I’d laughed. Fine, then.
When we first began writing each other years ago, it was a complete mistake. Our fifth-grade teachers tried to pair up our classes as pen pals according to sex to make it more comfortable, but his name is Misha and my name is Ryen, so his teacher thought I was a boy, and my teacher thought he was a girl, etc.
We didn’t get along at first, but we soon found that we had one thing in common. Both of us have parents who split early on. His mom left when he was two, and I haven’t seen or heard from my dad since I was four. Neither of us really remember them.
And now, after seven years and with high school almost over, he’s become my best friend.
Climbing off my bed, I slap a stamp on the letter and set it on my desk to mail in the morning. I walk back, putting my stationary supplies back in my bedside table.
Straightening, I place my hands on my hips and blow out an uneasy breath.
Misha, where the hell are you? I’m drowning here.
I guess I can Google him if I’m that worried. Or search him on Facebook or go to his house. He’s only thirty miles away, and I have his address, after all.
But we promised each other. Or rather I made him promise. Seeing each other, where we live, meeting the people the other one talks about in their letters, it’ll ruin the world we created.
Right now, Misha Lare, with all of his imperfections, is perfect in my head. He listens, pumps me up, takes the pressure off, and has no expectations of me. He tells the truth, and he’s the one place I never have to hide.
How many people have someone like that?
And as much as I want answers, I just can’t give that up yet. We’ve been writing for seven years. This is a part of me, and I’m not sure what I would do without it. If I search him out, everything will change.
No. I’ll wait a little longer.
I look at the clock, seeing that it’s almost time. My friends will be here in a few minutes.
Picking up a piece of chalk out of the tray on my desk, I walk to the wall next to my bedroom door and continue drawing little frames around the pictures I’d taped up. There are four.
Me last fall in cheerleading, surrounded by girls who look exactly like me. Me last summer in my Jeep, with my friends piled in the back. Me in eighth grade celebrating 80’s Day, smiling and posing with my whole class.
In every picture, I’m up front. The leader. Looking happy.
And then there’s the picture in fourth grade. Years earlier. Sitting alone on a bench on the playground, forcing a half-smile for my mom who brought me to Movie Night at my school. All the other kids are running around, and every time I ran up and tried to join in, they acted like I wasn’t there. They always ran off without me and never waited. They wouldn’t include me in their conversations.
Tears spring to my eyes, and I reach out and touch the face in the picture. I remember that feeling like it was yesterday. Like I was at a party I wasn’t invited to.
God, how I’ve changed.
“Ryen!” I hear someone call from the hallway.
I sniffle and quickly wipe away a tear as my sister opens my door and waltzes into my room without knocking. I clear my throat, pretending to work on the wall as she peeks around the door.
“Bedtime,” she says.
“I’m eighteen,” I point out like that should explain everything.
I don’t look at her as I color in the same section I finished yesterday. I mean, really? It’s ten o’clock, and she’s only a year older. I’m more responsible than she is.
I can smell her perfume, and out of the corner of my eye, I see that her blonde hair is down. Great. That probably means she has some guy coming over and will be well-distracted when I slip out of the house in a bit.
“Mom texted,” she tells me. “Did you finish Math?”
“Yes.”
“Government?”
“I finished my outline,” I say. “I’ll work on the paper this weekend.”
“English?”
“I posted my review for Brave New World on Goodreads and sent Mom the link.”
“What book did you pick next?” she asks.
I scowl at the wall as white shavings drift to the floor. “Fahrenheit 451.”
She scoffs. “The Jungle, Brave New World, Fahrenheit 451…” she goes on, listing my latest non-school books Mom gives me extra allowance to read. “God, you have boring taste in books.”
“Mom said to choose modern classics,” I argue back. “Sinclair, Huxley, Orwell…”
“I think she meant like The Great Gatsby or something.”
I close my eyes and drop my head back, releasing a snore before popping it back up again, mocking her.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re such a brat.”
“When in Rome…”
My sister graduated last year and goes to the local college while living at home. It’s a great arrangement for our mom, who’s an event coordinator and is frequently out of town for festivals, concerts, and expos. She doesn’t want to leave me alone.
But honestly, I have no idea why she puts Carson in charge. I make better grades and stay out of trouble—as far as they’re aware—a hell of a lot better than her.
Plus, my sister only wants me in bed and out of the way so she can get it on with whatever guy is on his way over here right now.
Like I’m going to tell our mom.
Like I care.
“I’m just saying,” she says, planting a hand on her hip, “those books are a lot to wrap your head around.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.” I play along. “All those big concepts inside my itty bitty brain. It’s enough to make me feel as dumb as a bag of wet hair.” And then I assure her, “But don’t worry. I’ll let you know if I need help. Now can I get my nine hours? Coach is taking us through a circuit in the morning.”
She shoots me a little snarl and glances at my wall. “I can’t believe Mom let you do this to your room.”
And then she spins around and pulls the door closed.
I look at my wall. I decorated it using black chalkboard paint about a year ago and use it to doodle, draw, and write everywhere. Misha’s lyrics are scattered over the wide expanse, as well as my own thoughts, ideas, and little scribbles.
There are pictures and posters and lots of words, everything meaning something special to me. My whole room is like that, and I love it. It’s a place where I don’t invite anyone. Especially my friends. They’ll just make a joke out of my really bad artwork that I love and Misha’s and my words.
I learned a long time ago that you don’t need to reveal everything inside of you to the people around you. They like to judge, and I’m happier when they don’t. Some things stay hidden.
My phone buzzes on my bed, and I head over to pick it up.
Outside, the text reads.
Tapping my middle finger over the touchscreen, I shoot back, Be out in a minute.
Finally. I have to get out of here.
Tossing the phone down, I peel off my tank top and push my sleep shorts down my legs, letting everything drop to the floor. I dash to my arm chair and snatch up my jean shorts.
Pulling them on, I slip a white T-shirt over my head, followed by a gray hoodie.
The phone buzzes again, but I ignore it.
I’m coming. I’m coming.
Stuffing some cash and my cell phone into my pocket, I grab my flip flops and lift up my window, tossing them out and sending them flying over the roof of the porch, down to the ground.
Scooping up my hair, I fasten it into a ponytail and climb out the window. I carefully push it down again, leaving my bedroom silent and dark as if I were asleep. Taking careful steps over the roof, I make my way over to the ladder on the side of the house, climb down to the ground, and pick up my sandals, dashing across the lawn to the road ahead where my ride waits.
I pull open the car door.
“Hey,” Lyla greets from the driver’s seat as I climb in. I glance back, spotting Ten in the backseat and toss him a nod.