The Story of Us

New story I'm working on.

August 21

Dear Noah,

This letter is going to be long, I can tell that already. Sprawling pages of scribbles and whatnot, so I might as well say who it is right away. I’m sure you can already tell, from my chicken-scrawl way of writing that you know so well, but regardless. It’s Emma. Do you remember me? The girl next door, your best friend, and so much more. I shouldn’t have to ask, but you did take my heart and shred it to pieces and now I despise you more than anything on the planet.

            Sorry. Perhaps that was a little harsh. Would you prefer dislike? No, I bet you would prefer a big word like eschew or abominate. The Noah I knew loved a new vocabulary word. You would use it so frequently, in every sentence you could, until all of us would tell you to shut up already. So let’s rephrase that: now I eschew you more than anything on the planet. Is that better?

            I’m writing this letter in my backyard, on top of a shoebox lid from one of my brothers’ old winter boots. I have a mug of Earl Grey tea beside me, and I’m using a ballpoint pen to write everything. It’s one of the ballpoint pens from Etcher’s, one of the ones we bought together when you had that gift card for two hundred dollars. Do you remember that?

            I don’t know if you draw anymore. You used to be so good, Noah. I would tell you to draw anything, a dragon or a Sasquatch, and you would take a piece of vanilla paper and sketch it out for me just like the real thing. I could just watch your hand, careful and precise, and know that the final result was going to be a masterpiece. Your entire bedroom was covered in drawings, taped to the walls and the ceiling, and your bookshelf was lined with sketchbooks. But it wasn’t a surprise that you were gifted, because you were gifted at everything, if we’re going to tell the truth.

            The reason I’m writing this letter in the backyard is, contrary to what’s happening right now, not to get eaten my mosquitoes. Was that an awkward sentence? Probably, and if we were still on speaking terms, I would get you to edit it for me. That’s what you used to do to all my English papers in middle school. You would cover the page in red marks, and then I would go home and type it up again and always, always, get an A. Thanks for that, by the way. I suppose I should have thanked you back in seventh grade.

            Regardless. The reason I’m writing this letter in the backyard is to remember everything. The backyard is where we first met, and this letter isn’t a letter so much as a story. The story of us. That’s what I’m calling it, and I don’t care if it sounds terribly corny. But I’m starting our story at the very beginning, and I’m writing it until the very end, and you’re going to read it if it’s the last thing I do.

            So here it goes.

            You moved into the house next to ours on September 1^st, nearly nine years ago. I remember the exact date because it was the week before we were due to start first grade. You moving in was like an angel from heaven above. It meant I didn’t have to go to school all by myself, alone and terrified of the lockers and older kids. I guess I was never going in alone, because of my brothers, but you know fully well Griffin and Seth wouldn’t give me the time of day if we saw each other at school. Regardless.

            The big moving van took up half of our cul-de-sac. Joe and Son, it said in big writing, big for my six-year old eyes at least, Moving Inc. I don’t know why I remember that. I don’t know why I remember half the things I do, like the color of pants Josie Wright wore on fourth grade picture day or the type of peanut butter my father bought that one time, and swore to never purchase ever ever again. Dark burgundy and Peanutnut, in case your interested. But you know how my memory was. Is? Was? I need your help proofreading, Noah, I really do. But my memory’s always sharp, even for the most useless things you could possibly imagine.

            I ran out onto the front lawn the minute I saw the van. It screeched to a halt at the curb, and two of the movers hopped out and began unloading furniture from the trunk. Your big navy van was behind the truck, a navy van I would get to know very well. The navy van that took us to your cottage in Lake Ruscoe, the navy van that was always filled with crackers and juice boxes, your mother’s idea of essential survival foods. You stepped out of the van, onto the sidewalk, and into my life.

            Up until then, my life had been lonely. It sounds cheesy, I know, and I’m blushing just writing it, like one of those dating services with the peppy spokespeople who always look about ten thousand times more attractive than they should. But my life had been lonely. I was a six-year old girl, and I spent most of my time in my room, reading. You knew how it was with my family; you always understood, and you never judged me for it either.

            Because our families, Noah, were like two different worlds. Yours could have come out of a sitcom, they were so perfect, and you knew it. We used to joke that you were a mistake, the wrong baby at the hospital, who landed into such a family by pure coincidence. You were a freak, Noah, and you knew that too.

            Your mother was the definition of perfect. She wore sweater sets and had long hair, graying by now, but that only added to the charm. She had baking days twice a week, and I swear I could smell the delicious goods wafting over to our bungalow. I would inhale the scent, wishing it came from my own kitchen instead, and like a dream come true there would be a knock at the door and your mother would be standing there with a tin of cookies or cinnamon buns or lemon squares or whatever delicious delight was in the oven that day. And I always appreciated that, her trying to bring me into your family even if it wasn’t possible for me to really, truly, be a part of it.

            And your father. Even if were not on speaking terms, you can tell your father that Emma says he’s amazing. Actually, don’t tell him that, and now that I think about it, I’m being entirely too cheerful for a revenge letter. I should probably darken things up a bit, but first I’ll say this: your father is the nicest man I’ve ever met in my entire life, and his heart is probably made out of gold if you looked underneath everything.

