by Sam Bell
I. Sophomore Year
Sam is a hyena – Anonymous
Dear Anonymous,
To be specific, I laugh like a hyena. And to that end, yes, I do. My laugh will mark me when I go to college. It will be the way friends locate me on the top floor of the library, a white cappuccino in my cold hand, my eyes on the boys passing by. And they will wink and make jokes and I will throw my head back and laugh, laugh, laugh. Sometimes, when I am intoxicated, or when something is really, truly funny, I will hit my head on a wall or a beam, and this will make others around me laugh. My laugh will be called annoying, loud, screaming, attention-getting, easy, throaty, squeaky, and like a chicken. It will be one of my greatest gifts when things get tough.
I hope you and that kid you went blading with work out. – B.
Dear B.,
We did not work out. It’s nice of you to think of us in the yearbook. We will be friends, and he will lean in once– only once – and try to kiss me in the trees behind his mother’s house, and the crisp brim of his baseball hat will touch my forehead and prohibit our lips from meeting.
But B., you will ask me out when we are in college. We will go on one date – where? I won’t remember where we go – and at the end of the night, you will drop me off at my car, and we will not kiss and I will think you are the nicest boy. You will spot me in the city before I move to Kansas; I will be standing on the corner and you will be in a car, and you will yell, “Sam Bell!” like it is one word, and I will feel like I won the lottery or a popularity contest.
You have taught me that I am at least a decent person – I really appreciate that. – M.
Dear M.,
I was always coming into your house and making messes, and your parents were always mad, and it was my fault but I think you must have felt guilty. You were a decent person. You once got into the Erie Canal with me before we left for college – right before that thunderstorm – just because we never had before. It started to rain but we swam to the middle anyhow. Because you were a decent person.
Like I said before, I do cherish our friendship. – F.
Dear F.,
You do cherish our friendship, I know you do. But this will change.
This year has rocked! – A.
Dear A.,
I know! It was totally rad.
BAD BOYS – later on in the year we saw some great movies over there – B.
Dear B.,
Who are these “bad boys?” I don’t remember. I remember your long hair. I remember how many boys would chase after you. I remember this summer – we went to Cape Cod and met two boys at the beach. We stood atop a sand dune and looked out at the gray expanse of the ocean and your hair blew behind you, and you were beautiful. The boys only wanted you. I was jealous. Then school came again, and, well, you know the ending. We watched some great movies with these boys, whoever they were.
This winter we just sort of knew each other and I haven’t gotten you out of my head since! – M.
Dear M.,
Thank you. You were so charming. You were some firsts for me – first intimacy, first functional relationship, first understanding that some people think deeply. I am still sorry about the way I broke things off with you – watching you from the girls’ locker room that summer day with M., watching you wait for me on the tennis court. I knew you would come – why did I have to see you display your affection? I was a silly girl, and I will do these types of attention-grabbing things on into college, when the stakes will be even higher, and when someone’s heart will crack a little bit. You will become a great thinker, and when I read about what you’re doing now, I will feel a mixture of pride and sorrow – pride for knowing you, sorrow for treating you like a boy.
II. Junior Year
Thanks for that lunch at Ruby Tuesday – M.
Dear M.,
You’re welcome.
Thank you for trying to make me smile at the prom. I appreciate your kindness. It was a rough night – M.
Dear M.,
I am sorry the prom ended poorly. I am sorry I don’t remember why. I do remember camping in the rain, which was romantic, but it sounds like there was no romance for you. I am sorry that whatever I tried to do to cheer you didn’t work.
Your boyfriend Matt is perfect for you! I’m glad we got to hang out after the prom together. If I could tell you one thing it would be to never change, because I love you just the way you are – F.
Dear F.,
My boyfriend Matt is not perfect for me; you are perfect for me. Only you don’t see it. You see me like you see a doting little sister. You see friendship up in lights. You see our bike rides as exercise. One day, you will see me and think simply, “I love you.” You will.
Dear Sam’s Husband: Somewhere along the way you & Sam decided to look at each other’s yearbooks…I bet you never thought you’d find a letter to yourself in here? Of course not, that would be ridiculous […] We had so much fun the summer between her junior & senior year […] I want you to love Sam so much. Sam & I shared a great kind of love – either teenage puppy or a little more. But I want you to love her with everything. Full blown adult love. – M.
Dear M.,
We did, and he does.
The prom was fun – especially listening to M. make a fool out of himself and embarrass you – T.
