Episode II - The Most Embarrassing Letter I've Ever Wrote

My grandmother's death was the first scene that showed me I was out of step with the rest of the world.

She'd been very fond of me. Even after sickness in her chest meant she did little other than sleep, she wanted me by her side. She caressed my hair and called me "such a good boy, such a kind boy," her eyes crinkling with happiness.

But I wasn't the classic child my grandmother wanted me to be. Her skinny hands, her face guttered by wrinkles, her white, whispering husks of hair, her breath that reeked of medicine—all of it resisted and frightened me.

"You're a good boy, a kind boy."

Each time her croaking voice whispered in my ear, I felt as if she were putting a jinx on me. My neck stiffened, and goosebumps prickled my skin.

I was frightened she would discover that I was not, in fact, a good boy; that as soon as my grandmother discovered that in my heart I despised her, she would become a demon, her white hair bristling and her eyes blazing red, and she would devour me. I would break into a cold, heavy sweat, and some nights I found sleep impossible.

So I took great care she wouldn't notice and drenched her with adoration. I stepped forward to bring her food and wipe the sweat from her brow. I cared for her diligently; I even snuggled against her and kissed her cheek sweetly, telling her I loved her.

Her cheek was dry as a parched leaf and smelled of the medicine I despised so much. Terrified that I might catch her disease, I would go to the sink afterward and cleansing my mouth out with water over and over until finally, I split my lip. As it bled, I considered what an awful child I was for lying; my throat clenched, and my eyes burned.

Then one day my grandmother grew cold and stopped moving.

"You are such a good boy, such a kind boy," she whispered, caressing my head tenderly.

Her hand went suddenly limp and her face turned white, the color of candle wax, but I felt nothing. When she stopped breathing, I deserted my grandmother and went to play in the park.

When I returned that evening, my mother caught me up in her arms and told me my grandmother had died, but even then, my heart was as gentle as a forest where no animals ventured to go.

My grandmother's funeral was held a few days later. During all that time I was distant and shed not a single tear, so the adults murmured to each other, "He's still so young, he doesn't understand that his grandma is dead. He was so fond of her."

Shame welled up inside of me when I heard that. My ears burned red, and I couldn't meet anyone's eyes. But that was the only embarrassment; I didn't feel the slightest bit sad at my grandmother's death.

I've been this way ever since I was a child.

How do you even write love letters?

I was in class the next day, working with my very first love letter, which I was drafting on a sheet of lined paper tucked under my notebook, feeling totally uninspired.

Dear Anthony Flavier,

I apologize for writing you out of the blue. You must have been very surprised. My name is Janella Christine Pendelton, and I started my first year at Quinillia Academy this spring. My name means "lots of love." I saw you shooting with the archery team after school, and I thought you were wonderful. I developed feelings for you.

Hmm… That sounds really formal.

Dear Anthony,

Hi! This is my first letter like this EVER! My name's Janella Christine Pendelton, first-year class two, seat number twelve. I'm a Cancer, and my blood type is B. Some of my friends call me Ella. I know this is really sudden, but I love you! Oh gosh, I'm so embarrassed!

I'm actually embarrassed to read this. And it makes her sound so stupid.

Blushing, I wrote letter after letter.

Why was I even doing this?

Alice had kept mouthing off: "Your writing needs more sex appeal, so this is a great moment. I want you to learn from it. Put yourself inside little Ella's mind and write the sentimental, unpracticed confession of a lovestruck girl. The world is still vivid and shining, and you're just so happy! Something like that. Something that will impress the boy she gives it to and make him think, 'Whoa, she's so adorable,' and 'What an angelic heart to be so loved by.' "

Unbelievable. Alice should have just written it herself.

"I focus on the eating," she would have said, giggling without a hint of shame.

A DNA helix was drawn on the blackboard, and the white-haired biology teacher was droning on about chromosomes, heritability, and whatever else as if reciting a liturgy.

Quinillia Academy was a serious school that students had to test into, so everyone was feverishly taking notes, contributing the scratching of pencils on paper to the teacher's recitation. Still, there were a couple of kids playing with their cell phones under their desks, too.

I bet no one else is composing love letters, though. After all, love letters are passé; it's all about text messaging now.

Freshly reminded of the fact that I was writing love letters in class, color seeped across my face until it was red.

