P.S. I Like You(49)

“I know.” When she was with him. Isabel and Cade had been together. That had really happened. It wasn’t some ancient history. Cade really dated my best friend. “Don’t worry, we haven’t given up insulting each other. Pigs aren’t flying yet.”

Isabel glanced out the window. “Are you sure? I could’ve sworn I saw one in the sky on my way over.”

“Funny.”

Isabel smiled and flung her arms around my neck. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too. Let me go make sure my brothers are ready for bed and we can watch a movie.”



We were halfway through the movie when something I’d said to Isabel caught up with me. The reason I’d landed in detention. Sasha had been in my seat when Cade came in to Chemistry. He’d seen her in my seat. This was before I’d realized he was the letter writer. That’s why he’d come in—not to pull a prank to get his friends out of class early—but to see who was sitting in that seat. He thought his pen pal was Sasha.

I laughed.

“What?” Isabel asked.

I couldn’t believe Cade thought Sasha wrote those letters. They sounded nothing like her. Then again, Cade’s letters didn’t sound much like him either. I sat up with a gasp. Was that why he’d finally asked her out? Because he thought she was the letter writer? That thought brought an unexpected feeling of anger. He was probably so happy the letter writer matched a beautiful, popular girl. It was all turning out perfect for the golden boy.

“What?” Isabel asked again.

“I just figured something out.” I explained to her about the seat exchange and the letters.

She stared at me in both awe and horror. “That’s awful.”

“Is it? Maybe it’s better he thinks it’s her.”

“But then won’t he get mad at Sasha when the letters stop appearing?”

I shrugged. “Maybe he’ll think she stopped writing because they’re together now. Maybe I’ll help him think that.”

She gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

“It won’t be hard. People easily accept things that they want to be true. And he wants it to be true. He wants his letter writer to be Sasha.”

Isabel’s expression fell, but she didn’t contradict me.





I sat in Chemistry on Monday, mulling over my plan. Even though I knew Cade wanted the letter writer to be Sasha, it actually would be hard to convince him it was. All he had to do was ask her some details. Did she have a younger sibling? Did she like the same music we did? He’d know soon enough. He should’ve known already, without me having to write anything at all. Unless …

Sasha had seen the desk with the writing on it the day she sat in my seat. Maybe she’d figured something out. If Cade had asked her about letters, maybe she’d played it off like she knew what he meant. Went along with it.

I reached under the desk. I thought I’d cured myself of this need after a week off, after knowing the writer was Cade. But my heart still raced when I felt the new note there.

Did you listen to the Pink Floyd library in one sitting? That’s a really awesome thing. I wished I’d thought of it. No, my thing had to do with writing my dad a letter. I know we’d talked about me writing my stepdad. But when I sat down to do it, I realized it was my dad I needed to talk to. He can ignore a phone call, but it would be harder to ignore a letter, right? Anyway, I wrote it and sent it over the break. Now I just get to wait. I’m used to waiting for responses now that we’ve been exchanging letters. It’s taught me a bit of patience. Not really. I’m dying over here. I need a distraction. I spent Thanksgiving with another family because I needed to get my mind off of my life (not to mention I told you how bad my Thanksgivings are). It was nice. It’d been a long time since I’d seen what a real family is like. And this family was the epitome of a real family. It was like one of those paintings. You know that guy who paints classic American scenes that look too good to be true? I think he even actually did a Thanksgiving dinner scene. This was that. It was the best Thanksgiving I’d had in a while. How was yours?

Mixed emotions competed inside me. So he’d had a good time at my house, and that made me melt a little. But his description of my family, the craziness that always had me on the brink of frustration, left me scoffing.

I wrote back:

Do you mean Norman Rockwell? I’m sure you didn’t spend Thanksgiving with the Norman Rockwell painting family. No family is perfect.

I almost wrote least of all mine, but hesitated. Was I giving it away that he spent Thanksgiving with me by refuting his depiction of it? No, he thought he was writing Sasha right now.

I’m glad it was a good distraction for you. I can understand why you’d need one. It’s hard enough to wait a day for a response to a letter, I can’t imagine how you’re feeling waiting this long. Your dad will write back. He has to. Is there something specific you’re hoping he’ll say? Or do? Or you just want an update on his life? I hope you didn’t try to write a song for him or you’ll never hear back. ;) No, but for real, your letters are very compelling. Almost impossible not to respond to.

At least that was the case with me. I’d never be able to stop responding to him no matter what I knew or who he thought I was. Because he had some letter-writing spell over me.