Applebea in September

September 1st

Dear Miami,

I saw a woman speed out of a parking spot today. She slammed her foot on the pedal, jammed the brake, and shot forward—all while another car was waiting for her to pull out! It was the boldest, most confident thing I've seen since you died. I wish I could do that, but I chickened out when I tried to copy her. I thought someone (a child, perhaps) was hiding in my blind spot.

September 2nd

Dear Miami,

I still haven't made any friends. The campus is so large that I can never find a moment to speak to anyone, and by the time I do, I'm so out of practice that I don't say anything I mean to. 

While waiting outside my humanities class, one girl asked me what I was majoring in. I practice my response in the mirror, usually after a nice long bath when my skin is moist and pink, and possibility seems as thick as the steam clouding on my mirror. "I'm working on my general credits at the moment," I would say, "but next semester, I'll start on my degree in applied botany for pharmaceuticals."

I told the girl I didn't know yet.

September 5th

Dear Miami,

Father was right. I should've gone to one of the small religious colleges he wanted me to. Living at home sounded like torture to me then, but now I think it might be nice to have a familiar face to share a meal with once in a while.

But it's not all bad.

The sweetest Bluejay came up to the window of the campus therapist's office (my class counselor made me take a few sessions after I lost track of time and forgot to leave my dorm room for two days). The therapist was talking so much. I couldn't hear the bird's song. But as soon as she let me go, I sat down to tell you.

P.S. I'm sorry for not writing.

September 6th

Dear Aunt Miami,

I know you hate when I call you "aunt." It reminds you of your age. But I figure now that you're dead, you won't mind so much. What's it like anyway? It can't be much worse than having class all day with big chunks of free time you have no clue what to do with, so you spend them sitting in the public restrooms or eating lunch alone on the curb because you don't want to be seen being a loser while everyone else sorts themselves into their career respective cliques.

September 7th

Dear Miami,

I noticed my letter was still in the tree hollow where I left it. Since the quad lawn hasn't moved and all my other letters have been picked up by Iris and brought to you, I assume you must not have liked being called "Aunt Miami," so I'll stop now.

Please don't return my letters. I'd rather continue believing you read them.

September 8th

Dear Miami,

I've changed my major again! Instead of botany (bleck! Who believes in that sciencey stuff anyway?) I'm going to study journalism just like you did. Isn't that exciting? Maybe that magazine you worked for will hire me if I play up my sob story about your death. 

Pretty tricky, right? I knew you'd appreciate it.

September 9th

Dear Miami,

I snagged a poster with the details of the first campus party of the year. It's in the other girls' dorm. I've decided I'm going to go. It's past curfew, so I'll have to sneak out. I've never done that before. I'll keep you updated. 

And I'll be thinking of what you told me on my 13th birthday while the family was gathered around the campfire. Remember, you leaned over and offered me a beer? "My mom wouldn't let me." And you said, "If you spend your life doing only what your mother lets you, you'll never discover what you like to do." It wasn't shockingly profound, but I think of it every time I unload the dishwasher.

September 10th

Dear Miami,

I barely just woke up, and it's already noon. Last night was crazy! I drank so much, and this frat boy was flirting with me all night. But don't worry; I know I'm too good for him. 

I danced and sang karaoke and all that party stuff. I even tried a puff of a cigarette!

Okay, I lied. 

I did go to the party, but I only had one beer (well, half of it), and it didn't taste as good as I thought it would, plus it made my stomach all warm.

There was a boy, but he had pimples all along his chin, and at the cliff sprouted a scraggly blonde scruff of approximately 20 hairs. I asked him to pass me a napkin, and he offered the one he was using to dab at his bleeding scab. 

I puked in a potted plant outside someone's dorm bathroom. I can't tell if it was the pustules on his face or the smell of cigarettes in the air that did me in. 

Oh yeah! And I didn't actually smoke a cigarette. But the secondhand smoke was super thick so that one is still kind of true. 

I'm sorry for lying. From now on, I'll be honest with you.

September 11th

Dear Miami,

I went to church this morning. My conscience felt so heavy I wanted to go home. Then I realized that if I wanted a lecture, I could as easily get that at the local Baptist church as on the broken stool at the kitchen counter. Plus, this way, I wouldn't have to drive three hours or suffer through Mom's awful spaghetti meatloaf (you remember it).

I know how you feel about religion, but I don't mind religious people all that much. They're too polite to say much to you and always tell you things like "Bless you" and "I'll be praying." They probably don't remember me when their nighttime prayers come up, but I like the thought. 

