I have no idea if I’m still grounded or not.

Dear Dad,

Mom officially lifted my grounding today. I asked her to put it back.

At work, she’d finally gotten over her embarrassment of me and told her co-worker Don Padgett about the cookie contest. She said Don laughed for 10 minutes straight. “Maybe it’s funnier than I first thought,” said Mom. Then she told me, “And I just can’t keep you grounded, Trev. So we’ll call it done today.”

I got really mad at Mom, which surprised both of us. I yelled, “I should be grounded! You shouldn’t lift it! Why can’t you stick with anything?” Her eyes got really wide and she stuttered out a few animal sounds.

“If you want, you can stay grounded, I suppose. But you don’t have to. That’s what I’m trying to explain to you.”

“You’re giving in too easy,” I muttered.

“I don’t think you understand. I’m saying you’re not grounded anymore.”

“I know that’s what you’re saying. And I’m saying that’s dumb. I should be grounded. You should stick to it.” I stomped into my room and slammed the door so hard I knocked a dumb old trophy off a shelf.

I have no idea if I’m still grounded or not. I guess the decision is up to me, which is pretty stupid.

Anyway, the whole conversation put me in a really pissy mood. But I’ll still take your burden from you, Dad. My offer still stands.

Your son,

Trevor

This is my second day of being suspended.

Dear Dad,

 I’ve got some time to write you a long letter today, since this is my second day of being suspended from school.

 Only a few minutes after I mailed your last letter, Brian Haase called me at home, a bit frantic. “Trevor! Caulkins is gonna call you any minute! I just got off the phone with him!” Mr. Caulkins is our vice principal.

 “What’d he say?” For some reason, I was way calmer than Brian. I guess because I pretty much knew this was coming.

 “He said I was suspended for two days! My mom is really pissed! I gotta go!”

 I hung up the phone and jogged into the living room to tell Mom. I still figured it would be better for her to hear it from me first.

 “Mom, I gotta talk to you.” She closed her book over one hand and looked at me. The way her mouth was opened and her eyebrows were pushed together, I could tell she was waiting for me to confess something. She just didn’t know what. “The vice principal’s gonna call any minute, because I’m gonna be in trouble at school.”

 “What did you do?” She pulled her hand out of the book and closed the book shut, losing her place.

 “You know those cookies me and Brian made for the cookie contest? We kind of put Ex-Lax in them. And the teachers—”

 “You what?”

 “We put Ex-Lax in the cookies we made. For the teachers.”

 Bang. She exploded. I was surprised how mad she got and how fast she got there. She kept yelling “You had no right,” and yelled how I might have sent someone to the hospital. She was right in the middle of her rant when the phone rang, which didn’t help. I answered it.

 Caulkins asked me if I knew why he was calling. I said I was pretty sure I did. He asked if I’d like to tell him why. I lied and said I would. Then I told him. He let me know how sick some of the teachers had become, especially Mrs. Fletcher, who I guess spent most of the evening in bed, although I bet she actually spent most of the day in the bathroom. After he told me I was suspended, he asked to talk to my mom. I handed her the phone and listened. She said yes a lot and thanked Caulkins for calling. I bet she really wasn’t very thankful.

 Mom was a bit calmer when she got off the phone, but she was really mad. She acted like I’d done something dangerous. Then she grounded me for two weeks, which seems about right to me. I didn’t mind, really.

 I go back to school tomorrow, because this is the last day of my suspension. All in all not too bad. I hope the teachers don’t hate me, though. And I’m glad it helped you.

 Your son,

 Trevor

I hope you don’t get in trouble on my account.

Dear Trevor,

 I can’t believe you did it. I mean, I believe that you did it, but what you did was an unbelievable act. Smart? Stupid? Mean? Irresponsible? I don’t know. But bold as all hell, boy.

 I hope you don’t get in trouble on my account. “On my account.” A strange set of words, don’t you think? But so true, here. I feel like I’m spending heavily and counting on you to cover the cost. More of my vampiristic nature.

 That said, it worked to a reasonable degree. If your story didn’t take my mind off my plight, it at least provided a little entertainment. Perhaps that’s the best I can hope for. And now I get to sit in suspense, waiting to hear what happened to you. That suspense is a gift of great distraction.

 I’ve had another distraction as well. That newcomer to town that Sung-Hee and Dr. Jones gossiped about came to call on me. I was lying in my bunk when there was a knock at the door. I opened it to this man I’d never seen before.

