/ am writing you this letter from my dorm. No, I'm not living at home. My parents, after many intense discussions, decided to put me into this new prep school. I hate to say it, but it's a very good school, and like you, I am doing well in my academic work, and again like you, I haven't been in any serious trouble. Maybe a little trouble. I was almost caught out after curfew, but, and I know you won't believe it, I wasn 't doing anything terribly exciting. I wasn't out meeting a boy or carrying on with some other girls or smoking. I was just walking and lost track of the time.
I do a lot of walking alone and thinking. Everyone thinks I'm weird, but I don't care.
My mother has visited me a number of times, more than I expected she would actually. She usually spends the entire visitation talking about her new charity events and planned vacations. She 'II interrupt herself to tell me about some fashions she thinks are nice and elegant for me, and then she goes on to talk about some rich people I never knew and couldn 't care less about knowing. But I have a new tolerance for her and I smile and look like I'm listening, and you know what, she's starting to talk more to me and look at me. It's as if by not showing her how much I hate what she is, she will start to change. The last time we spoke, in fact, she talked about just her and me going someplace together and getting to know each other better. She wants to take me to places she enjoyed when she was my age. Once, I would make fun of the idea, but now I've decided I would do it.
/ guess what I'm saying is nothing can change quickly, and most might not ever change, but it's learning how to live with that realization that makes happiness possible. Otherwise, I return to what I was, always angry, always frustrated, always self-destructive.
Surprised at my self-analysis?
I have this psych course and I'm learning more about myself than I wanted to learn. I've even come to understand things about Dr. Foreman, although I battle back the memories. It's like trying to keep air bubbles from rising in a glass or something.
I'm jealous of you, Phoebe. I haven't met anyone like your Ralston yet. We have these mixers with an all-boys prep school, but it's all too artificial for me. I love spontaneity and I daydream about meeting Mr. Right on some street corner or in a store or in the park, anywhere except a prearranged mixer approved by both schools.
Am I hopeless?
Maybe not. You know how sometimes you can feel something is really going to happen if you 're just patient and you keep yourself up and happy? That's how I feel about Mr. Right. He's out there. We're going to meet.
Not that boys are all I think about anymore. I'm not going into modeling, but I have been told by my English teacher that I have a flare—that's the way he puts it, a flare—for writing. He says I capture people and events so well, I should think about working in film. So, I'm enrolling in a film study course next semester. It involves writingscripts. When I'm big and famous and important, I'll cast you in a movie.
I wish my life now was all and only what I described. I still have bad nights, Phoebe. I see snakes. I see the buddies in the fire. I hear the screams. I'm getting better, but it's all not buried deeply enough. It will be someday. Won't it?
I miss the both of you. All my new friends are afraid of me or are obvious about how much they 'd like me to like them. I need you two. I need to be reminded I'm not a big shot.
So, here's what I've decided. I'm getting my mother to ask my father to sponsor a trip for both you and Robin for my birthday. You 'II both come to my big, rich house and we'll sleep on the floor and go to the bathroom outside, and plant a garden and take ice-cold showers.
Just kidding. We'll have a big, fat time. Will you come? Please. Bring Ralston if you have to. I just think we need to look at each other's ugly face again just so we know we are really here, we really matter. I'll work out the details.
Love, TealDear Losers,
I photocopied this letter so I would only have to write y'all one. I did it at my mother's agent's office. I don't call her Mother darling anymore. She went ahead and wrote a song called “Mother Darling.” She really did and it was a big hit in the country music world.
The good thing is she left the creep she waswith shortly after I had been sent to Dr. Foreman's School. Then, she got a lucky break when a really big agent heard her singing and he helped her develop her style, got her a great backup group of musicians, and began to find her some important bookings. She has two recordings on the charts as we speak.
Now here's the news. One day I was practicing with her just for the fun of it and her agent heard us singing together and decided we should do a song. We worked on it together. We really had never done anything like that together before, but she liked my suggestions.
I know y'all are going to think it's corny but here it is. It's called “Mama, Let Me Be Me”:
Well, I've been growing up and