After church, I bought an overpriced coffee at the campus coffee shop and cried myself out of a panic attack. When I came to, I realized I was in my humanities classroom, and nobody was there. 

September 12th

Dear Miami,

I'm failing two of my classes. I don't know how. One day, I had an A. I went to sleep and woke up with an F. My guidance counselor told me it was due to poor attendance, but we've been in school for less than a month, and I can't remember missing more than a few classes!

I'm going to ask my teachers about it tomorrow.

September 13th

Dear Miami,

I'm not doing great on the assignments. I don't try hard, so I can't be too surprised. But I've always kept good grades. And I've never had to try before. In high school, I studied a handful of times and barely skimmed the textbooks.

But since I have all this free time, I might as well study.

September 14th

Dear Miami,

I was tearing through my closet, searching for that orange scarf you bought me while you were in Vegas for Christmas. It wasn't with my other scarves, so I figured it might still be in my duffle bag. But when I got to the bottom of the bag (mostly filled with chunky sweaters—it's too hot to wear them), I came across this old trifold brochure.

I was curious to see how the college held up against its advertisements. Anyway—one of the folds mentioned in big, bold letters the many clubs the college hosted. 

Maybe I'll go to the library and see if something piques my interest. But I'm not feeling good tonight, so I'll just lay in bed and finish off my stash of candy from last Halloween.

September 15th

Dear Miami,

Clubs suck.

September 16th

Dear Miami,

I'm rereading the Iliad. I know you don't like it when I read. You tell me it makes me look too unapproachable and lame. But I don't know; I like it. It gives me something other to think about than the friend groups around me or my grades.

Anyway, I was reading the part where the goddess Iris delivers a message to Hector, leader of the Trojans. "Iris, the wind-quick messenger, hurried down to Ilium, bearing her painful message." 

I don't know why she delivers my letters to you, just like I don't know why wishing on a star has any effect. All I know is that she does, and when I asked the sky on my sixteenth birthday to stop my parents from fighting, just for one day, it sent you. We went out to ice cream and then shopping at the mall. I don't know if my parents fought that day, but at least I wasn't there to hear it.

September 17th

Dear Miami, 

It's Saturday night. I have nothing to report except that my dorm mates are blasting surfer music, and so many people are in our common room. I'm too scared to leave my bedroom. 

I wasn't invited.

September 18th

Dear Miami,

Red plastic cups are scattered all over the common room, and I stepped in a puddle of something warm on my way to the hallway (I didn't check to see what it was; I just wiped it off on the carpet and slipped my shoes on). The common room was deathly quiet and empty except for two girls who crashed out on the couch. One of them lives in my dorm. 

They were lying so that one girl's feet rested next to the other girl's lipstick-smudged face. Matching pieces of string were tied on their wrists.

It made me cry.

It's embarrassing to know someone else has what you desperately want, and they didn't even have to try for it. 

September 19th

Dear Miami,

I don't know if journalism is for me. I sat down to write an essay purely for practice. But when I was outlining, nothing was coming to mind. I had a topic (I found inspiration in one of those $17 magazines at the grocery store), but I couldn't spark any commentary on it.

I sat there all night. I was so frustrated I thumped my head onto my desk. It left an ugly purple welt.

In the end, I gave up. 

September 20th

Dear Miami,

My counselor warned me that I really shouldn't change my major again. 

I wish you were here. Even if you didn't go to college, I think you'd know what to do. 

September 21st

Dear Miami,

I went to the park to read. I had time for a few chapters before my next class. I bought a hot dog and a cup of burnt coffee and sat against the tree with the hollow in it.

Anyway, I got to reading, and everything melted away.

Before I knew it, the book was over, and the sun had sunk. I missed all of my afternoon classes. The groundskeeper saw the look on my face and helped me back to my dorm.

Maybe college isn't for me.

September 22nd

Dear Miami,

I want to go home. 

September 23rd

Dear Miami,

I'm on a bus right now. Why a bus? Gas is so expensive, and I can't even afford the tuition. I could ask my parents for a fifty before I leave. 

I didn't tell them I was coming. I want to surprise them. I'll let you know how it goes.

I got to the front porch before I realized that only one car was in the driveway: Mom's. But I wanted to surprise them both, so I waited outside, my butt on the dirty steps, my feet a nibble toy for the ants in the dirt.

It was midnight when I realized my father wasn't coming home.

September 24th

Dear Miami,

What clued me in?

