We Are the Light(31)

He went on to say he was leaving and that I’d have to step up and be “the man of the house,” which meant taking care of Mother because he couldn’t do it anymore. I was too shocked to speak, because I could tell he was dead serious and relieved to be rolling a massive weight off his chest. I’d always known he didn’t love me and here he was finally admitting it, once and for all.

When he dropped me off in front of my dorm, he handed me five crisp hundred-dollar bills and told me to take care.

I managed to make it back to my room before my mind kind of went psycho.

The next thing I remember, I was sitting on my bed punching the meat of my inner left thigh until it turned purple, at which point I set to work, punching with both fists, until there was a complete bruise ring circumscribing my entire upper leg.

Midafternoon, there was a friendly knock on my door. I tried to ignore it, but the person just kept on knocking, so I finally stood up and limped over to put an end to the banging.

When I pulled on the knob, there was a tall, lean, awkward-looking kid standing in my doorway—a wave of red hair crashed down over his left eye. “You’re Lucas Goodgame, right?”

I nodded.

“People call me Smithy. I live two doors down.”

I nodded again.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

I shrugged.

“That’s cool.”

I stared back at him, not knowing how to reply.

Then he raised his right hand, in which he clasped an envelope. “Found this in my box. Girly handwriting. Smells girly too. Always a good sign. Got real close to sneaking a peek. But it has your name on it and, well, congrats, Romeo.”

He handed the envelope to me, but I didn’t look at it right away, because I was too nervous. I needed privacy. I needed this Smithy to leave. But, as he was being so neighborly, I didn’t have the heart to say so.

“Listen,” he said. “I’m going to be straight here. You don’t look so good. Which is cool. No big deal. But I was thinking about ordering a pizza later and maybe sinking a few beers and playing video games or something. You wanna join me?”

When I didn’t answer, he said, “Think about it. I’m literally ten feet away. And I’ll be there all night. Maybe you can tell me about your lady friend.”

Smithy punched my arm in a friendly way, and then he was finally gone, at which point I shut the door and stared at the letter in my hand.

It was from Darcy.

We had worked at We All Scream For Ice Cream together the previous summer, back when it was owned by the DiTullio family. I had mostly done all the scooping, while she charmed the customers—working the register, chitchatting with the moms, flirting unabashedly with any man who walked through the door—and magically filled up our shared tip jar several times a shift. When things were slow, I’d listen to Darcy talk about her hopes and dreams regarding working with special needs children; and how the boys she was dating constantly frustrated and disappointed her; and all of her ill-advised madcap adventures with Jill; and whatever else she wanted to talk about. I could have listened to the sound of her voice forever.

At the end of the summer, when we were saying goodbye, she had kissed me on the cheek and then asked for my college address.

“What for?” I replied.

“So we can be pen pals,” she said. “No boy has ever listened to me the way you do. And I have a hunch you write quite the letter. There’s just got to be some words in that cute little head of yours.”

I had never written a letter to anyone in my entire life, but I nodded anyway and then—with profusely sweaty hands—wrote down my home phone number so that she could call for my new college address later that night, which she did. I read it clearly to her twice over the phone without allowing myself to believe that she would ever use it, even as she read it back to me correctly and with a flirtatious magic that somehow made my new address sound like a ballad.

As I stood in my single dorm room, looking at the first letter anyone had ever written to me—studying Darcy’s very feminine loop-de-loop penmanship, which was documented in purple ink, and trying to symbolically interpret the magazine cuttings she had artistically taped to the outside of the envelope, including a young handsome couple kissing—I felt like I had some sort of holy relic in my hand. I didn’t have to open the envelope to know that whatever was inside was going to save me, because I had already been saved. Every bone in my body was vibrating beautifully in confirmation of that last statement.

Finally, I lay down on my tiny coffin-sized bed, broke the seal, and then consumed Darcy’s words.

Later that night, I stuck my head through Smithy’s open door and he said, “Lucas! You made it!” before offering me a greasy pizza slice.

I spent all of Sunday writing Darcy back. I told her about my parents. I told her about playing video games with Smithy, who sure seemed to be fate personified. I said that working with her that past summer was maybe the best experience of my life; and that I loved listening to her; and that she was wonderfully kind and would help a lot of children in the future; and I was thrilled to be writing her. I wrote page after page after page, giving her a glimpse of what had been brewing inside of me for so long, telling her more than I had ever told anyone in my entire life. I bought a cheap rose from a street vender, plucked all the petals, and pressed them dry in a book. Later, I folded them into the pages of the letter so that fragrant red teardrops would fall to her lap while she was reading. I asked around for magazines—talking to many of my fellow dormmates for the first time—and then cut out words and pictures, which I taped to the pages and the outside of the envelope, trying to match Darcy’s level of creativity.