DEAR HAVEN,
I cannot tell you how happy I was to receive your second letter.
Well, no, I guess I probably could try to tell you how happy you made me, but in all honesty, there are not enough words in the English language or any language to express how I felt when I saw your letter finally come in.
You can’t tell anyone this. But I was waiting and waiting and waiting, hoping that you would give me another chance, and I’m not going to lie—at one point I thought maybe you had decided I wasn’t worth it.
But seriously, please don’t tell anyone, because I have already endured enough teasing from my parents and my brother, and even a little bit from my best friend, Reid.
Not that I’m embarrassed to be your friend. That’s not it at all. It’s just that the constant taunting from my little brother and my best friends is annoying. So annoying. That’s what it’s like, by the way, to have siblings. ANNOYING.
Okay, okay, it’s not ALL bad. Sebastian, my little brother, who is two years younger than me, and I are actually really close, and we get along fine, but I think it’s pretty natural for siblings to also intentionally drive each other crazy. Which Sebastian does. A lot.
Reid and Nolan, my two best friends, are also almost more like brothers to me. We’ve all known each other since we were born, and the four of us (Reid, Nolan, Sebastian, and me) spend pretty much all of our time together, outside of school at least, since Nolan and Sebastian are in different grades than Reid and I.
But other than that, we play together, do homework together, and even go on family trips together, since all of our parents are also best friends. And we all constantly give each other crap—I mean tease each other—about anything and everything. I guess it’s in the sibling job description.
Other than them, I have a much younger sister, Madeleine. She’s three and is literally the princess of our family. The princess of our town, if I’m being frank. She has my dad wrapped around her little finger.
Honestly, I think she has me wrapped around it as well. I am afraid of what she’ll be like when she gets older, though. I have this feeling she’s going to end up being a force of nature that none of us will be prepared to deal with.
So, now, you asked me a bunch of questions in your letter, and I’m going to answer them, but I’m expecting you to answer the same questions when you write me back, plus any other questions I decide to ask you. You have been warned.
My birthday is September 4th, so I turned twelve a little over two months ago. I am in the sixth grade at my school, which goes to eighth grade. I know, usually schools stop at fifth or sixth grade, and then students go to
middle school, but we’re a pretty small town, so ours goes to eighth, and then we’re bussed out to the nearest high school.
My favorite color is white. Yes, I realize white isn’t really a color, but it is my favorite.
My favorite animal is a wolf. They are strong, protective, loyal, and beautiful creatures.
My favorite food is pizza. Any kind of pizza. Except pizza with mushrooms.
I hate mushrooms.
And my favorite sport is football or basketball. I also enjoy running and uh… I guess you could call it boxing? I know it sounds violent and unsafe, but I promise, I’m trained by professionals, and they make sure we’re safe the entire time we’re working out and sparring.
I also enjoy playing video games with my friends, listening to music, and believe it or not, but I enjoy reading. I actually really enjoy school, too. Don’t tell Reid, though.
I’m pretty sure that addresses all the questions you asked me. I know you said you want to know “everything” but I don’t think I’d ever be able to tell you everything about myself in one letter. But I’m guessing, over time, we’ll eventually learn everything about each other? Assuming we stay in touch, I mean.
By the way, I couldn’t help but notice that in your last letter, you first referred to your foster parents as “Jack” and “Shirley”, but then later, in your P.S., you wrote “Mom.”
Okay, wow, now that I’m writing this, I realize it’s honestly none of my business what you call them. I just noticed and wanted to ask, but you can ignore me. You don’t have to answer that question. Forget I asked.
Last thing: I’m sending you my school picture as well. It’s only fair, since you sent me yours, that I send you mine and show you what an actual silly school photo looks like. Because yours, my friend, is not silly. Mine, however, is.
When you get this letter, it will probably be almost Thanksgiving, so, Happy Thanksgiving.
Wait, do you celebrate Thanksgiving? I’m sorry if you don’t. If you do, well then, uh… Happy Thanksgiving!
Your Friend, Wesley Stone
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HAVEN
I folded the letter from Wesley, stuck it back into the envelope, and placed it into my dance bag. Then, I organized the purple floral stationery paper Mom helped me pick out and put my reply letter into one of the coordinating envelopes.
I was so excited when she took me to the store and let me pick out special paper, envelopes, and pens to use for my letters to Wesley. She knew how much I loved using nice pens, so having my own full set of colorful pens that was just mine was so exciting.
I had been so overwhelmed by the options in the store. She ended up letting me choose a few unique patterns of paper since I had trouble deciding between them. She also bought me a pocket dictionary and thesaurus, so I wouldn’t have to lug around the giant ones from our house.
Then, she took me to the post office, and bought me an entire roll of stamps so I could mail my letters to him without having to ask them for permission or help. I would still tell them if I sent one, of course, but the fact they felt I was mature enough to do it on my own made me smile.
I leaned against the mirrored wall of the empty dance studio room, stretching my legs out in front of me and pointing my feet in my pink ballet shoes. My mom was still talking with Miss Rebekah, my dance teacher. I was not sure what they were discussing—they were too quiet for me to hear them—but their faces were serious. I just hoped I was not in trouble for anything.
I hated getting into trouble. I tried to always be on my best behavior. I hated disappointing people, and felt guilty when I made even the smallest of mistakes.
I searched my brain while they talked, trying to remember if I had done something wrong during my ballet class, but I couldn’t think of anything.
I stood up, and they turned their eyes on me. But I ignored them and walked to the center of the room, turning to face the mirror, my eyes examining my reflection.
