Rhonda and Rhett think I’m faking it. They’re right.

Dear Dad,

 How do I feel about Misty Lee? Definitely not heartbroken. I guess I feel mostly confused and ripped off. I feel like a jerk for ever having asked her to go with me. I think she takes the whole thing about as seriously as choosing which TV show to watch. And I think Rick Jarvis is a jerk for asking her to go with him on the same day, but I guess he doesn’t take any of it seriously either.

I wish someone down here would take something seriously.

The one feeling that stays with me are the little hairs on her stomach.

And I now return to my original opinion: Misty Lee is not that cute.

What pisses me off even more are my friends, who sat by and watched the whole thing like it was some kind of show.

I guess I don’t have to worry about Will Mudgett trying to kill me anymore. I’m assuming he won’t want to kill me now. He’s hardly ever at school these days.

The whole world here is just one fake after another. No one means what they say, except my teachers, who say they’re going to give me bad grades and then do it. I’m almost grateful to them.

By the way, I stayed home from school again today. I told Mom I didn’t feel good. Rhonda and Rhett think I’m faking it. They’re right. But why should I go back?

Rhett said, “You’re scared of something. That’s why you’re staying home. You’re just being a pansy. Just like when you wouldn’t jump off the marina.”

I wish he would stop bringing that up.

Drew called again to tell me he is still working on answers to my questions. That’s all. He’s a pretty nice guy.

I felt sick to my stomach reading your description of the woman captain. She sounds like something out of a horror movie. I don’t think I would go and see her each time if she is so awful to look at. But I guess you always wonder about her. Does she have a name?

You stopped talking about her so that you wouldn’t give me nightmares, which made me wonder—do you have dreams? If so, what about?

Your son,

Trevor

Misty Lee dumped me today.

Dear Dad,

There is no way I’m talking to Mom about her razor stubble. But I did ask her where your funeral was held. I was pretty sure it was at Pastor Mel’s church—Grace Baptist. It was. She said she doesn’t really remember that much about it either, but that more than 300 people showed up. That’s pretty cool, I guess. I have a vague memory of sitting in the front row, I think. Or maybe that’s a memory of when I was baptized. They all blur together for me.

Pastor Mel’s dead, by the way. One day he was healthy and the next he was dead. I think something burst inside his brain, but if you ask Mom about it, she’ll say that God took him home like Elijah. Like Pastor Mel was so beloved by God that God couldn’t stand not having him in heaven. I think that’s a stretch. I mean, I liked the guy and everything, but let’s not get carried away.

We stopped going to church there after Pastor Mel died, because they brought in some guy from out-of-state to take his place. Reverend Howard B. Dapple from Wichita Falls, Kansas. He pronounced Washington with an R. Warshington. He sweated a lot when he talked and always held a hankie in one hand to swipe across his face. Now we go to this dumb church right up on Dash Point Road, about a half mile from the grocery store. I don’t like it. The pastor reminds me of Mrs. Fletcher at school, because I think he hates kids. He gives me dirty looks right from the pulpit if he catches me doodling during his sermons. What am I supposed to do? Just sit there? The guy thinks he is a good speaker. He’s not. He tries really hard to get himself all worked into a frenzy, but all it does is get these creepy pockets of white foam forming at the corner of his mouth. Gross.

Misty Lee dumped me today. She wouldn’t say that she dumped me, but she pretty much did. She gave me a note on heart-shaped paper. I have it right here in front of me now. It says, “Dear Trevor, I’m sorry I can’t be the kind of girlfriend you want me to be. I hope we can still be friends. You’re a great guy! Love, Misty.”

She had Sharon King give it to me. Sharon stood there while I read it. When I didn’t say anything, she said, “That means she’s breaking up with you.” I said, “Oh.” She said, “Do you want me to tell her anything for you?” I said no. “Nothing? You should say something.” So I said she could tell Misty to have a nice day. She thought I was being a jerk and she said so.

By the end of the day, Sharon King got dumped by Rick Jarvis. Serves her right. All three of them are complete dorks.

Mrs. Fletcher the math troll sent a note home with me to get signed by Mom, which says I’m getting a D in math. Mom asked why. I said I didn’t know. Mom asked what she was supposed to do. I said she had to sign the note so I could prove that she knew about it. She said that it was ridiculous that they didn’t trust me. She told me not to worry about the D, because she said she knew I’d figure it out because I was such a smart boy and a good student and all that, because we both know Mom only believes her kids are perfect, even when they’re not. She acts the same way about you. Even when she tells stories about things you did that she didn’t like, she has this way of surrounding the facts in a kind of glow that still makes you sound so wonderful.

Mrs. Robbins, one of our neighbors, dropped by a cassette tape on Monday when I was home from school. She asked me to give it to Mom, but I hadn’t yet. I tossed it in my room. Mom asked about it, saying that Mrs. Robbins had called and asked if Mom had heard the tape yet, because you were talking on it. They’d recorded it at a party. I went to get it, but decided to listen to it before I gave it to Mom.

So I popped it in the cassette player and you and Mom and Mr. and Mrs. Robbins were singing “I’m an Old Cowhand.” None of you sounded very good. One guy’s voice was really off key and warbly. Then when the song ended, that same voice yelled, “Let’s do that again!” and started singing all alone. Horrible and really drunk. Then the other male voice said, “Hey Hugh, don’t quit your day job!” There was laughter and then the tape ended. That was it.

So that was you. I’d never really thought about what you sounded like before. Now at least I know what you sound like drunk. Your voice is kind of high and froggy. Not what I’d imagined. I rewound the tape and brought it in to Mom, asking her what it was. She said she’d listen to it and let me know. She took it upstairs and I haven’t heard about it again.

