Had some relative sent him upstate to prepare him for enlistment? I didn’t ask—he wasn’t going to reveal names until I was initiated.
How and when that might happen, Sebastian didn’t know.
While I waited, I decided to keep my promise to Bellamy. But writing a letter to a sick child—a tiny act of care—was like archery with a wounded hand. Stitches snapped with every word.
Dear Bellamy, I managed. But then what?Can you walk more than a few steps? Will you ever go home and live with the slongers? Are you already dead?
I’d never written a letter. Only reports:Roommate is susceptible to flattery, has no discernment or alcohol resistance, spills secrets. Has never had a close friend. Cannot be sexually controlled because has low opinion of anyone who would sleep with her.
Bellamy!my fifth try began, this time in the Sun Parlor, thinking a change of location would help. It hadn’t.
I felt someone watching me—Frankie from my hall, in the cornerreading a novel. She hurriedly looked away. She was the kind of girl who left notes on our doors, dotting heri’s with hearts.
“How do you write a letter to a child with cancer?” I asked.
Frankie stared back at me in shock.
The others on the hall had bonded as freshmen, becoming instant friends with the simple optimism of children. But it soon became clear that I preferred not to be included in their meals, parties, outings. Now the Lavernick girls kept a respectful distance, nodding at me in the bathroom, murmuring good morning, but nothing that would constitute a conversation.
“A letter?” she said. “You don’t even sign Get Well cards.”
“I was in a car crash. There was a kid on my ward.”
“Oh, no!” She lowered her voice. “We all thought you’d been in a fight.”
“She wants me to write her letters. What do I say?”
Finally Frankie met my eyes. “Um, how old?”
“I don’t know.” Nine, like Mary? Bellamy was shorter, but maybe cancer had stunted her growth.
“What does she like?”
“Octopuses. And talking.”
“If she’s stuck in the hospital she’s probably bored. Tell her about yourself.”
I stared at Frankie. Put things about myself in writing?
“Tell her about being in college,” she forged on. “All-night cram sessions with friends. What boys you like. Poker nights.”
“I don’t really do—”
“You could come to our poker night!” Frankie blurted. “It’s really fun.”
“In Aaliyah’s room?” The leader of the group, who told the others when their outfits were perfect.
“Yes. The same one we’ve invited you to, like, fifty times.”
“Okay,” I found myself saying, not knowing why.
“Monday at nine,” Frankie sputtered, and fled to share the news.
When I knockedon Aaliyah’s door two nights later, I found three of them already there.
Frankie looked triumphant at my arrival, as if the others hadn’t believed her. Nura, whose breakup playlist I knew too well, stared at me with unconcealed astonishment.
Only our host, Aaliyah, stayed cool, shuffling cards. “Do you know how to play?”