 “Can—can  I borrow a cup of sugar?” he said.

 “Sugar? You’re joking, surely.”

 “I am. Can—can—can I come in?” I stood back and let him enter. He’s of medium height, about my age, I suppose, but gone much softer than me. His hair is black—or perhaps very dark brown—and, oh, windswept I suppose is an acceptable way to describe it. A scruffy beard doesn’t quite succeed in giving shape to his great double chin. He wears a dark blue suit, but not well. No tie. The suit somehow manages to make him look slobby. He’d likely be better served by a flannel shirt and a pair of work pants. I can imagine him wiping grease off his hands after emerging happily from underneath a car.

 “I—I’ve been looking for you,” he said. He couldn’t seem to get a sentence off without stuttering.. “Name’s Ezra. Ezra Ledford. Hear you—you’ve been looking for me as well.”

 We sat then and swapped our stories. Ezra came to town a few weeks ago. He’d recently retired as a high school teacher and was working abroad, teaching English in Hong Kong. One day he was lunching on fish at his favorite local restaurant when a bone stuck in his throat. “Next thing I knew, I was stepping off a plane into this place,” he said. “But it’s not so b—bad. Been in worse. T—taught school at a logging camp that was nothing but m—mud. Least it’s not cold here. I hate b—being cold. Why’ve you been looking for me?”

 I told him I had no real agenda, other than searching for a way to keep busy.

 “I encourage you to get one,” Ezra said.

 “One what?”

 “An agenda.”

 Trevor, I like this guy. He’s interesting. Not sure why he’s interested in me. Not sure if he’ll remain so. But for now, I like him.

 Let me know what happens with the cookies.

 Dad

We made the cookies. One with this stuff called Ex-Lax.

Dear Dad,

 I got your letter too late. I didn’t come home after school yesterday. I went home with Brian Haase. We made the cookies. Both batches. One with this stuff called Ex-Lax and one normal batch. We brought them to school and entered them in the cookie contest. We hoped we could make sure that only Mr. Schick got the Ex-Lax cookies. But when we showed up at the teacher’s lounge, this pep club girl named Sophie Johnstone just grabbed both plates from us and said, “Ooh! These look yummers! Good luck, boys!”

 Brian and I promised each other we wouldn’t tell anyone what we’d done. I kept my part of the promise, but I’m not sure Brian did, because I heard whispers all day long.

 We never actually saw any of the teachers eat the cookies, but they definitely did. “Did you hear about Mrs. Fletcher?” Rick Jarvis asked me at lunch. “She left math to go to the bathroom five times. The last time she never came back.”

 “Oh, crap,” I said.

 “Exactly,” said Rick, laughing. “Serves her right. She’s such a hag.”

 Mrs. Henry got into the bad cookies, too. I’ll probably burn in hell for that one, because Mrs. Henry is beyond innocent. She’s a force of good. Luckily, she didn’t eat too many. Or at least she didn’t get the runs too bad, because she lasted the whole day.

 Mr. Schick got it bad. Donnie Joad told me he heard that Schick went to the hospital. I’m know that’s not true, but in P.E. he already looked bad, and that’s my first period. He barely made it through Bible class. He excused himself three times. The third time, he didn’t even say anything. He just got up and ran. Brian Haase burst out laughing and a couple of other kids snickered, too. I heard that Mr. Schick tried to go home after lunch, but too many other teachers had already left early, so he had to stay all day long. That’s how I know he didn’t go to the hospital. Brian has P.E. near the end of the day, and he said Schick looked liked a zombie. Schick declared an open play period and then went and sat on the bleachers near the boys’ locker room. Brian thought this was awesome. I mostly did, too, but I’m pretty sure we’ll get busted.

 Now I’m home, wondering if the phone is gonna ring. Wondering if I should tell Mom what I did now, or wait to see if we get caught. Either way, it’s a gamble, right? If I tell her now, I’ll definitely get in trouble, but probably not quite as bad, because she’ll like that I told her ahead of time. If I wait, there’s a slim chance I might never get caught, but if I do, I’ll get in more trouble.

 I think I’m gonna take my chances and hope we don’t get busted. Wish me luck.

 I hope this helps distract you, Dad.

 Your son,

Trevor

I can shock you, too, if that’s what you want.

