The Kids Aren't Alright

Chapter 48: Becca

I find a table alone at breakfast. There's no way I'm sitting near Finn, and I'm fed up with the awkwardness of Angela's group. For the past few days all they've every talked about is "the hike", a mysterious camp activity that may or may not be taking place in the distant future that nobody really seems to know anything about. I'm rarely in the mood for gossip, and I have no interest in trading conspiracy stories; so with both Finn and Angela's tables out of the picture, I have no choice but to sit by myself.

I know that I look like a loser sitting by myself in the corner. It's nothing new to me. I've been that girl before— the one that people avoid, and whisper about. They can say whatever they want about me. It doesn't bother me anymore. 

I'm digging listlessly at a half-baked chicken pot pie when my name rings out through the Mess Hall. At first, I think that I must have misheard, but then it goes off again: "Becca Fisher. Is Becca Fisher here? You've got a letter waiting for you."

Dully, I remember that it's mail day. The ceremony usually goes by without me noticing, because nobody ever sends me letters other than my abuela. She must be writing to check up on me again.

I make my way slowly to the front of the room. The stares of more than a few campers follow me there. I don't have the energy to glare back at them— I haven't had the energy to do much of anything, lately. I'm the river the fuels the rumor mill, and there's no turning back the tide.

Someone bumps into my shoulder. I turn to give them a dirty look, but hold back when I see it's only Jasper. For some reason, he's wearing a pair of heavily-tinted sunglasses and a pained expression. "Sorry," he mutters. "Didn't see you there." He shuffles away, clutching a generous glass of water in his hands. If I didn't know better, I'd say that he was hungover.

When I finally reach the podium, Karen gives me a brisk once-over before stuffing an envelope in my face. "Your letter," she says shortly, before returning to her megaphone. "Levi? Levi Hoffman? You've got a package!"

I take the letter and retreat back to my corner. The return address is from Mariposa, Arizona— my hometown— but the handwriting isn't that of my abuela. It's a slanted print, tentative as it scrawls across the page, like every letter is afraid of bumping into the next. I flip the envelope over. The seal has been taped down with a smiley face sticker.

Usually, I don't open letters during breakfast to avoid prying eyes, but the curiosity is killing me. I don't know anybody else in Mariposa who would send a letter all the way to Alaska for me. The only person I know who cares about me like that is abuela. And it's not like I'm getting any fan mail from Santy or his friends.

Forgoing patience, I tear the envelope open with my fingernail and rip out the letter. Then I unfold it and begin to read.

The first few lines nearly knock the wind out of my chest.

Dear Becca,

Hello. It's Julia, your cousin.

(I don't know why I added that part. Of course you know that we're cousins. You don't need a reminder.)

Julia. My cousin. My cousin, who lives in Mariposa. Julia. My heartbeat quickens. I'm suddenly terrified— and I don't even know what I'm terrified of.

Please ignore my terrible introduction. This is my fifth version of this letter and I can't bear to start over and write another one. At this point, it would just be a waste of paper.

A semi-hysterical wheeze escapes my throat. I was Julia's partner in enough English classes to know that her writing abilities are adequate at best, but not for lack of effort.