Love Letters to the Dead

Dear Janis Joplin,

I am writing to you for an important reason, which I will get to. When I walked up to our table at lunch yesterday, Hannah was talking to some of the soccer boys who’d made their way over, and Natalie was squeezing the last of her Capri Sun out of its package, not looking interested. I sat on the end of the bench and scanned the crowd for Sky. I finally spotted the back of his head at the edge of a crowd of juniors. He hadn’t noticed me, so I turned back to the table and started contemplating whether or not to break out my kaiser roll in public. Then as Hannah laughed with the boys, I noticed her brush her hand against Natalie’s arm, like it was meant to be an accident, but in slow motion. Natalie sucked in her breath and closed her eyes for a second. Suddenly, she interrupted Hannah’s conversation and said, “Come on, let’s go to the alley.” I got worried that they were going to leave me alone and I would have to go back to sitting by the fence, but Natalie looked at me and said, “Come on!” So I followed them. The alley, everyone knows, is where you go to smoke cigarettes and things if you are either cool or a senior.

It turns out that Natalie met this senior, Tristan, in her art class. He told her that he’d buy her cloves and she could come and meet his girlfriend, Kristen. When you see them, you can tell right away that Tristan and Kristen are so in love. Kristen wears long flowy skirts, and she has long hair down to her butt that looks like it must never come untangled. Her face is soft and exotic-looking. She doesn’t talk loudly. Her voice is a whispery rasp, but musical, too. Tristan also has long hair. But otherwise, they are opposites. Everything about him is pointy and buzzing with energy. Tristan wears ripped clothes with patches sewn on from bands like the Ramones and Guns N’ Roses and the Killers. He’s always talking talking talking, and after everything he says, he says, “Right, babe?” and Kristen nods without moving her eyes.

Tristan was easy to meet, because right away he tossed Natalie her pack of cloves and said, “Hola, chiquitita!” And then he kissed Hannah’s hand and kissed my hand and said, “Who are these miniature beauties you offer up to the alley of smoke?” Before we could answer, he turned to Kristen and said, “Looks like we have found the lost children of the freshman class, right, babe? Are you ready to adopt?” Then he pulled a giant kitchen lighter out of his pants pocket and lit our cloves with a flame that almost reached the top of my head. He saw me looking at his patches, especially the one that said SLASH across his chest in bright red letters. I thought that I should say something, so I asked, “Is Slash a band?”

Tristan laughed. “He’s the lead guitarist of the band. Guns N’ Roses. Definition of rock. We’ve got a ways to go on your education, don’t we?”

My face got hot.

But then Tristan said, “Don’t worry, you’re young. There’s still hope. Ready? First lesson. ‘Being a rock star is the intersection of who you are and who you want to be’—quote courtesy of Slash himself.”

“Is that who you want to be?” I asked.

He looked at me, sort of confused.

So I added, “A rock star?”

Tristan laughed again, only this time a little differently. Like I’d asked him a hard question he didn’t want to answer.

“Well, you look like one,” I offered.

Kristen didn’t seem mad that I’d said that, or that he’d kissed our hands. I think because they are so in love, she doesn’t have anything to get jealous of. She didn’t really even look at us. She just lit another cigarette. I tried to smile in a way that would make it so she’d like me, because I really wanted her to, so badly it kind of hurt behind my eyes. I wanted them both to.

“I’m Laurel,” I offered in a squeaky voice.

Kristen’s face stayed blank, but her eyes focused toward me in a way that made me know she was deep-down nice. She said, “Kristen. ‘I’m one of those regular weird people.’”