Love Letters to the Dead(11)

It turns out that Natalie met this senior, Tristan, in her art class. He told her that he’d buy her cloves and she could come and meet his girlfriend, Kristen. When you see them, you can tell right away that Tristan and Kristen are so in love. Kristen wears long flowy skirts, and she has long hair down to her butt that looks like it must never come untangled. Her face is soft and exotic-looking. She doesn’t talk loudly. Her voice is a whispery rasp, but musical, too. Tristan also has long hair. But otherwise, they are opposites. Everything about him is pointy and buzzing with energy. Tristan wears ripped clothes with patches sewn on from bands like the Ramones and Guns N’ Roses and the Killers. He’s always talking talking talking, and after everything he says, he says, “Right, babe?” and Kristen nods without moving her eyes.

Tristan was easy to meet, because right away he tossed Natalie her pack of cloves and said, “Hola, chiquitita!” And then he kissed Hannah’s hand and kissed my hand and said, “Who are these miniature beauties you offer up to the alley of smoke?” Before we could answer, he turned to Kristen and said, “Looks like we have found the lost children of the freshman class, right, babe? Are you ready to adopt?” Then he pulled a giant kitchen lighter out of his pants pocket and lit our cloves with a flame that almost reached the top of my head. He saw me looking at his patches, especially the one that said SLASH across his chest in bright red letters. I thought that I should say something, so I asked, “Is Slash a band?”

Tristan laughed. “He’s the lead guitarist of the band. Guns N’ Roses. Definition of rock. We’ve got a ways to go on your education, don’t we?”

My face got hot.

But then Tristan said, “Don’t worry, you’re young. There’s still hope. Ready? First lesson. ‘Being a rock star is the intersection of who you are and who you want to be’—quote courtesy of Slash himself.”

“Is that who you want to be?” I asked.

He looked at me, sort of confused.

So I added, “A rock star?”

Tristan laughed again, only this time a little differently. Like I’d asked him a hard question he didn’t want to answer.

“Well, you look like one,” I offered.

Kristen didn’t seem mad that I’d said that, or that he’d kissed our hands. I think because they are so in love, she doesn’t have anything to get jealous of. She didn’t really even look at us. She just lit another cigarette. I tried to smile in a way that would make it so she’d like me, because I really wanted her to, so badly it kind of hurt behind my eyes. I wanted them both to.

“I’m Laurel,” I offered in a squeaky voice.

Kristen’s face stayed blank, but her eyes focused toward me in a way that made me know she was deep-down nice. She said, “Kristen. ‘I’m one of those regular weird people.’”

Tristan explained, “Quote courtesy of Lady Joplin. She’s obsessed.” So then Kristen started talking about you, and I figured out that Kristen really loves you, pretty much as much as she loves Tristan.

When I got home today, I looked up about Slash, and I also looked up about your life, so that I can start my education, and so that I can be friends with Tristan and Kristen. I read that you grew up next to oil towers in Texas, and that when you were a teenager, everyone in high school was terrible to you. But that made you fearless. And then you became famous. When Kristen and I are better friends, I am going to ask her to play me some of your music. I know that I could find some online, but I sort of hope that the first time I hear it will be with her. Until then, though, I am writing because I wanted to thank you for saying that thing about regular weird people, because I thought about that a lot, and I am one of them, too. With all of us standing there together, Kristen, Tristan, Natalie, Hannah, and me, I realized that there is a reason that we were all there—we are each weird in a different way, but together, that’s actually normal. And even if there’s a lot that I can’t say to them, it feels good to belong somewhere.

Yours,

Laurel




Dear Allan Lane,

I am at my aunt Amy’s. It’s her week. I like the weeks with my dad better, because Dad is my dad and he’s part of my used-to-be-normal family. But I still love Aunt Amy, which is why I am writing to you. Since you are Mister Ed the talking horse’s voice, I figured you’d be the closest thing to Mister Ed himself. My aunt Amy loves Mister Ed. Really loves him. She also really loves Jesus.

When we were little, Dad didn’t used to like us to spend time with her, because he thought that she was unstable. But Mom would cry and say, “Jim, they’re all she has.” Since Aunt Amy never had kids of her own, she’s always thought of May and me as her daughters, too, I guess.

Even though she’s only forty now, Aunt Amy’s hair is silver already and long, and she wears flower-print dresses. You can tell that she was pretty when she was young. But she’s not like Mom, who seems just as pretty now. Mom looks soft, like an out-of-focus picture that blurs her hair and her face a little bit into the landscape. Or maybe that’s just how I see her now that she’s gone. Aunt Amy is skinny and bony and you don’t want her to stroke your head or hug you. She holds too tight.

Aunt Amy had a few boyfriends a long time ago, but they were all bad ones. I probably shouldn’t know about that, except I heard Mom talking about it once when she and Dad were fighting. Aunt Amy hadn’t dated anyone since I’ve known her until last year, when she fell for this guy who was walking across the country for Jesus. She found out about him on the news, and she decided she really admired this man. She sent him letters and care packages to pit stops along his route. And then she decided to fly out to Florida so she could join the end of his pilgrimage. She walked the last one hundred miles with him, and they struck up a romance on the road. I think Aunt Amy imagined she’d finally found her mate. Afterward, she called him a lot and left him messages, where she did impressions of Mister Ed or of the Jamaican bobsledders from the movie Cool Runnings. (That is her next favorite thing after Mister Ed.) At first, he called back a little bit. She’d ask him when she could see him again, but he’d never say exactly when. And soon the calls stopped coming. She’s always checking the answering machine, though she tries to act like she doesn’t care. I think she doesn’t want me to see her being hopeful. (I don’t know if being super into Jesus makes you against things like modern technology, but Aunt Amy still hasn’t figured out cell phones.)