I love Mrs. Henry. Not like a girlfriend or anything.

Dear Dad,

You sounded so down in that last post. What could you have done? When it comes to your past, Mom talks about you like you were a saint. Or a superdad. But you talk like you’ve killed someone. I want to know what you have to feel so ashamed.

About the woods. Sure, I’d like to know more, but I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do. Mom still takes us that place on Mount Rainier you’re talking about, with the huge trees. She gets all gooey about it, because the trees are so old. Grown-ups always get gooey about how old things are. The place you were trying to remember is called the Grove of the Patriarchs. It sounds like a name of a place you should go after you die, so I guess it fits for your woods, too. If you go in, let me know more.

Changing subjects now.

What is it with teachers? I swear, 99 percent of the time, it seems like their job is to make me feel stupid. I feel stupid in Mr. Schick’s stupid Bible class. I feel really stupid in the Math Troll’s math class, where I have no idea what she’s talking about.

Last year we did math in our heads. This year it’s all quadratic equations.

I feel stupid in P.E., because Mr. Anders thinks it fun to ask me to do impossible things like chin-ups and rope climbing. He knows I can’t climb that damn rope, but he asks me to do it in front of everybody, just so I’ll feel stupid. I don’t feel stupid in his social studies class, mostly because I think Mr. Anders is stupider than I am. He’s a dumb jock at heart. I think he knows it.

We had to do chin-ups on the bars outside, which are made for giants, so we climbed up a step stool just to reach the bars. We were each supposed to do 10 chin-ups. When I couldn’t do even one, I told Mr. Anders it was because we were too high off the ground and the gravity was stronger, but he wouldn’t buy it, even though a bunch of other guys agreed with me.

The only class I don’t feel stupid in is English. My teacher there is Mrs. Henry. Her class is like an island in a sea of stupid. It’s like the only part of the day where I can catch my breath. I love Mrs. Henry. Not like a girlfriend or anything. More like the way I love mom. Not like I think Mrs. Henry is more important than Mom. But she seems to get how hard it is to be me.

Was it hard for you to be you? In all your pictures, you look so sure of yourself.

Your son,

Trevor