Disequilibrium

Part 2: Sophomore Year - Scene 9 (ii)

By the time I get home, there's a letter from Casper sitting on the dining table. Dad's not home and the letter is unopened, but I know it's from him. It's got his rounded, perfect writing on the back, spelling my name.

I rip open the envelope and unfold the paper, reading,

Dear Holden,

So I don't really know when you'll get this, and I bet you're pissed with me either way since I didn't contact you until now, but I still hope you'll stick around until the end of this. It's not like I was purposefully avoiding you—moving to a new country is hectic, even if it's just for a few months. I've been going about with my dad and up to my neck with homework and, well, yeah. You get me.

I do like it here, though. Everything's so different from Seabrook, and I like that. And man, you should see the buildings here. I've fallen in love with them. You know, I told my dad I wanted to be an architect. I'm actually serious. I told him that, and he smiled and bought me Minecraft. My dad. He cracks me up. He likes it here too, but sometimes he gets sad 'cause he misses the hell out of Mom. Like, sometimes I'd catch him lying on the living room couch with the picture of her from his wallet, and he'd just be sitting there. Not saying anything—just looking. Then he'd put it back, let out a long sigh, and continue like he had done nothing. Isn't that cute? Is it even okay to call your dad cute? I don't know.

But yeah, architecture. I think I'm going to seriously get into it. Like, study it in university and crap. I just love the idea of building homes or offices or things in general for people to call their own. Like, when you think of the rooms of a house, they aren't just rooms, you know? Each one has dozens of stories to tell. I want to give that to people. Rooms that can tell stories.

Is that too pretentious for a first letter? I'm sorry. You know, that's what a kid who lives on our street said about me. He said I'm pretentious. I know he meant nothing by it since we're friends, and I guess he's right. I can be pretentious sometimes. I know that. And I don't think many Korean kids appreciate that kind of talk.

There's this group of guys who don't like me much. They also live on my street. I mean, everyone else is cool with me but them. There's about two or three, and they hate my guts since I'm mixed and I'm fluent in English and I talk a lot about stuff above them. I don't mean to sound conceited, but they can be real dumb sometimes.

I go to this private school here. I don't like it much, so Dad's looking into homeschooling. He doesn't really like the idea (he's hellbent on me being a normal kid like the rest of his colleagues' kids), but I don't like going there at all. The kids study way too much to get into those top universities, and they've always got sticks up their asses. There's only two guys I like over there. They're cool. I mean, they study a lot too, but they're chill about it, you know?

They kind of remind me of you. I mean, not exactly, of course. But they do. Sometimes hanging out with them gets me sad a little, especially when I say something and they don't get it. But I know you'd get it. And I can't blame them, really. It isn't their fault. They're cool guys. I'm sure you'd like them.

I miss you. Is it okay for me to say that? If it isn't, I'm sorry, but it's true. I miss the hell out of you. What's going on? How are your classes? Did you make any new friends? Are you on good terms with your dad? These questions always run through my head, Holden. Every night I'm thinking, and thinking, and thinking 'til I manage to fall asleep. So you better write back. You better.

Sincerely,

The best dude you've ever met.

I can't stop smiling when I'm done. I don't know why. There are tears in my eyes but I'm still smiling. Still beaming. I put the letter carefully into the envelope before scouring the house for a piece of paper and a pen. It isn't that easy finding pens. Dad's always losing the ones in the house and I keep losing mine at school. When I finally find a pen underneath the couch cushions and rip a page out of my binder, I sit back down next to Casper's letter and write:

Dear Casper,

I am a little pissed off, I will admit, but your letter made up for it. Thanks. I'm not sure when you'll get this either, but I hope it's soon. I still think we should stick with calling, but if this makes you happy I'll give it a go. So here it goes.

I understand life gets the best of you. I won't expect a letter at my doorstep every week, so don't worry about it. And I'm glad you like it there. Architecture, huh? I've seen photos of Korean buildings, and I agree they're pretty sweet. You'd make a great architect. I find it ironic, though; the person who doesn't want a home builds homes. It's funny.

I don't think you're pretentious, though. I think you're real. You just say what's on your mind—that's all. Some people don't like that. They'd rather be oblivious to everything around them than to have someone say it out loud, you know? Like we're all thinking it (or at least it's embedded deep within our brains), but once someone says it, it's uncomfortable. People don't like uncomfortable things.

You're being bullied? Have you told your dad about them? I thought you'd be the last person on earth to get picked on. Man, if I were there, I would've fixed it. Just like that. I don't want people worrying your head while you're trying to straighten it out. That'd just make the whole point of leaving worthless.

So they're like the private school kids here, except they've got it a little hard since they've got to learn English too. I've read about that online somewhere. A lot of Korean kids go to English schools so they can be great. Can you imagine learning English? Doesn't it make you so fucking glad you don't have to? I don't appreciate a lot of things, but damn, I appreciate that. English is a messy language. I don't like messy things.

But anyway, things have gotten pretty dull around here since you left. School's just school now. The biggest news nowadays is who kissed who at what party. I mean, I miss hearing about the crazy things you said and did during class, or what other philosophy you've introduced to the world, or even our chats at the stairwell. Things are just bland now. Mediocre. There's nobody to talk about something interesting with anymore. I hate it.

Well, I did meet someone. Do you know a girl named Anila? She's in my history class. She's real pretty, and she seems to like me a lot. I didn't notice her until now, but that's okay because she didn't notice me either. Until you. That's what she told me.

She's nice, though. She caught me playing the piano and we spoke a little. It's nothing as close as what I had with you, but it's still someone to talk to. Dad still sucks. Nichole's okay. You're not here.

It's just not the same. Then again, nothing ever stays the same, so I guess I should stop complaining. But I'm not a fan of change—you know that. So you need to come back before I go insane.

I miss you, Casper. So much. It's killing me.

Holden.

I read it over for a moment, thinking, and then scratch the last part out 'til the ink bleeds through the paper. He doesn't need to know that. He really doesn't.