Dear C,

Dear C,

The deafening music amped up from the family room. With the heavy beats, the table lamp wobbled. Rob grumbled under his breath as he read his newspaper. “Those girls are something else. I don’t ever remember the boys’ friends being this loud.” Turning to the sports section, he tempered his annoyance. Deep inside, he was aware that he would no doubt miss the ruckus this coming September, when their youngest entered the University of Kentucky. Empty nesters he and his wife, Josephine, would be then, the whole house quiet.

           The girls he groused about were his daughter, Leah, and her three cohorts, Willow, Grace and Autumn from her High School senior class. The foursome had been close friends their entire years at McDowell, three miles from their home up 38^th street in Fairview, a community east of Erie. How many nights had they gathered at the Harris residence to laugh, dance and confide in each other about everything from boys to their favorite brand of nail polish.

           “Did you hear who Cindy Moss is going to the prom with?” Autumn shouted above the bass sounds. Leah’s father did not hear the supposed surprise answer as she lowered her voice to tell all. He knew the routine of these sleepovers, very loud at first, milder as the teens got closer to her parents’ bedtime and quiet whispers about secrets and personal thoughts way into the wee hours before crashing.

           “I need to show you what I found,” Leah said to the group as she disappeared up to her bedroom to retrieve it. Returning, she concealed the object under her favorite pillow with the pink case. She needed it to sleep on the floor with the others.

           “Wow,” exclaimed Willow, “I have one just like it. Only, mine is sky blue.” They huddled around the red diary with a combination lock, which Leah placed in the middle of the circle.

        “Where did you get this?” Grace and Willow said almost in sync, “is it yours?”

           “No. I found it yesterday.”

           “You found it!” Autumn exclaimed, “where?”

           “In Asbury Woods.”

           “On one of the paths?”

Leah picked it up to reveal both sides. “Walking the Greenwood trail. It was so gorgeous of a day going home from school. I decided to wander into the Woods. Leaning over the railing on the bridge over Walnut Creek, I spotted it near some brush on the edge of the stream underneath.” She flipped it over as the friends did a group inspection. “Being so dark red, it caught my eye peeking out from under the greenery. I’m thinking someone sitting there earlier left without realizing they had forgotten it.”

           The six by eight, wine-colored book was covered with grime and scratches as the teens passed it around, dirtying their hands. It was embossed with a floral design displaying the words: Vintage Flowers and Rose Floral Frame etched above and below the three wheels respectively. It was a good inch thick.

           Leah ran to get paper towels to rub the dust from it.

           “I’ll bet whose it is, they are upset now that they know they’ve lost it,” interjected Willow, “I would be frantic if I couldn’t find mine. There are some things in there I would never want anyone else to read.”

           “Not even us?” argued Leah.

           “No. I mean my parents or my brothers.”

        But it was Grace who may have begun the discovery of the whereabouts of the rightful owner. As she fiddled with it, turning it over, she noticed the round decal that had once been placed on the lower right hand corner. It had peeled off mostly and only had the bottom third still clinging to the leather. There were letters: K-E-R-S. They were wide, dark Irish green and bordered by white.

           “We should unlock it,” said Autumn.

           “How?” Grace objected, “We don’t know the combination and besides a diary is super, super private. You heard Willow.” With the music off, they were all whispering.

           “How else will we be able to find it’s owner? We need to get inside to see if there’s a contact name, address or even a phone number.”

           “I suppose. I just don’t like snooping into a stranger’s private life when we have no business.”

           “And that’s the only reason we should pry,” countered Leah.

           The group stared; each trying to figure how to unlock it. “I’m certainly not a math whiz,” moaned Autumn, “but there are at least a thousand possible combinations. We’ll never determine the right order.”

“Maybe a thing-ga-ma-gig pin. You know, those things some girls use to pin their hair back.”

           “A Bobby pin?”

           “Yeah.”

           Leah left the den again to find one in her mom’s bedroom.

           “Don’t tell her why,” cautioned Autumn, “she might not like us attempting to pick the lock into someone else's diary.”

           “It’s only to get a name.”

           “Right,” Willow said, this time drawing the word out in stark sarcasm.

           The next hour, each in their own delicate way, maneuvered to open the latch.

           No success.

      Autumn tried different combination numbers that were common that people used because they thought they were so simple that no one would ever consider them.

           One, One, One.

           One, two, three.

           Nine, nine, nine.

           No luck.

       Grace jumped up. “K-E-R-S.” She danced around the room, repeating the letters several times. “Where did you say you found it, again?”

           “In Asbury Woods, on the Greenwood Trail.”

           “Not that far from the James Wildlife Preserve?”

           “Yeah, near there.”

           “You know that Mercyhurst owns that part. I’ll bet it belongs to some college girl who comes over here to walk.”

           “Why do you say that?”

        “The Lakers… K-E-R-S. That is what their teams are called. ‘Luke the Laker’ is their mascot. He dresses like a sailor wearing a green and white striped shirt, their school colors. It’s possible that the ripped sticker means that this belongs to someone from that University. I’ll bet a million dollars that I’m right. I’ll have my sister put a sign on the board at the Student Union. Can I add your cell phone number? I just have this inkling.”

           It was now early morning; within the hour the four were sound asleep.

           Sunday of that weekend, Jason Harris, came home for dinner from Slippery Rock College and to do his laundry. Home was cheaper than the machines at school. It was only a couple hours down the highway.

         “Hey Leafhead,” he teased with the nickname he gave his sister years ago, “How’s it going? Ready for graduation in two weeks?”

           “Did you ever need to open a combination lock?”

           “I did. Why?”

           She explained the diary.