One thing I loved most about ballet was how precise everything had to be. The uniformity of seeing everyone in a black leotard, pink tights, and pink ballet shoes, all moving together in unison—it fueled the perfectionist inside me.
I loved how perfectly Mom could pull my hair back into a bun, somehow able to tame my wild, wavy-curly hair into a sleek, clean hairstyle. I loved how focused I had to be during class, making sure my every movement was precise yet fluid, strong yet smooth.
I placed my feet into fifth position, my arms moving from low fifth to first position, before I began practicing my pirouettes. I stretched all the way through my leg to the tips of my toes in my tendu, used my plié to help me turn instead of using my arms to whip me around, and made sure my foot connected to my supporting leg when I brought it up to passé as I turned.
However, each time I attempted a pirouette, I fell out of my turn before I even made it around one time. Even though I grew more and more frustrated with each turn, I continued to try. I didn’t let my frustration show, however. I just kept practicing.
I lost track of how many times I tried to complete a perfectly executed pirouette, when Miss Rebekah’s hands were on my arms from behind me as I was about to turn again.
“Hold your arms up from here,” she told me, tapping the underside of my upper arms. “Not from here,” she continued, touching the tops of my arms. “Relax your shoulders down and back instead of tensing them up and hunching forward.”
She moved next to me, showing me with her own body what she meant by her words. I imitated her movements, correcting my body to match hers.
“And don’t forget to spot,” she reminded me.
She nodded at me, and I turned my head back to the mirror, taking a deep breath to remember her notes before I attempted one last turn.
I turned, completing not one, but two perfect pirouettes, landing in a clean
plié.
A wide grin appeared on my face, and I looked at Miss Rebekah for approval. She gave me a tiny smile, which was a tremendous compliment since she was usually so very serious.
“I’ll see you next class,” she said before walking gracefully back over to my mom.
They finished their conversation, and my mom said, “Thank you,” to Miss Rebekah, so I walked back over to my dance bag. I changed out of my ballet shoes and pulled my sweats on over my leotard and tights before sliding my warm boots onto my feet.
Standing up, I grabbed my dance bag off the floor and walked to where my mom waited for me next to the door to the studio. I was nervous for a moment since they had been talking for so long. I was still not sure what it was about, but her soft smile and the small gleam of pride in her eyes reassured me I most likely was not in trouble.
She was quiet as we loaded ourselves into the car, so I stayed quiet, too, as I buckled myself into the backseat. She sat there for a moment, the car running but not moving, before she turned to look me straight in the eye with a smile.
“Miss Rebekah is very impressed with the growth you have made in such a short amount of time,” she told me. “She said she would never have known you had only been taking lessons for a year. She would like you to enroll in at least one more ballet class, and she also mentioned the possibility of private lessons to help you reach your full potential. She thinks you have the natural ability to go very far in the ballet world.”
My jaw dropped open at what she said, and I tried to form words to respond to her, but my tongue and my voice could not cooperate with my brain. Instead, I released a series of incoherent sputters.
“But…she…that’s…” My mind moved faster than my mouth, and I could not get out whatever my brain was trying to say.
Mom’s hand reached to the backseat and rested on my knee, her eyes softening as she took in my reaction.
“If you’re worrying about the cost, don’t. Your father and I want to do this for you. We want to see you succeed, and we’re happy you’ve found something you are passionate about, something that you obviously work very hard for.”
My gaze lowered, and tears pricked at the back of my eyes. I blinked, not wanting Mom to see. I may have been letting my walls down more and more, but I still had a tendency to revert to my old, closed-off ways when I felt vulnerable. Like I did at that moment.
Mom squeezed my leg, then turned back to the wheel and put the car in gear so she could drive us home.
I wiped at the tear that ran down my cheek then pulled out my letters again so I could reread Wesley’s and add a postscript to the one I wrote to him. I also wanted to look at his picture again, if I was honest.
There was something about his eyes and his smile that drew me in when I looked at the photo for the first time—a connection I could feel even through a photograph. Maybe it was because of our letters, but something deep within me, a feeling or a presence I couldn’t even begin to understand or explain, told me it was something bigger, something more.
“What did your friend say?” Mom asked me from the driver’s seat.
I looked up at her from where I had been jotting down my last words, and I smiled. “He told me about his family, mostly. And his friends. They all seem to be very close.” I gave a soft sigh, lowering my eyes for a moment so she wouldn’t see my sadness. “He sent me his picture as well.”
Mom perked up in her seat at that. “Ooh, let me see?”
I waited until she stopped at a red light and then handed her the photo.
“Oh, he is a handsome young man, isn’t he?” I blushed at her words, turning my head to the side and pressing my hands to my cheeks to hide the pink I knew was there. “So strong and serious looking already at his age,” she added, examining his photo still.
Even with my embarrassment, I couldn’t deny the truth of what she was saying. I might have been only nine years old, but I could still tell Wesley was more mature-looking than most twelve-year-olds I had seen, and he would undoubtedly grow to be more handsome as he got older. He told me his photo was silly, but all I saw was a young man with serious but caring brown eyes and a sincere, honest smile.
“Are you ready to mail your reply? I can swing by the post office before we head home?” Mom asked, and I nodded, then stuffed, sealed, and placed a stamp on the envelope I was sending to Wesley.
We pulled into the post office parking lot, and my mom drove up to the outdoor mailbox, opening my window so I could drop the letter into the slot. My heart fluttered a bit as I watched the purple envelope fall into the dark of the mailbox, my anticipation and excitement to hear from Wesley again racing through me.
We might have only known each other a short while, and we didn’t know if we would ever get to meet each other in person, but I already considered him one of my best friends. I could only hope he felt the same about me.
