A Product of Intense Deliberation

Dear Michael,

No, too formal.

Mike.

Well, I call him that. I’ve been calling him that for a few months now, no big deal. He doesn’t seem to mind. But, still … I don’t know. Doesn’t fit right.

Michael.

Better. Good. I like it.

Michael:

So, this is a “P.S.”, since I don’t want to bog down your fun birthday card with what I’m about to write here. I’d rather have it on plain white paper than on a colorful card with those little foil circles all over and the funny sleeping dog on the cover. I mean, you keep birthday cards to smile at. Or maybe you throw them out. I know how you feel about pens, but I’m not all sure about your philosophy on stationary. But say, for argument’s sake, that you keep them to smile at.

What I’m about to say here is something you wouldn’t want in a card. I’m sorry for being…whatever I’m about to be. Awkward. Stupid. Cheesy. Kind of a weirdo. Whatever word has all that in one. Ha, ha. I promise I’m not normally like this. You should know that by now. It’s been a while since we’ve been friends, after all. It’s been since sixth grade, huh? Hard to believe we’re almost in high school now.

Now, I’m pretty sure you’ve been acting off because of what I did. I mean, we barely talk anymore. We don’t hang out after school anymore. Whenever I stop you in the halls to say hi, you talk so far away that it’s like you’re in a whole nother world.

It’s kind of funny, you know, since we used to do stuff together every day. I mean, every day we got a play-by-play of each other’s lives. We’d be out just walking and you’d tell me if you had pizza or Whataburger that day and I’d tell you if I was feeling like smoothies or milkshakes next weekend. We used to do all the things you do with those other guys now, Justin and Elliot and John and Ramirez. At school I hear you telling them all the stories you told me and planning video game sessions and movie nights that we used to plan together. It just makes me think that things used to be all good and fine and great and I just don’t get why it’s like this now.

It must be because of when we met up at the park last time. I’m a hundred percent sure that what I did mucked everything up. I wanted to apologize for that. I’m sorry if I seemed rude or standoffish or anything like that, anything that’d make you hate me. I know I can kind of act like an idiot at times so, for the third time, I’m sorry. I don’t mean it. I never meant it. After all, a guy can’t be a jerk to his best friend.

You’re my best friend, you know? I know I’m not yours. I know yours is Cam, the one who painted that picture you showed me back in October. But it doesn’t matter, really. It’s not about who’s who to whom (actually it might be, but wouldn’t that complicate things?). It’s more about you and me. In general. Like a machine with two main parts. A bicycle. Its two wheels.

Forget Cam for a second. And Justin and Elliot and John and Ramirez. Just pretend it’s the park again and there’s no one there but us. ‘Cause that’s what this is about.

But, help me out here, Mike—can you tell me what I did?

I’ve been thinking a lot these days, and I’m pretty confident I got it all down. Maybe I missed one or two things, but you can just mention them, easy. Just give my summary a glance and tell me.

Please, I need to know.

Was it because Ma picked me up too early? Because I was too quiet when you talked (I was listening, by the way)? Because my jokes were lame and you didn’t laugh at any of them? Maybe because we watched too few of the same shows lately? Is it because I didn’t have cool stories to tell? C’mon, Mike, tell me which one—I know it’s in there somewhere. It’s gotta be something I did.

I mean, friends don’t fizzle out of nowhere. They’re a forever kind of thing. And, it’s not your fault, so, scientific method it all and you’ve got me.

I’ve never been good at saying things short, so I’ll just say it short right here: I’m writing to ask, what did I do? You just let me know, and it’s as good as fixed. That’s what friends do, you know?

Whatever I did, I want you to know that you’re a real fun and smart and neat friend and I always learn a lot from you. Thanks for bein’ you. And again, I’m sorry. I hope we can work things out.

Your pal,

Sam

The paper’s wrinkled from my pen marks. It was all smooth before I took it out of my notebook, but now if you run your hand over it, you feel little grooves, a maze of letter-vines and ink. Maybe I pressed it down a little too hard. Thinking does that to you. I’ve been thinking an awful lot these days. I wonder how my school notes feel.

I turn the paper around and around, all ready to stick in an envelope and give to Mike. I decide to put it in a long, plain one. It looks all starchy and stuffy next to the birthday card. It’s funny, almost. The letter one is like a thin white brick, all serious and adult-like, like it has a court summons or an electric bill in it. The card one is yellow and has his name in big, loopy, smiley letters, and has a special sticker with balloons that shines rainbow when you flip it up or down, and because it’s gross to lick it closed I put Snoopy and Woodstock stickers as a seal because Mike likes comics. Well, he likes Calvin and Hobbes, but Peanuts is as good as any.

I’m ready to put them both in the mailbox. But, when I turn the red flag up, only the wonderful sunshiney party card will go to him. I’m still holding the long white envelope when I’m back in my room. It should go across town and into Mike’s mailbox so he can read it and tell me what I did so I can give him a real proper, direct apology and we can pick up where we left off. Then, we could go play baseball after school like we always did and ride his brother’s motorbike and scream and be stupid and be friends again.

If I just sent the letter, then maybe I could have all that back. But I don’t make that move to go out and slip it in the mailbox. It’s like all the things I wanted to say are said, even if it’s just in this sealed-up letter, and there’s just no point in actually showing anyone anymore. It’s all out of my system. It’s not crammed upstairs anymore. Maybe getting it down was all I needed to do.

But, what do I do with the letter now? I could put it far in the back of my desk, behind my textbooks, old candy, sketchbooks, all the forgotten stuff. Then one day in the future I’ll empty it all out. I’ll grimace at old sketches and toss old textbooks. Try and see if some candy’s still good after too many years and think about getting poisoned from a Jawbreaker that looks too green. Then there’ll be the letter all crunched up in the back, still starchy-white because it was hidden. I’ll open it and then what? Toss it or read it and time travel back to now? Or do I keep it safe there until a time where “Mike” has no meaning and everything’s forgotten and nothing is painful anymore?

Thinking about that makes me more confused than thinking about what I did. Time is weird. But, I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right to just hide it away. There’s a penny-stamp on the top right corner of the envelope that will go to waste in the back of a desk, after all.

So, I open my window and start folding up the envelope. Ma would hate what I’m doing, letting a good penny-stamp go, but I’ll make it all worth it. It’ll be the best paper airplane in the whole world. A real special one, one that looks like a fighter jet. It’s one Michael showed me how to make a hundred times. I never did it, though. It looked like too much fancy fingerwork.

It took a good minute and it wasn’t real pretty, but for a first try, it turned out alright. Then I pulled my arm back and let it go out over the garden and across the road. A winter gust came by and there it went, over the across-the-street neighbor’s house and probably over his across-the-street neighbor’s house and far off into the wilderness or maybe just another house.

While it went on its way, I sat on the window bench and looked out the window. I listened to birds and bicycles whizzing by and the occasional car’s grumble. Little kids came by with a ball, laughing, their windbreakers making that crinkly noise as they ran. Somewhere in the distance, dogs let their barks rise above the wind-ripple of the trees and the soft stream of noise outside that came from everywhere. Everything kept going, living, existing.

Then, cutting through the tree in front of my house, there was this real chilly whoosh of wind that made me shiver so bad I had to close the window. I dragged it shut and then laid back on a pillow propped up on the window bench.

I thought, boy, this whole time, my head was kind of empty for the first time in a while. I didn’t think about the park or anything I did that last time I was there. And not once, since I let that letter go, did I think about Michael W. Hutchinson.

I guess that’s a start.