the gravel. And I suck at layups, because I can never remember which foot to go off of. I spend way too much time thinking about it. “I’m making a right handed layup, so does that mean I go off my right foot? No, my left foot.” But by then, I’ve already missed the shot and it doesn’t matter.

If you were here, would you make me go out for basketball?

Your son,

Trevor

Mom thinks TV—except for nature shows—is of the devil.

Dear Dad,

Sorry to hear you’re in such a funk. I guess I was in one, too. I kind of dreaded going back to school, but I think I’m actually happier now.

I’ve always liked going back to school after Christmas, because you get to ask each other what you got and teachers are usually pretty easy on you, it being your first day back and all. That’s what happened today. I had a pretty flawless couple of hours. No one beat me up or anything. I didn’t see David Gilman at all. I also didn’t see Will Mudgett, which made me strangely nervous. I mostly hope nothing happened to him.

Lots of kids got new cell phones for Christmas. I don’t have a cell phone yet. I guess I should feel like I’m missing out on something, but I don’t really. If I had a cell phone, I’m pretty sure people would call me on it. I’m lousy on the telephone. I’d like one for the games, I guess.

In P.E., the evil Mr. Schick came in to tell us he’d be holding basketball tryouts starting next week. I have no desire to play basketball. But when I got home, I just happened to mention it to Mom. She says I need to tryout. “You should give it a chance,” she said. “Your brothers all played basketball. It’s what boys do. And if you don’t do it, what are you going to do? Sit around and play video games?”

Mom thinks video games are of the devil. She thinks TV—except for nature shows—is of the devil. She thinks all movies made after The Sound of Music are of the devil. The funny thing is, she thinks that all reading material comes straight from God. I read Mad Magazine and Stephen King and she doesn’t even blink. I can read books full of sex scenes and stabbings—even if they’re happening simultaneously. Mom never even bothers to read the covers. If it’s a book, she figures, it must be good for you.

Who knows? Maybe Mom is actually right this time.

Your son,

Trevor

I killed something a couple of days ago.

Dear Dad,

I know I haven’t written in a while. After Christmas, I got sort of, I don’t know.

Now it’s back to school today. I haven’t gone yet. I’m writing this in the morning before I leave.

None of my friends got in touch with me over the holidays except for Will Mudgett. And he’s a creep, right? I can’t believe I even list him in the friends’ category. I got a few text messages from girls who can’t help themselves, but Donnie and Brian and my other guy friends all seem to have disappeared off the face of the earth for two weeks.

I guess I didn’t call any of them, either. I wonder if we were all sitting at home waiting for the phone to ring.

I killed something a couple of days ago.

You know that new BB gun I got? I was shooting at trees from the deck. Every now and then, I’d actually hit what I was aiming for, but most of the time I’d miss. That’s why I didn’t even pause when it came to aiming at a teeny little bird sitting on a bush. I don’t know what kind of bird it was. Mom just calls them tweety birds, but I don’t think that’s the real name. Anyway, I aimed at one for about a tenth of a second and then pulled the trigger. Without a sound, the bird just fell over, into the ivy below.

I kind of freaked out right then. I dropped the gun and ran down there as fast as I could. I started digging around in the ivy, looking for the bird, to see if it was still alive. I couldn’t find it. I was saying, “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” over and over again. I kept looking for another ten minutes until Mom noticed me from the dining room windows. She came out on the deck.

“What are you looking for, honey?”

“Umm, nothing. Just, uhh, poking around. You know.”

“You’re not wearing your school shoes in there, are you?”

That’s the kind of thing Mom worries about. I was trying to save a dying bird, and she was worried about me getting a little dirt on my shoes.

I finally realized I was never going to find the bird and came inside with the gun. “What’s up, Tex?” said Rhett as I passed him. I told him I killed a bird. “That’s cool,” he said. I pretended to agree, but felt sick to my stomach.

So now it’s back to school. I don’t have to worry about Mudgett anymore. Hopefully, Gilman doesn’t kill me. I just wish things would be, you know, different.

Your son,

Trevor

I’m still stuck thinking about that boat captain of yours.

Dear Dad,

It’s the Monday after Christmas. I’m still stuck thinking about that boat captain of yours. Why did Gordon want to go on that boat in the first place? You couldn’t pay me to get on something like that. And why wouldn’t they let him take his suitcase. I’m sure they could have found room for it if they wanted to.

I wish you would check out the woods a little more. Seems like plenty of people go that direction just fine.

Christmas weekend was pretty lovely. I got a BB gun from mom. On Christmas Eve, Rhett and I went down to the beach to try it out after we opened presents. It was pitch black out, so we brought a flashlight. We tried to shoot sand fleas with it. It’s pretty cool. I used it a bunch yesterday, too. It will go through both sides of a coke can, no problem.

I’ve still got a week off of school, so I’m happy. I love having nothing to do.

Your son,

Trevor

If that boat comes in tomorrow, I wish you would draw a picture of it.

Dear Dad,

I remember that stupid Play-Doh toy! I have no idea if I ever played with it or not. Boy, do I ever remember that feeling of guilt. I thought it was Mom who caught me. It was you? I guess one authority figure is as good as another when you’re four.

We have a couple of Christmas photos that you and I are both in. I’m wearing pajamas and I’m so little in them that I guess it makes sense that I don’t remember you.

I talked to Mom about taekwando lessons. We already have a Y membership, and she said if it doesn’t cost extra and I can get a ride that she supposes I can do it. She said I need to figure out about any extra costs. Mom says that things that sound free always end up costing her a bunch of money. I think it’s hard to be Mom. I bet she puts up with all sorts of stress that I don’t know about, money-wise. Anyway, I’m planning on catching a ride with Mudgett’s mom after school. Hope it’s not too weird.

If that boat comes in tomorrow, I wish you would draw a picture of it. Maybe I can look at the picture and help you figure out what the boat is for. There’s got to be some way to figure out where it goes and what happens to the people who get on it.

It’s the day before Christmas Eve down here. Christmas Eve Eve, as Rhett calls it. I’m just kind of hanging out. I got up early this morning, before anyone else, and went into the living room and lied on the couch under a blanket. I turned on the Christmas tree lights. I like the way they turn the room all warm looking, even when it’s freezing cold. I like to blur my eyes a little bit—you know, by squinting—so that all the colors kind of fuzz together.

I’ve got to wrap everyone’s presents today. Want to know what I got them? I got Mom this picture frame with a photograph of a sunset in it. I took the photo from our deck. It’s pretty cool. And the frame is round. I think she’ll like it. I got Steffan a license plate holder for his truck that says, “Old Chevys Never Die.” Rhett helped me pick that one out. I got Keith this thing you put a soccer ball in. It has a string on it. You hold the string and then kick the ball. The package says it’s “The Ultimate Training Tool.” I got Rhett a used White Stripes CD called Elephant. He used to have it, then he lost it. It was only $4.99. And I got Rhonda a pair of gloves. Rhonda’s hard to shop for, because she’s a girl, but not a girly girl.

I just realized I didn’t get you anything. Is there something you’d like? Oh, and if I forget to write you on Christmas, Merry Christmas, Dad.

Your son,

Trevor