I’d like to get him back somehow. Is that wrong?

Dear Dad,

So I had my last basketball game last night. And guess what? I played. For a total of 45 seconds.

The other team was up by about ten points. Mr. Schick called a time out. When he said I was going in, he had a big smile on his face, like he was doing me some kind of favor. Wow, how generous, Mr. Schick. Thank you for your kindness.

Donnie Joad got the throw-in and brought the ball up past halfcourt. I was open and Donnie threw the ball to me. I was gonna pass it right away, before I screwed up, but no one was open. I saw a lane to the basket, so I drove in for a layup. I went about two steps when this big, freckly gorilla on the other team slapped me right on the side of the face. I didn’t even see him until I was laying on the ground looking up at his gorilla legs.

The ref called a foul and I got two shots. I stood at the line, bouncing the ball and staring at the rim. “Screw it,” I thought and I chucked the ball toward the basket. It went in. It even made a swoosh sound. I missed the second one, but could have cared less. I made a point and figured, for a second, I was the king of just about everthing I could think of. Then Mr. Schick pulled me back out. We went on to lose the game by 13.

For the entire season I played less than one minute and I made one point. One point per minute, I figure, is better than anyone on the team.

At the end of the game, Mr. Schick had us all gather round him at the center of the court. He got all serious and held his stupid red baseball cap in both hands. He told us how proud he was of us and reminded us what a great season we had. By which I guess he means that it’s a great season when you lose three-fourths of your games. For me, the season made two things clear to me: The first is that Mr. Schick is a jerk. The second thing I can’t remember, so I guess I really just learned the one thing about Mr. Schick.

I’d like to get him back somehow. Is that wrong?

Your son,

Trevor

You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.

Dear Dad,

Doing or not doing. Are those the only choices? I wish you would do a little more telling about the woods, instead of stretching the story out. Can you just tell me what happened?

I’m still battling with Mom about the father/son basketball game. It’s this Friday, at the same time as a regular game. I really don’t want to do it. She wants me to do it and she’s so annoyingly positive about it that it’s almost impossible to argue with her.

I say, “I don’t want to play in that stupid game.”

She says, “It’ll be fine, Trev. You’ll see. You’ll play in it and it’ll be fun.”

“No way am I playing in that stupid game.”

“When you come home from it, you’ll tell me how much fun it was. And I’ll try not to say I told you so.”

“No I won’t! It’s going to suck!”

“Don’t use that word. It’s not going to—you’ll see. It’s going to be just fun.”

On top of that, Donnie wants to canoe down the green river this Saturday. His mom said he could. Mom said it sounds pretty dangerous to her, which is weird for her to say, because usually she doesn’t stress about that sort of thing. She usually wants me to “go have adventures.” I’m thinking maybe she’s holding out on this for a reason I don’t get yet.

Speaking of Mom, I thought you’d be all freaked out about her dating. I’ve got more information on that, like I said. But I’m not going to tell you until you tell me more about The Woods.

You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.

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

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

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 will lie down here, I thought, just for a moment.

Dear Trevor,

Believe me when I tell you I care about your life. It’s nearly all I’ve cared about since the first time I received a letter from you up here. I would love to come to your basketball game. If I could find it in myself to shed a tear, I would shed them for the times we did not get to play together at any sport or game—basketball, soccer, a simple game of catch, a pillow fight, a race to the mailbox and back. A spitting contest off the deck.

The woods simply overwhelmed me. I am a little better today, a condition which fills me with its own kind of dread, because I know I must go back into the woods.

Will it help if I continue my story for you? Here goes:

I followed Julia and Martin’s trail deeper into the trees until I began to notice a sound. It started as a distant, muffled buzz, but I recognized it even then. It was a river. It had such a steady, solid noise that I thought it might be a waterfall. The sound was a comfort—like running into an old friend in a strange city. A river meant life. Rivers started somewhere and went somewhere. They proceeded, unlike tides and fog and everything else in this world that simply seemed to come and go.

I was desperate for any kind of company, because the woods were the most alone place I have ever been. No animals. No people. Even the tree branches were out of reach. It was a smothering kind of loneliness. I thought maybe I would never see people again. I longed for humans. I would have kissed Sung-Hee on the lips if I had seen her.

The sound of the river was the closest thing to a friend I had. For the first time since I entered the forest, I quickened my step.

In the silence, the sound must have traveled for many miles, because it seemed I walked for days without reaching it. The saturated moss sucked at my feet. I slipped more and more as I went along, each time covering my clothes in green stains. The stains are still there now—green-streaked souvenirs of a trip I’d rather sever from my memory.

I was tired, but not in the way you might get tired from running lines in your basketball practice—yes, I read that letter. I was short of breath, much like I had become late in my cancer, when the air seemed less worth breathing. The moss sucked at my feet from below. The dark, moist air sucked at my mouth, seeming to pull any usable oxygen out of it.

But I went on, stopping briefly at the bottom of a rise in the land. The sound of the river grew louder here. I began to struggle up the rise and determined that when I reached the top, I would lie down and rest. It seemed as I went up, that gravity increased its pull on me. Each lift of a foot became a struggle of determination. I stopped halfway to the top.

“I will lie down here,” I thought, “just for a moment.” I did so, sprawling on the damp moss. I closed my eyes and tried to catch my breath, but the air here was damper than ever. It was like breathing in Jell-o.