It was the grass. He always parked his car with two tires hanging off the driveway. The ground was muddy there, mostly dirt. But last night, the grass was green as the bile from my stomach when I threw up on the midnight bus back to campus.

September 25th

Dear Miami,

The days feel so long. I look at the clock often. It moves rarely. 

Lunch tasted like dust. I think my sandwich was moldy. I ate it in the bathroom again. I thought I was over that. 

Every time I leave my room, I feel like everyone knows. Knows I'm a loser. Knows I have no friends. Knows my parents are separated. 

Why did I have to go home?

Why why why why why why why

September 26th

Dear Miami,

I got a letter today. Since our mail is directed to the library's mail room on campus, I don't check it often.

For the first few weeks, I thought my parents or one of my high school friends would have sent something. But my parents never sent anything, and I wasn't close with anyone I called a friend in high school.

But today, I got an email telling me to check my mailbox, so I stopped by.

I was skeptical. Who could have anything to send me?

It was from the chess club.

It read:

Dear Applebea Volks,

We were happy to have you at our meeting. As you know, we have a limited number of spots, so we typically don't consider anyone without a ranking of at least 1400. Chess lessons might be beneficial.

But please, keep playing chess and get back to us once you're ranked!

Best,

Chess club

September 27th

Dear Miami,

I'm writing this from my math class. I learned most of this stuff in high school. 

The other students whisper and talk with their friends quietly while the professor turns his back to the room so they don't offend him. Sometimes, I bury my nose in a book and eavesdrop on whoever's sitting behind me. I close my eyes and imagine I'm in their group. They want to talk to me.

September 28th

Dear Miami,

I heard you can get to the roof of my dorm building. I usually wouldn't attempt anything like this; going somewhere new makes me nervous. But my room is a mess, and I think I saw a rat this morning. So I grabbed my book and summoned every ounce of confidence I've ever pretended to have. It was so simple that I feel stupid for never having tried it. 

It's cold up here, but the view is nice. It would be better if we were in a city or somewhere scenic, but the horizon of flat plains is nice, too. 

I do have a question, though. How does the sunset work? How does the sky go from blue to orange, to red, back to blue, before decaying to black? Something about light waves, I know that much, but to be honest, I don't get it.

I nod along a lot. I don't get it as often.

September 29th

Dear Miami,

I don't get the hype of Fridays. Sure, school is over, but what do you do with your time? Party, drink, go out with friends, see the city.

As for me? I've become acquainted with the dots on the ceiling above my bed.

Anyway, there's another big party tomorrow. 

They're having it on Thursday since all classes are canceled on Friday. Yay! Another day with nothing to do! Can't wait.

I was headed to the quad to leave this letter for Iris when something big happened! One of my dorm mates—she was sitting on the couch watching Loony Toon's re-runs—asked me where I was going. I told her the bathroom. She said, "Did you hear about that party tomorrow? It's on the floor right above ours." I told her I'd seen the poster and was she going? "Of course!" Because it was obvious. "You should come—you study too much."

I probably won't. It's not like she invited me to come with her. But I like knowing people think I'm studious and not just a loser.

September 30th

Dear Miami,

I didn't go to the party. I made it halfway up the stairs before I met the most peculiar girl. She was sitting on the ground reading John Steinbeck. She asked me to sit. She was a good talker; I mostly nodded and tried not to seem desperate.

She had a big faded scar on her pinky finger. It wrapped all around her palm. I didn't want to ask her, but she must have seen me looking. "When I was three, a pony bit me." "Did it fall off?" I asked. She told me it didn't, but she saw the bone. For days, she cried and cried every time she looked down at it because it was just so red and swollen, and the stitches looked so scary.

She felt like she was all alone because every girl her age had perfect chubby fingers, and hers were all ruined now.

But she isn't ashamed of the scar anymore. She wears rings on all her fingers and never knots her hands like I do when I feel like someone's looking at my chewed nails.

I think maybe college is like that. At first, it was an ugly scar, fresh and tender, with dark stitches of loneliness twining like sutures through my classes. But over time, the skin closed, and I started to hope. 

Of course, every scar gets worse before it gets better. 

College swelled up to an ugly purplish thing I felt ashamed to talk about. Whenever Father would write asking me how it was going, what my grades were like, and if I'd joined any clubs, I would fake a response so I didn't have to reveal my wound. 

It's not that I feel good about college or even much better. But I hope that if I keep at it, eventually, the scar will fade to nothing but a white line.