I haven’t heard back from Drew yet, so I have no answers for you about what the Bible says about where you are. In the mean time, I totally understand why you don’t want to get on the boat. It sure sounds like it must be going to Hell. I can’t imagine something that creepy would be the way you get to heaven. I’d love to hear more about the captain. You said it’s a she and that she’s really creepy. Is she covered in blood, too?

Your son,

Trevor

P.S. What day is it there?

This guy thought I was thinking of killing myself.

Note – This is post is a bit more adult, in  Judy-Blume kind of way.

Dear Dad,

I went to school today and somehow really freaked out Misty Lee. And then her pastor called me at home. The two events were totally unrelated, at least as far as I can tell.

When I showed up for school, I found out that all the junior high students were having a picture taken together that day. They stacked us up on the bleachers in the gym and a photographer climbed up on a stepladder on the other side of the gym and clicked away. All the students were standing on the bleachers. I was right next to Misty Lee and because the photographer had us stand sideways, she was leaning right back into me. The photographer kept asking us to cram closer together, so Misty Lee was really jammed into me. Everyone was looking forward, so I slipped my arms around her. She didn’t seem to mind that. Then I slipped my hands down inside her jacket and put them up inside her blouse.

I didn’t grab her boobs or anything. I just touched her bare stomach with my hands. Boy, did she ever stiffen up at that. Wherever I ran my hands, I could feel her muscles tighten. I just kind of let my fingers dance over her stomach. Misty Lee is covered in these tiny little hairs. I can still feel them under my fingers right now. I can feel the curve of her skin as it dipped in toward her belly button. I could feel when Misty Lee tried to pull away from me, but there was nowhere she could go. We were so crammed together that she couldn’t even reach my hands with hers. I was free to roam.

I sound like a perv. I’m not. I swear, I never touched anything other than her stomach. I wasn’t trying to take advantage of her. I honestly thought she would like it. Heck, I thought she was liking it at the time.

But as soon as the crowd broke up, she turned around with this terrified look on her face. She said, “I hope you—” and then she just ran off and left me. I didn’t see her for the rest of the day. I was pretty sure I freaked her out, but honestly I don’t know why. I mean, all I did was touch her stomach. She’s the one who stuck her tongue into my mouth. When your girlfriend is a French kisser, wouldn’t you think they’d want you to touch their stomach? That’s what I thought.

I was stalling over my math homework after dinner when Mom said the phone was for me. It was Drew, Misty Lee’s pastor. I thought for sure Misty Lee had called him, after she freaked out from the stomach touching. But he said he was just calling to talk to me more about my questions from the Friday before. He got my number from Misty Lee.

Anyway, Drew asked me why I was so interested in what happens when we die. Before I could answer, he asked if I’d ever considered committing suicide. That freaked me out. This guy thought I was thinking of killing myself. I said no. I knew it would shut him up if I told him about you dying, because it always shuts everybody up.

“My dad died.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” That’s what I always say when people say they’re sorry. It always kind of pisses me off when they apologize like that.

“I know it wasn’t my fault. But I mean, I’m sorry for you. I mean, I’m sorry it happened. And now I can see why you’re interested. Was you Dad a believer?”

“You mean a Christian?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he became one before he died.” And then I told him how you never went to church with us unless someone was getting married or had died. I told him how you would sit hunched up in front of the TV set and ignore all of us Sunday morning, even though you never ignored us the rest of the week. I told him how you had gotten cancer and how Mom had asked Pastor Mel to come and visit you and how he had come, almost every single day, for the last few months of your life. I told him that Mom said you had asked Jesus into your heart before you died and that she said you were up in Heaven now, with Jesus.

“Your mom is right, Trevor,” said Drew. “If your dad asked Jesus into his heart, then he is in Heaven right now.”

And then I told him that I didn’t think that’s true. And I don’t. Because heaven does not sound like what you are describing to me, Dad. I mean, I don’t want to insult your little town, because some of the people there sound pretty nice, but you don’t seem to like it much and you say the food is pretty miserable and you say it’s kind of boring. I guess I have often imagined that Heaven could be pretty boring, because if you ask Mom what we’ll do in Heaven, she’ll tell you that we’ll worship Jesus all day long.

Even when church is really good, I can only stand it for an hour. I can’t imagine worshipping Jesus, all day long, forever. But I don’t think Mom’s got it right.

Anyway, I don’t think you’re in Heaven. But I wasn’t going to tell Drew that you were writing me letters from beyond the grave. He already thinks I want to kill myself. If I told him about the letters, he’d probably drive over. Drew asked me why I didn’t think you were there. Was it because you only asked Jesus into your heart right before you died? I couldn’t tell him the real reason, so I said yes. Drew said that wouldn’t matter to God, because eternal life is a gift, not something we earn.

I asked him what the Bible says happens when a person dies. He admitted that it doesn’t really say much. “Don’t you think that’s a little weird?” I said. “I mean, the whole point of the Bible is to make people Christians, right? And the whole point of being a Christian is going to Heaven isn’t it? That’s the offer, isn’t it? Then don’t you think the approach could benefit from a little more info about what we actually get?”

Drew kind of laughed and said if I was really interested, he’d do a little research. Which is fair, I guess, even though I expected a pastor to be able to rattle some of this stuff off. I thought he’d get questions about death all the time. Maybe not. But I thought it was pretty cool of him to offer to do the research, and I wanted to know what he would find out, so I said yes.

If you’re not in Heaven, I don’t know where you are, Dad. Hell? Your town doesn’t sound bad enough to be Hell. It sure doesn’t sound as bad as junior high.

Your son,

Trevor

None of the girls are even that cute.

Dear Dad,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh well. Can’t have everything.

Your son,

Trevor