Dear Mrs. Hooper

If we’re going to be friends, there’s a few things you need to know about me. First, I was named after my great-grandfather. I don’t know much about him because no one will tell me enough, not even my Aunt Mara, but I’ll try to remember everything the best I can.

Well, he lived in either California or Oklahoma, in one of those small towns that’s only noticed after someone builds a casino there. My great-grandfather loved a good game of poker, so that’s how he got the town noticed, and he always made sure everyone in his pool hall played by the rules. One time he was so bent on his customers playing fair that he wound up killing a man. Instead of going to prison, he was sent to one of those Indian reservations, where he got to live in a teepee and make his own cards out of thin tree bark. Eventually the supervisors on the reservation took away the cards. From then on he just walked in a ring around the camp, shouting, “Damn you,” and shaking his fist in the air like an auctioneer, until he went insane from all the circular motion and shot himself. Sometimes, when one of my parents used to make me angry, I’d march around the house and bellow, “Damn you,” and throw up my clenched fists the way I imagined he did, but then Mom would tell me not to talk that way, and I usually wouldn’t get dinner that night.

I’m still not sure how my great-grandfather went from the casino to Indian to father stage, but whenever I used to ask about that, my parents would look at each other and my dad would say, “It’s fine outside today,” and then I’d have to go out the back door and sit on the swing set for awhile. Usually I’d wait a few weeks before asking again, but my dad’s response was always the same, so eventually I just stopped wondering.

Second, I’ve stopped cutting my hair. This is for two reasons: one, if you used scissors the way I did today, you wouldn’t dare touch them either, and two, I’d like to fit in where I’m going. In science class we learned about survival of the fittest, where certain species are able to escape extinction because they can adapt to their environments. I’ve heard that the men over here don’t cut their hair, and that they’ll even put these little beads in it. Aunt Mara tried stringing a few of my sister’s beads in my hair last Tuesday, but they wouldn’t stay, so for now I’m just stuck with hair frizzing over my ears like a dead animal.

No matter what anyone says, I was the fastest runner in school, which is the third thing you need to know about me. Peta, who was six years old when I was born, said our mom’s second delivery was so quick that the doctors had to sprint one mile through the hospital in order to catch me. I remember running before I remember walking, but whenever I tell that to anyone they just laugh. I’ve won every single race I competed in, including the one earlier against Edgar Hooper, even though he tried to cheat his way through. I can’t stand cheaters, so by the time we reached the finish line, I made sure I beat him.

Normally, Edgar was an okay guy. We used to shoot hoops together in PE, until the day I found out that he didn’t stand at the free-throw line like you’re supposed to. I still sat next to him in class, because he was funny and mocked the teacher a lot. Mrs. Sneed seemed to like him, despite his jokes about her fossil face, and sometimes he could even make her give him a few extra points on the tests. Everyone knew he never deserved those points. They also knew that, in all of his races, Edgar would find a shortcut to the end so that he could win. I kept that in mind this morning when I was first to the finishing ribbon and scissors.

You should probably know that I’ve done a bad thing. Mom always told me it was polite to say sorry when I’ve wronged someone, so I’d like to apologize right off the bat. Since I hope we’ll be friends, and since friends listen to each other,  you should hear me out when I say that Edgar had it coming. Maybe you’ll understand that and forgive me.

I’m also awful sorry about my penmanship. Normally I get high marks in literacy--but I’m on a bus, see, on my way to one of those Indian reservations, where I can live in a cone-shaped tent made of animal skins and teach the different tribes how to race. Maybe, once my hair grows out, I can find someone who knows how to put beads in it. I don’t think they have mailboxes over here, so I won’t be able to send this letter, but I really wish we could’ve been friends. Edgar was a good boy, even if he cheated a lot.

Sincerely,

Elan Blythe

Author's Note

I was aiming for a '70s feel, but I probably failed at accomplishing that.

Oh well.
Hope you enjoyed. Don't forget to leave me a constructive word or two!