P.S. I Like You - Kasie West Page 0,28

library, I wondered if I could add a third name to the Suspects list: David.

Finally, I thought, as I settled into my seat in Chemistry on Thursday. I couldn’t listen to Mr. Ortega for the normal five minutes I usually did before reading. I unfolded the note right away.

I hadn’t realized it was lab yesterday. It surprised me. Maybe I should start paying more attention in class. I blame you for the distraction. The problem is that you’re making me look forward to Chemistry or something. In what crazy world does anyone look forward to Chemistry? Can you stop being so amusing? I think that will help. Did you start on our first song? “Left Behind.” It’s hard to tell if someone is kidding or not in a letter. Are you actually a songwriter?

That last sentence made me pause. I wanted to be a songwriter. But I really wasn’t. I hadn’t even written a full song. I had partial lyrics, and incomplete melodies, but nothing finished. I shook off the thought and continued reading.

If so, I’m impressed. If not, maybe you should be. You seem passionate about music and you have a way with words. Sometimes I wish I were passionate about something real. Something I knew I could succeed in. Right now all my dreams are a little far-fetched. Oh no, Mr. Ortega wants us to complete a worksheet with our seat partner. Gotta go.

I smiled, and checked up to see Mr. Ortega writing some endless formula on the board. I immediately produced a fresh piece of paper and wrote:

You think songwriting is a realistic dream? That was a joke, right? Like you said, it’s hard to tell from a letter. But yes, I am passionate about it. Now, if only I could actually write a complete song, I might feel like I could call myself a songwriter. For now, I’m just a far-fetched dreamer like you. It might stay that way until I get out of my house. It’s impossible to write there.

What is this far-fetched dream of yours anyway? Something your home life prevents, like mine? How are things at home? Any improvement with your mom or dad? You said your dad left and you haven’t seen him in a while, but you have talked to him, right?

Ugh, now Mr. Ortega is asking US to complete the worksheets. Gotta go too.

Twenty-four hours was a long time to think about what answers my pen pal would give to my questions. I found myself worried about him the rest of the day and that night, wondering what his far-fetched dreams were that he didn’t feel he could believe in.

The next day, his reply read:

My dad calls me once a year around my birthday. I think he may have forgotten the exact date. It was hard the first couple years, now it’s kind of amusing. I make a bet with myself about how close to the real date he’ll actually get. His closest so far has been within two days. Not bad. This last year I was a jerk to him. I felt guilty and then I felt guilty for feeling guilty. If that makes any sense. I’ve written him off. Now he’s just someone that used to be in my life. He actually pays child support, which is big of him, right? Maybe that makes him feel better about himself. It felt nice for me when my mom let me buy a car with some of it. The unfortunate side effect of this choice is that now every time I drive, I’m reminded of him.

And that’s enough whining for one letter. You’ll stop writing me if all I ever do is complain. And then where will I be? Stuck listening to Mr. Ortega again? So what about you? I think I need some more complaining on your end.

I frowned down at the letter, my heart hurting. His dad had forgotten exactly when his birthday was? What kind of father did that? The kind that would move five states away and never visit.

Something about the way my pen pal wrote made him easy to open up to. I found myself doing just that as I wrote back.

Complaining? My complaints seem minor now compared to what you have to deal with. And again, I have no sage words of wisdom to offer. Hang in there? Chin up. What are some other cheesy, not-helpful slogans?

My main complaint about my own life is that I have no time to myself, at all. My