           “On our trip to France last summer, I had forgotten the code to my suitcase when we got to the hostel. One of the guys on the desk helped me. Show me the book.”

          Laying it flat, he put pressure on the button that snaps it open when the proper numbers are in place. “Let’s see if I can do it like that kid did. He had it unlocked in less than five minutes. Cross your fingers and be still.” Bending his ear to within a couple inches and keeping pressure on the switch, he gently went from number to number on the far-left wheel. “There!”

           “What?”

           “I felt it loosen on six and heard a slight sound like an open tumbler.”

           With the middle one, he repeated the action.

           “I think this one is four. If I’m correct and heard what I think I heard, then,” he pushed constant pressure on the knob, “then when I get to the right number on this third one, it should pop.”

           He stepped around the wheel … zero … one … two … three …

           It sprung open with the familiar clunk!

          “Well, what do you think of them apples? 643, sis. You owe me big time.”

           “Will a hug do it? I promise I only want to find a name and if someone from Mercyhurst calls, the mystery will be solved.”

           Jason echoed Willow’s sarcasm. “Sure. Tell me her boyfriend’s name when you read it.”

           “Honest, I just want to help someone,” his sister protested.

           Alone that evening in her bedroom, Leah opened the front cover with mixed feelings: a sense of reverence for someone’s inner secrets balancing off the sheer curiosity of someone else’s gossip. The first page had a positive clue. “Dear Cara,” with the date and time.

           “Ah, her name is Cara.”

         The entries began the second week of the previous September. Accounts were not necessarily written every day but scattered throughout the months up unto the present. Of the two hundred pages, there were some seventy or eighty still blank. Plenty of room for more narratives.

      Some were entered on consecutive days; sometimes there existed a gap of two or more dates and intervals as large as two weeks especially around the Christmas holidays. Each addressed just the letter, C, after the initial one identifying herself as Cara. Many were short paragraphs; most were an average of a full page; a few longer, involved entries.

       Leah read the first ten pages. They described a lengthy romantic relationship between Cara and her boyfriend, Kolson, how they met, how it flourished in the beginning including intimate details of their first sexual experience together. It read like a passionate love story. Although she knew it not to be ethical to keep reading, as a teenager she was intrigued by the deepening romance depicted.

           Until.

          The narrative grew dark. The affair between this girl, Cara and her boyfriend was on the skids. She caught him in bed with someone else! They broke up as recently as five days ago.

           Leah panicked, glued to every word in the final written pages and the demise of their love. She trembled with fright. “She’s depressed. Crying out for help! Talking of harming herself and ending it all,” she said out loud, shaking her head. “I’m not sorry for meddling now; it’s become imperative to find this girl before she does something dangerous and destructive.”

           It was a full day of agony before the call.

           “Hello.”

           “Hi. I understand that you found my book.”

           “I did.”

           “May I ask where you might live? I urgently need it back.”

           Leah had an idea. “Can I meet you on the bridge under which you left it lying by a bush?”

         “Great. I’m a sophomore over here at Mercyhurst. I live in Ryan Hall. Would it be okay to drive over now?”

           Leah was nervous. This Cara was crying out in her diary. Yet she would have to admit reading it in order to confront her to seek help.

         She was dressed in shorts and sandals; long curly hair, tiny hazel eyes peering through the latest, fashionable rimless glasses. Coming up onto the bridge, she saw Leah holding it.

           Reaching, the girl grasped it tightly against her breasts. “Ah, thank you so much. You don’t know how much this means to me to have it back. How did you find me?”

           With a shamefaced look, Leah answered, “I got it opened and found your name in the first entry. My friend deciphered from the remaining piece of the decal on the back that the owner might be someone from your school. Her sister is a senior there and she put the note on the board for me.” She searched her eyes with compassion. “Listen, it’s none of my business, but please talk to someone.”

           “Huh?”

           “Please don’t harm yourself. You can find a counselor to talk it out. It’s not the end of the world. This guy … Kolton … sounds like a royal ass.”

           The coed stepped back. “You read quite a lot.”

           “Believe me, I didn’t mean to pry. I wanted to find more clues than your name to find you, Cara.”

           Upon which, the girl leaned over the railing and doubled up with laughter. “Oh my, do you think I am Cara?”

           “Aren’t you?”

         “Well, no … and yes.” The perky coed could not contain herself. “My name is Julie. Julie Compton. I’m from Maryland near Baltimore.” She moved closer and touched Leah’s hand. “I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at the misunderstanding.”

           “Who is Cara? Is this not your diary?”

      “It is.” She gave a wry look. “But Cara only exists in my imagination.”

           Leah drew back. “I don’t understand.”

        “Come, let’s sit down by the creek. Let me explain.” They settled in a spot within feet of where the book was first lost. “I come here often.” She glanced with a gentle smile. “To write.” This is more of a journal than a personal diary. I liked it when I bought it because of it having many pages and being able to lock it.”

           Leah hung her head. “Sorry.”

          “That’s okay. I would have done the same thing to find clues about the owner. And then, reading some of the content … well, I too would have gone further. Thank you for your concern.” Smiling, she clarified, “At Mercyhurst I am majoring in creative writing.” She tossed her head with a confident gesture. “I hope someday to create New York best sellers. Writing is my undying passion.” She added. “We have been plotting and outlining our first novel in class. This journal has all my drafts as I work through the process.”

           “Whew!”

           “I have miles to go with the project; weaving all this material into viable, gripping chapters, editing and building a solid romantic drama. Who knows, maybe even a script for a movie.”

           Leah hugged her. “Now I am really embarrassed.”

           “No. I thank you for your compassion, your concern and your courage to challenge a total stranger that you thought might be depressed and wanting to end it all.”