The Needle and the Damage Done

I’m looking forward to coming home to an empty house on my way home from school. Mom’s a nurse, and she’s got the late shift tonight. I like it when she works late, since then I can do what I want. Not that that includes anything scandalous; I simply come home, finish homework, and watch TV until late at night. The only difference in my routine sans Mom as opposed to my schedule with her is what I eat for dinner. Since she’s a nurse like I said, she almost always insists on something healthy, but because she won’t be around tonight, I’m planning on indulging heavily in some McDonalds or ordering myself a large pizza with extra everything.

I reach my driveway and stop by my mailbox to pick up whatever bills are piled in there, my dinner debate front and center in mind. I flip through the mail as I walk to my front door. State Farm, Verizon, American Express, one of my mom’s magazines…hold on, there’s something addressed to me, and it’s not from my school or the bank. There’s a handwritten address on the front, but there’s no stamp or return address on it, so it had to be personally delivered by whoever wrote it. However, I don’t recognize the writing at all, and as I dig my key out of my pocket, I wonder what’s in the envelope and who it’s from.

I drop my mom’s mail on the corner of the kitchen counter and fish a letter opener out of one of the drawers. I head up to my bedroom and dump my backpack on the floor next to my desk. I take a seat in my computer chair and tear open the envelope with the letter opener, anxious to find out what’s inside. My hand pulls out a piece of notebook paper with handwriting that matches the address scribbled on the front of the envelope. It’s fairly girly, and I start to wonder if maybe it’s a love note of some sort.

Yeah, right.

I start to read.

Dear Dawson,

You probably feel kind of weird about getting this letter, and to be honest, I definitely feel weird writing it. I wonder what went through your mind when you pulled this envelope out of your mailbox, assuming that you did. Maybe it was your mom and she left it somewhere for you to see. I don’t know about that, but I do know enough about you in general, so that’s why I picked you to write to.

It feels kind of creepy reading this, like I’ve got a stalker or something. But for as weird as this is, I have to admit that he or she (I know some guys with pretty girly handwriting, so I’m not ruling anything out here) has my attention. I’m definitely not thinking about food anymore.

Again, that probably sounds weird, so let me explain.

Yes, please do.

Dawson, everyone at school knows who you are, and I do mean everyone. And guess what? They all like you.

I’d beg to differ on that one.

You’re known for being nice, polite. A little on the shy and quiet side, but overall, likeable. So at the risk of sounding presumptuous, I’d like to think that you’re also a good listener, too. You know, assuming everything that I’ve heard about you is true. And that’s what I need right now – someone to listen. But here’s the catch: I don’t want you to know who I am.

Clearly this is not a love letter.

Here’s how this is going to work: every now and then, I’m going to write you a letter when I have something that I need to get off my chest. Except that like I said, I don’t want you to know who I am. It’s not that I get off on the anonymity of it or anything like that; it’s more like I feel like you’ll have a harder time judging me if you can’t put a name with a face.

I try hard not to judge people, but it’s human nature sometimes. It’s not like I’m perfect, and I certainly wouldn’t want people to judge me for certain things I do, like reenacting the scene from Risky Business where Tom Cruise is sliding around in his socks when my mom’s not home (hey, it happened once, maybe twice...okay, three times max).

I’ve decided to use an alias and to prevent you from connecting anyone that I mention to me in the even that you know who I’m talking about, everyone else will have another name too. Aside from that, everything I tell you will be one-hundred percent true, no holds barred.

She (or he, but I’m still suspecting that the writer of this letter is a girl) seems to have thought of every possible way to keep herself hidden. She mentioned that she goes to my school, but there are more than a thousand people that go there, and there’s three hundred in my graduating class alone.

That being said, I guess I’ll start telling you everything about my life. My parents are divorced and I live with my dad. I get along pretty well with him, and I guess I don’t have many complaints about my dad except that I wish he had more time for me. My mom is a whole different story. She’s pushy and to be perfectly blunt, a bitch. That probably sounds bad, but the fact that she cheated on my dad doesn’t really improve my opinion of her. She lives in D.C. and seems to think that she can be a politician. Considering the fact that she’s such a snake, that’d probably be a good career for her.

I don’t have a whole hell of a lot of friends, but I’ve got acquaintances in pretty much every group. My two very best friends graduated three years ago back when I was a freshman, so I’ve gotta do something to make the school days a little less lonely.

So that means she’s in my grade, a senior like me. That narrows the pool of suspects down to approximately 150 people, give or take.

I’ve got a boyfriend named John. This is going to sound horrible, but I really don’t like him. I know that makes me sound ungrateful, and I really did like him in the beginning. We got along well and whatnot, but I was never attracted to him all that much. The more I find out about his personality though, the less I like him. I guess that’s life, though.

Harsh.

Anyway, I guess that’s about it for this letter. I’m sorry if it freaked you out getting this, but even if it did, you’ll be getting more. You can read them if you want to, or just throw them out. I’ll never know the difference.

Thanks for listening (I hope),
Sylvia

I refold the letter and stick it back in the envelope, shaking my head at the absurdity of the situation. Of all people that this “Sylvia” chick could have written, why me? I know she said it was because she heard I was nice, but that’s just hearsay. I could secretly be the biggest asshole on the planet, and she’d never know. I mean, I’m not, but how would she know?

I shove the letter in a desk drawer and pull out my homework, ready but unwilling to start in on my calculus. I think the letter’s left my mind, but it stays with me while I work through math, study for government, do my reading for English, and order my pizza. I can’t stop wondering as I stay up late with my TV, flipping between talk shows and inane cartoons. Who in the hell is this Sylvia girl?