Dear Dad,

 I think maybe you’ve got the wrong idea about Mom. I think you remember her wrong. She’s not sitting around crying all day. When she gets weepy about the past, it’s more about you being gone than about Meredith being dead. She misses you. I don’t think she’d miss you if she was still pissed at you.

 I could ask her, if you want, if she’s forgiven you. If that’s what you’re worried about, I mean. Is that what you’re looking for? Someone to say, “That’s OK.”

 I can shock you, too, if that’s what you want. I was gonna tell Brian that I didn’t want to join him in the cookie contest plan. It seems kind of mean to me. And I’m pretty sure we’ll get in trouble. But if it would help you, I can do it. Because Brian’s got a plan:

 We go to his house after school on Wednesday. We make the cookies. His mom has this recipe for three-layer brownies that he says are amazing. We just mix in one extra ingredient. A laxative. That’s a kind of medicine that you take when you’re constipated. It totally gives you diarrhea, which I guess is what you want if you’re constipated. Then we make another batch of the cookies that are normal. We pack both kinds of cookies to school. We make sure Mr. Schick gets the diarrhea cookies and we give the normal ones to everybody else. Then we watch as Mr. Schick poops his pants.

 It seems like a pretty good plan. The only problem is that if you look at the names of the other kids who signed up for the cookie contest, they’re all girls from the pep club. They’re like the nerdiest girls in school. They all wear hairbands. Then at the bottom of the list, you see Brian Haase and Trevor Griffiths. If something goes bad with the cookie contest, who are you gonna blame?

 That’s why I said no to Brian. But if it will help you, Dad, I’ll do it. It’s not like Mr. Schick doesn’t deserve it. So after I mail this letter, I’ll call Brian and tell him yes.

 Your son,

 Trevor

I’m still afraid of your next letter.

Dear Dad,

It’s weird, because I know how the story ends, at least so far. I know that Meredith dies. I have a pretty good idea how it all happened. But I’m still afraid of your next letter.

I think I know you better now than I did when you were alive. I was a baby. We never talked. Now sometimes I wish we didn’t talk so much. Or didn’t talk so much about such heavy stuff. I wish we had that day-to-day thing where you’d ask, “How was your day?” I’d say, “Fine.” We’d go see a movie about a magician and you’d say, “So what did you think?” I’d say, “I liked it until Tesla started making clones of everything. It got really stupid after that.”

Talking is different when we write stuff down. No one makes small talk in letters. Well, maybe girls do. I bet Misty Lee could blather on about nothing for ten pages with no problem. But in our letters, it’s always life or death stuff. Maybe once we get past this we could share lists of favorite songs or books or pizza toppings. Something small like that.

Whew. I bet this is hard for you.

Maybe this will take your mind off of it. Brian Haase wants to talk about cookies. He says that the cookie contest the teachers are judging is a week from this Thursday and we need to have A Plan. “Let’s get together at lunch and make our strategy.” Brian is one of those guys who seems all quiet, but once he gets an idea, he’s like an army general. I can tell he’s already committed to some kind of idea in his head. He’s got that caveman-on-the-hunt look in his eyes. Blackie the Dog gets the same look when he sees Mrs. Johnson’s cat. He can picture the hunt, step-by-step, all the way to the kill.

I bet you’re barely able to concentrate on that, thinking about Meredith. I get why this is so hard for you. Stick it out, Dad. You’re halfway there.

Your son,

Trevor

Speaking of dorks, our school has this thing called a pep club.

Dear Dad,

I’m thinking about this thing you’re having a hard time telling me. I’m thinking that the obvious thing you would say to me would be that I should just get it off my chest. But that sounds kind of dumb. If it was that easy, you would have told me already. I’m trying to imagine what could be so bad. I can imagine some pretty bad stuff and thinking of you doing some of it freaks me out. Maybe it would be better if you didn’t tell me. Maybe I’m not the right person to tell.

What can I do to help you?

I kind of feel like a dork talking like this.

Speaking of dorks, our school has this thing called a pep club. Pep. That has got to be one of the most stupid words in the world. I don’t want to be part of any club called pep. Anyway, the pep club does stuff like organize the pep assemblies, which are pretty dumb, but better than going to class. You get to watch cheerleaders do their stupid cheers. Cheerleaders are kind of ridiculous, but they’re pretty hot.

The pep club is also putting on a cookie contest. Guess who the judges will be? The teachers. Guess who one of the teacher judges is? Mr. Schick.

This seems like a pretty good chance for revenge. A little advice right now would be helpful.

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