Maria sent him messy green handwriting on paper ripped from spiral notebooks -- letters that ended bluntly with what he guessed to be the bell to switch classes, "Love, Maria" scrawled haphazardly across whatever was left of the page.
Liz sent him distracted blue cursive on practical white stationary -- letters he could picture her writing late at night while thinking mostly of Max, and she signed them neatly, "Love, Liz," in the bottom right hand corner of the page.
Isabel sent him precise black script on thick, textured paper -- letters that were beautiful and almost impersonal, and she signed them just "Isabel" at the end, no promise of love before the name.
All three half-told tales and made references to things he hadn't been told about or there to see. He tried to piece together scenes and stories from one letter to others, found it impossible, and gave up.
He's home and expects no one to notice, but cheated the self-righteousness of a Sixteen Candles homecoming when Liz and Maria tackle him in the hallway. A welcome home party, they promise, their voices high and excited and reminding him of junior high. It'll be great.
He goes and there's Swedish fish and an elaborate assortment of bad food. He's really quite touched. He smiles at them, Liz and Maria, his two best friends since forever, and catches Isabel out of the corner of his eye. She looks beautiful, as always, and he's a little surprised that she showed up.
The party is nice, the effort is huge, and it falls apart quickly. The truth is he's not surprised.
Isabel was the quickest to leave, slipping through Liz's open window before they had even gotten a chance to talk. But he smiled her way when she ducked inside with a backward glance, a sad smile on her face and an apology but no guarantee in her eyes.
Maria went next, took the time to hug him before leaving, and her voice had sounded sincere. She had to go, had to investigate something, and he understood, right? She was half turned away before he had a chance to offer an absolution -- had taken it for granted, probably -- so he didn't.
He's left with Liz alone at the end of the night, going through slides, incapable of holding her attention but pretending to try anyway. She's talking about Kyle or Max or something; he's only half-listening, but it's all right. He knows when listening's important and when it's not, and he suspects that it's the latter in his case and the former in hers.
He flips to a new slide, another of Leanna, one of many he had hoped for them all to see. He had wanted to see the jealousy in Isabel's eyes, the surprise Maria's and Liz's. He had wanted to sit together and fill in the blanks of the letters they'd sent, wanted to feel their friendship. Instead there's just a quiet, gentle bitterness edging at his heart.
-END-