Lying there, the side of my head was half sunk into the deep moss. I could hear the squishing, sucking sound through my submerged ear. I could feel a kind of tingly, creeping movement over my wet skin, as if bugs were crawling slowly up from the moss and onto me. I wanted to scream, to jump to my feet, but I was so tired.

I laid there, Trevor, thinking that perhaps I would just breathe in and out one more time and then go to sleep. It had been so long since I’d had a really good sleep. But I dreaded lying their by myself. I wanted to find someone—anyone. I longed to be not alone. I longed even for Martin and Julia’s pathetic company.

It was that longing—or that dread of loneliness—that pushed me to my feet. My face and clothing were wet and green now, like the moss I’d lied in. I struggled mindlessly to the top of the hill and nearly tripped over Martin’s body.

He laid there, his eyes mostly closed, his big chest rising and falling ever so slightly. Moss covered him nearly completely. It grew on his skin, as if he were made of rotting wood. One dripping eye was exposed. His gaping fish mouth sucked the moist air in and out. I screamed.

“Help me!” a voice called in response. It was Julia. I looked around in the dim light. “Help me, please!” she cried again. The sound of rushing water nearly drowned her out. “I heard a voice!” she cried. “Is someone there?”

I could just see her, waving a hand frantically, on the far side of the chasm. I had no idea how I might get to her. I had no desire to stay where I was, next to the moss-choked body beside me.

I need to beg for your patience again, Trevor. I am tired. I need to try to catch my breath again. I’ll write again soon. I’ve told you most of it, anyhow.

Dad

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

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

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

They gone. Went into the woods just today.

Dear Trevor,

I’ve been wondering if I hope you make the team. Would it be good for you to feel the joy of being accepted into the tribe of basketball players? Or would it be better for you to experience the pathos of rejection, so that you can empathize with others in their moments of isolation?

Who am I kidding? I hope you make the team. Rejection sucks.

I wandered down to the Laughing Gull this morning for a cup of coffee. Not to drink, but at least to sit over. At least Sung’s Hee’s coffee is warm enough to produce a little steam. I can pretend that it would taste good, as long as I never forget myself and actually drink it.

Business was slow at the gull, so Sung Hee sat next to me at the table. “Have you heard?” she said.

“Heard what?”

“About Martin and that woman.”

“Julia?”

“That her name? They gone. Went into the woods just today. Martin stopped in to say goodbye. He said, ‘You’ll never see me again, This dear lady and I are traveling to the great beyond.’ Then he dragged that woman straight up into the trees.”

I’m writing to you now to let you know I’m going after then. I don’t mean you’ll never hear from me again. I’m going to follow them, though, and see where they go, how they go, whatever. Not that I think Martin knows what he’s doing. But if there were, say, rabid bears in the woods, I’m pretty sure they’d try to eat Martin before they’d eat me.

Wish me luck, as I wish you luck. Whatever that means. I’m doing something, simply because it’s better than doing nothing.

Dad

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

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

It’s a helluva heaven, but it’s all we’ve got.

Dear Trevor,

My life up here is like a cup of warm water for a teaspoon of yeast, with a little sugar added in for good measure. The yeast is dumped in, and now we’re all waiting to see if it’s still alive. We’re all waiting for a little foam in the cup. So far, nothing.

As I told you in my last letter, I’ve been walking crazy-haired Julia back and forth in front of Carl and Gordon’s cabin, hoping to lure one of my neighbors out of their hibernation and into the dim light of outdoors. Alas, my plan has backfired and I’ve only succeeded in attracting Martin, that big, bitter bastard. I can’t imagine how Martin ever managed to get elected to a city council position back when he was alive. He’s such a bully. I almost wonder if he’s happier here than he was in your world. He seems like someone who must have hated life.

“Welcome to heaven,” he said to Julia, huffing his way out of his cabin as we walked out front. “It’s a helluva heaven, but it’s all we’ve got.” When he reached us, he grabbed Julia’s hand and pumped it up and down, a bit too enthusiastically. He ignored me completely, except to bump me farther away from Julia with his right buttock.

Julia managed half a thank-you and half a smile—she tended to complete most of her acts only halfway before seeming to get distracted by another movement or another thought. She ran her fingers unsuccessfully through her pile of hair and glanced back and forth between Martin and me.

“If this shrimp is done boring you with stories of his kids, why don’t you let me show you around? I could certainly use your company. Whaddaya say?”

“I, uhh…” muttered Julia, as Martin herded her down the dirt path in front of the cabins. I stood and watched the two of them walk away, their walk punctuated by Martin’s big butt cheeks shuffling up and down inside his slacks and Julia’s confused backwards glances.

There I stood, alone again, wondering how Martin had managed to take away my only company and suddenly understanding why he’d managed to get elected to public office back on earth. Then irony struck when Carl spoke behind me, “Lost the girl, eh, you Welsh dwarf?” Julia’s presence hadn’t lured Carl out, but my loss of her had been more than he could resist commenting on.

I smiled grimly as Carl walked up beside me. Perhaps he was only willing to be in my company when he was sure I was suitably miserable.

Enough of that—let’s talk about your basketball dilemma. Your mom wants you to play. You don’t want to. She thinks you’re good enough. You don’t. I tend to side with your Mom, but I have no idea if you’re any good. You may indeed suck. So go out for the team. If Schick tells you you’re lousy, you can blow off his opinion as that of an idiot.

Easy for me to say, right? I don’t have to deal with your mom or Schick’s judgment.

I’ve got judgment of my own to deal with.

Dad

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