Dear Ethan Kesler

8

Walking home was becoming more and more boring. So, I decided to take a new route. Not many people seemed to take it so I was hopeful that it would be mostly empty.

I started walking down the unfamiliar path, heading behind the school. Ethan was sitting in the middle of a bench on the sidewalk. I didn't notice him at first, but he was hard to miss.

He had his laptop balanced in his lap and was glaring at the screen. A loose pencil was lying next to him on top of a textbook.

He kept on scratching his head and glancing around. It was obvious that he was stressed. I didn't want him to notice me, but I felt it was wrong to simply ignore him

I guess the universe solved that problem for me, because he glanced up.

He didn't glare. He didn't even seem to acknowledge me at all. Instead, he went back to staring at his laptop. I assumed that he was ignoring me. So, I decided to do the same and proceed to walk by him.

I had almost passed by the bench when I heard him speak.

"Number one was in the second paragraph."

I stopped in my tracks.

"...yeah"

When he didn't say anything in response, I decided to take a peek behind me. He was staring at the sidewalk in front of him. I turned toward him, waiting to see why he had brought up the assignment from class.

"Why."

It was a question. But, he said it like it was a statement.

I stared at him. He stared at his computer.

"Do you actually want to know?" I asked tentatively.

He looked ahead again and nodded.

I took a seat.

Ethan didn't say anything as I explained how I found the answer. He only nodded at some parts. Everything else seemed to go right over his head. The only time he glanced at his phone was to check the time.

"Ok," he said, once I finished explaining.

"You got it?"

"Yeah."

"Then do number two."

He fell silent again. I don't understand how someone so popular can speak so little.

Maybe he just doesn't talk to you.

Ethan looked down at the second question printed on the paper in his hands. But, before even reading it he put down his pencil and tilted his head towards me.

"Why do you care so much?"

Why do I care so much about what? Why do I care so much about his grades? Oh no, he's figured out that I wrote the letter. How long has he known? Oh god, I have to run.

"What?"

"Why does this bullshit," he said, motioning to the paper, "matter so much to you?"

"My grades?"

He nodded.

Phew, never mind. It's ok. False alarm. I'll live for another day.

"Because," I started, trying to find the right way to word my answer, "it's my future."

He laughed. "This," he pointed to the school, "is not your future. The only thing that matters is what you do once you're out of it."

"But this," I said, pointing to the school just as he did, "gives you the ability and opportunities to actually do things once you're out."

"Opportunities are always there."

"Maybe for you they are."

He went quiet again. Then, he grabbed all his stuff and stood up. I watched the concrete as his footsteps became fainter and fainter. But, before they became too quiet, he stopped.

"You can't let yourself believe that this place dictates the rest of your life."

Yes, I can.