But these aren't my love letters. They're for Janella. It's Janella saying she likes Anthony, not me, and… wait, who am I justifying this to?

Besides, Alice told me to do it. She said I should try putting myself inside Janella's mind when I write.

I remembered Janella's face as she joyously described the boy she liked to us, her cheeks flushed.

"I like this boy named Anthony Flavier. He's a third-year student on the archery team! I was checking out a bunch of different clubs right after I started here, and then I saw Anthony practicing with the archery team. He drew his bow back so far, it was amazing, and then his face got this super-serious look, and he turned toward the target. The air felt as tense as the bow—and me, too. My eyes were glued on him. I stopped in my tracks and held my breath, seriously.

"I'd been feeling kind of down before that.

"But as soon as I saw him looking at the target, that all disappeared from my mind, and when his arrow twangggged into the bull's-eye, I felt like it had shot into my heart, too.

"And then Anthony got this gentle look on his face, and he grinned just like a little kid. It was the most amazing smile of all the smiles I've ever seen! That's when I got my crush on him.

"I'm awful at sports, so I didn't join the archery team, but I went sometimes to their practice to watch him. I heard the other members call him Anthon and Flavio and stuff, so that's how I found out his name. He is usually a cheerful guy, which he doesn't look like at all, and he jokes around constantly and makes everyone laugh.

"But when he's shooting an arrow, he gets super serious. Even though he might have been joking and laughing right before that, he gets this almost scary tension on his face, and it's only when he's drawing a bow… But then if he misses the target, he'll make a joke about it, and if he hits it, he shouts and celebrates it like a little kid, cheering and jumping around.

"I started wondering what Anthony thinks about when he's shooting arrows and then my mind just gradually filled up with him, and I wanted to know more about him, and I wanted him to know about me, too."

Janella had gone on long enough to rival Alice whenever she expounded on the fine points of a book. Her plump cheeks tinged pink, her eyes flashing vivaciously, she talked us deaf about Anthony and looked truly overjoyed doing it.

So, you know. At the very least, I had to convey just how much she liked him. If Janella will be rejected because of my letter, I wouldn't be able to live with myself…

I flipped to a fresh sheet of paper and began writing out Janella's feelings, line by line.

"I want you to know about me, Anthony. And I want to know lots more about you. So I decided to be brave and write you a letter."

"Here you go."

After classes ended for the day, I handed her the letter.

"I threw this together during lunch. I didn't bother with a draft, so I can't guarantee it's any good…"

"Oh my gosh, thank you!"

Janella bounced happily and accepted it.

"Oh wow, three whole pages? Did you write all this at lunch? I guess I shouldn't be surprised—you are the literature club's top writer!"

"Uh, it's not that great…"

"Can I read it?" She giggled.

She started to unfold the paper, and I rushed to stop her. "Ack! No! You can't read it here!"

"Aw, why not? I want to see it, too. You put your heart into writing that letter!"

Alice smiled teasingly and tried to steal a peek at the letter over Janella's shoulder.

I cut in between them. "No! Absolutely not!"

"Umm, I guess I'll go then. I need to hurry home and rewrite the letter. I have a stationery set all ready and everything! It's light pink with cherry petals falling across it. It's super adorable."

"Good idea." I waved Janella off in a haze.

"Bye! Good luck!"

"Thank you guys so much!"

"Don't forget your report!"

"I won't!" She replied cheerily and waved to us, the letter clutched in her hand.

Halfway out, she toppled over, but she got right back up again and left, laughing in embarrassment. I watched her go, my heart pounding.

"Man, I really wanted to read that love letter, Andy! You spent three whole days on it!"

I glanced over at Alice, who sat on the fold-up chair hugging her knees, her bright eyes crinkling, and my ears burned with embarrassment. This was bad—she'd seen right through me.

I responded with deliberate sarcasm. "No way. If I gave it to you, you'd want to taste it and end up eating the whole thing."

Alice stuck out her lip. "Come on, I'm not that crazy for food."

Then she laid her cheek on her knees and got a dreamy expression on her face. Her long, thin braids spilled over her frail shoulders like two cats' tails.

"A love letter would have been great, though. They must be all sweet and tickly and taste like happiness. Andy, what do you think the most delicious story in the world is?"