Dear T.,
Apparently this prom was decidedly not fun. What I remember is how serious you were, so this doesn’t surprise me. After the prom, I remember sitting under a tarp and watching the rain pool in the middle, sagging and cold. I don’t know what M. said, only that is was probably exuberant and earnest. I was always hoping you would like me more, being F’s best friend and all, but I don’t think you did.
Final image of Sam: the big grin that remained on your face, even though you had just puked up your lung – O.
Dear O.,
There was a tiny sparrow that hopped along next to me as I puked in New York City, and he was what made me smile. I will spend a lot of time puking in the next decade, mostly from eating nuts, but also from the things I do in college. I will spend a good deal of time trying to be positive, and it will catch up with me, because finally, one day, I will become exhausted and need to sit down.
III. Senior Year
Memories about you – [,,,] helping me with my car, your dad’s stereo [ …] and high school. – S.
Dear S.,
I don’t think about Fairport without thinking about you. You spent more time with my father than I did, and this made him happy before he got so sick. You propped me up, talking me for walks behind the high school, watching deer stroll on the dirt paths. I remember watching you play soccer in the autumn, the grass green and the sky bright. I clapped with my cold hands and for a bit, you were mine and you walked off the field and straight to me. Once, the bumper fell off your car and it was just the funniest thing – because you kicked it, thought no one was watching – but I was walking to your house and I saw it happen before you could see me. It fell right off, like it was meant to. You put it back on, but it wasn’t the same.
I’ve learned a great deal from you. I was always good with conveying theories, ideas and observations, but you showed me that emotions are just as important. – R.
Dear R.,
This is bullshit. You were never emotional, and one day, when I am in graduate school, on a deep winter night, when you are back in town, you will ask me on a date, but I won’t understand that it is a date, because there will be no affect in your alto voice, so I will bring a date with me. The three of us will go to the movie theater, and you will sit a seat away, shaking your head at me. Afterward, we will invite you for drinks but you will decline. It will start to snow, the sky pink and lovely. You will say goodbye and I will wave to you with my date at my side, who will become my husband.
I really enjoyed becoming closer friends. There was even one point where I thought things might become more than friends but I guess I was wrong […]remember after the Memorial? I will never forget your smile. – M.
M.,
I enjoyed becoming closer friends, too. I missed your signals. I didn’t know. I was hung up on F.
I do remember the Memorial. I remember sitting at the funeral of our friend and simply thinking No.
I remember looking around the room at the Memorial, all the pictures of our friend blown up and propped against metal stands.
When we are home from college, you will send more signals. You will leave a rose under my windshield wiper with a card that explains. You will call me at work and ask me what I am doing later, and we will throw parties at your parents’ house.
At the end of that beautiful summer, you will come to the library where I work; I will be standing at the circulation desk. You will hand me one single sunflower wrapped in ribbon, and you will turn on your heel and walk away.
I hope you succeed and accomplish all the things you want to in life – D.
Dear D.,
Thanks. You too.
Dear F.,
You never signed my senior yearbook. I wonder if I signed yours, and if I did, what did it say?
If you signed mine, it would be like all the letters you wrote me our freshman year of college in two different states. I imagine it would say, “Sam, I love you. You make me happy.” And you will mean it. No friendship crap.
What this yearbook couldn’t show are the flowers you send to my dorm room, the phone calls, the plans to get married and live in an apartment near the university I attend. What the yearbook shouldn’t show is how I rip our relationship apart, the phone call that changes everything, the way I say “I’ve met someone.” Then, you will be asking me not to say the words I say, which are “I think we’re meant to be friends.”
But don’t worry; we will discover that we are meant to be friends. You were right all along.
And when you call me years later because of a death in your life, we will talk about the Memorial.
We will talk about your wife, my husband, your baby boy.
We will talk about the friend who we lost and I will see us at a traffic light. The light has turned but you won’t accelerate, and it’s snowing, and you will put your head onto the steering wheel and sob.
We will talk about the day we went for a hike at Letchworth State Park. It was turning dusky and the leaves hung in flames of orange and gold. The clouds started to thicken and it looked like rain. You were driving, and looked back at the road behind. You touched your hand to the rearview mirror to adjust it for the coming night and it fell from the ceiling. You looked at me – is this dangerous? – before we burst into laughter and drove into the dark.
–
Sam Bell is a Contributing Editor for Emprise Review
