“You ready for the game on Friday?” Dad pesters me about basketball.
“Always.” I turn to walk away. Detention starts in forty-five minutes, and I smell like hot garbage. Thank fuck I only have detention on Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday for the next two weeks or I’d lose my marbles.
“Your coach’s new plays any good? What about practice?” he hounds me. “You get enough hours in with all that detention crap? What’s that I hear about your coach letting you off early?”
Mom says that’s my dad’s way of showing me he cares, but I think that’s all he cares about. To think my dad was next in line for the coaching job at Easton. He only took the leftover PE job in the hope that he’d get a shot at coaching if he stuck around. I thank my lucky stars he didn’t get it on the daily.
“Dad, I’m going to be late. Mind if we pick this up later?”
His lips pinch in disapproval. He didn’t get nearly enough info to satisfy his hunger. “I’ll hold you to that.” Dad trails to the front door. “Your mom should be home soon. Tell her I wish I’d been there to see her reaction.” He gestures to the flowers.
“You got it.”
“See you later, punk.” Hank lifts a hand to his forehead in a salute before tracking my dad out of the house.
* * *
Someone pinch me. There’s another letter.
There’s. Another. Letter.
I spent the evening convincing myself that getting a reply was a long shot, but here it is. Neatly tucked between two pages. First, I dodge my dad’s interrogation, and now this?
Today must be my lucky day.
I steal a glance toward Mr. Tate, sitting at the front desk grading papers. I have no idea how this is even possible. How this angry chick managed to access the book in the forty-eight hour window it was gone, but I don’t give a rat’s ass. I’m just glad to have something to do other than copying poetry for the next ten minutes.
I unfold the letter carefully and start reading.
Dear Grammar Police,
I hope you get hit by a car.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want you to die. You see, unlike you, I am a GOOD person. And a good person doesn’t go around bullying people for no reason.
But I still wish you’d get hit by a car.
Maybe break a rib or two.
Or twenty-four.
Maybe you could use your time of remission to ask yourself why you’re such an asshole. Think real hard about what could’ve made you this way. Tough childhood? Absent parents?
What was it, troll?
I’d love to know.
I know you’ll probably never read this, but in case it wasn’t clear enough, I didn’t need your corrections or nasty input on my letter which, by the way, was supposed to stay PRIVATE.
And for the record, YOU DON’T KNOW ME. I am the furthest thing from a crybaby. Or an “angry chick.” Actually, how can you be so sure that I’m a girl at all?
I could be a seven-foot-tall dude with a mean right hook for all you know. So, here’s an idea, asshole. Let’s play a game of fuck off.
You go first.
- L
I should be offended, shocked by the mouth on this girl, but all I can do, as I devour the letter for the third time, is smile until my cheeks sting.