            Lucky for you, you’re an only child. You get all the attention in the world, family movie nights and whatnot, with an endless amount of fresh, new clothing sitting in a pile at the end of your bed. Me, on the other hand, and while I don’t want to complain, I do want to complain, because living in my house is like living in a pig pen.

            You’ve met my brothers, and you’ve met my father. I say brothers because I have five of them, as you well know. Griffin, Seth, Blake, Maxwell, Leo, and my father, who’s probably the worst out of all of them. Griffin and Seth are the ones I see the most, because they’re the only ones who go to the high school. Blake’s only eleven, at the middle school, and he’s the sweetest, because he’s too innocent to do much harm. Maxwell’s the smartest, trying to get his master’s degree at the university, but that doesn’t stop him from being a nuisance, and Leo’s the disgrace, a high school dropout who lives above the garage in a sea of takeout boxes and movie-rental fines.

            I swear, one step in my house and you can smell the testosterone. And of course I’m the only girl.

            That’s why I say we lived in different worlds, because they were different worlds. Until your mother made them both collide.

            I guess we have her to thank, or blame, for all of this, huh? If it wasn’t for your mother, the sweetheart, we probably wouldn’t have become friends. I would have seen you, sure, passing in and out of your house, maybe in the hallways at school, but I wouldn’t have gotten to know you. Not the way I did.

            Your mother came to our doorstep three days after you moved in. I suppose she’d seen me scurrying up and down the cul-de-sac, trying to ignore the males in my household and entertain myself before school started again. But I was home when she came by, and luckily none of my brothers were the ones to open the door. Your mother was holding a freshly-baked pie, I remember that, and I remember thinking how ironic it was that she was giving us a baked good, instead of the other way around.

            “Hello,” she said, her voice that gentle tone that I grew to love over the next nine years of my life. “You must be Emma.”
            How she knew my name, I have no idea. I just know how delicious the pie looked, sitting there in its cheerful silver tin, and I guess your mother caught on to that quickly enough. She laughed. “Why don’t you come on over,” she suggested, “And have a piece of this. I just made it this morning.” She craned her head over the doorway and asked, “Anyone else home?”
            I shook my head, so quickly, and I think she understood that too. She certainly grew to dislike my family, I could sense that even at six, by the way there was always a spare bedroom for me if I ever dropped by; by the way she whisked me away on holidays, to your cottage or just to your house. I loved that. I loved her, and losing you means losing your mother too. I hate you, Noah.

            Your mother brought me inside, and even then, even when you’d just moved in, your house was cozy. She led me to your bedroom, which was bare, not yet decorated with you. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing one of the weird board games I would learn to love too, and then you looked up and we locked eyes and bam. We were best friends.

            That’s how we met, Noah, and that’s when everything started. Soon I would fall in love with you, but not yet. Soon you would break my heart, but not yet. Soon I would hate you, but not yet.

            My father’s calling me inside now, chicken wings on the table. I don’t know why he even bothers. But it’s nine o’clock, the sky getting so dark it’s hard to see what I’m writing. I’m going to stop now, pick up right where I left off tomorrow. The story of us. Four words, and I never knew it could be so hard. 

Author's Note

This is a new story I'm working on. Please tell me all your thoughts, constructive criticism is appreciated. Thanks for reading!

Reviews

[Jerry Ables]

Lindsay, I think this would make a great and intense story! But are you sure the sentence, "eaten my mosquitoes" in this piece shouldn't read, "eaten BY mosquitoes"?;) I appreciate very much the opportunity to read this, and will look forward to reading more from you:)

[BillyGirl]

Wow... This is very powerful. I could never write in letter form, I have a bit of trouble writing a story from a character's point-of-view. You make it look easy. This looks really good. Looking forward to the next update :)

[Lindsay T]

Thanks! More to come tomorrow :)

[BillyGirl]

Sweet! :D You always write so well ;)
By the way, part 2 of chapter 3 for When The War Was Over is finally up. Thought I'd never finish it lol.

[Lindsay T]

Awesome! I'll check it out :)

[T. Logan]

one thing. This sentance:
And your father. Even if were not on speaking turns, you can tell your father that Emma says he’s amazing.
Turns should be terms. Makes more sense.
I was kind of upset when you said Pearson would be on hold, but i think this makes up for it. This is really, really good. It's hard to write in letter form, i've tried. But you make it seem flawless. It's sad and adorable at the same time.

[Lindsay T]

Oops! Thanks, I edited it :)
I'm glad you liked it. I always like reading books in letter form so I wanted to try it myself. Don't worry...I'll probably work on Pearson a bit tomorrow, I'm on summer now so I'll have a lot of time for both stories :D Thanks for reading!

[Harley (arbiter)]

Send me a read request for this. I don't have much time nowadays. I got to the part where you were gonna start the story. It was written good from what I see but again g2g send that request please so when I get some time I can.

[Lindsay T]

No prob. Sent the request :)