Forever & Always: The Ever Trilogy (Book 1) (5 page)

I’d been thinking about that a lot the last few days. “Maybe? I don’t really know. I’m torn. I did have a good time, and I learned a lot, but…it was like a whole extra summer of school, just for art. Summers at the ranch with Gramps…it’s just…different. “

Dad nodded. “Well, think about it, I guess. You’ve got a year. I know Gramps would be happy to have you back next summer, but do what you want for you.”

We kept quiet after that, listening to country and classic rock as the miles passed. The closer we got to home, the more pinched and worried Dad’s expression became. I opened my mouth several times to ask him what was wrong, but never actually spoke. He’d pass it off, brush it off, say it was nothing for me to worry about. But if he was still acting stressed or worried after three weeks, there was something going on that my parents weren’t telling me.

At home, I tried to ignore it, but as the summer days dwindled, bringing me closer to the start of ninth grade and my fifteenth birthday, I couldn’t help noticing the whispered conversations while I was watching TV, the increasingly frequent times they left together on mysterious “errands,” or the way Mom seemed to be withdrawing into herself. But when I walked into a room or started to ask Mom if she was okay, she pasted a smile on her face and changed the topic to some variation of whether I needed any more school supplies.
 

When I got home from my absolutely shitty first day of ninth grade, I sat at my desk in my room with the door closed, dug my American literature notebook from my backpack, and sat down to write to Ever for the first time.

Dear Ever,

I guess it kind of took me a while to sit down and write you this first letter. Sorry about that. Just getting ready for school and stuff, you know? I had my first day of school today. Ninth grade sucks so far. I know it’s the first day or whatever and first days always suck, but I just have this feeling that high school is gonna blow. I’m not in any classes with any of my friends from last year, and our lunch periods are different, too, so I’m basically starting over. The seniors are assholes, I’ll tell you that right now. I thought about trying out for the JV football team, but I’m not sure I want to even bother. I didn’t get picked on, like I wasn’t stuffed into any lockers like some nerd on TV, but they’re just arrogant, pushy, loud douchebags.
 

How was your first day? I hope it was better than mine.
 

So I’m sitting here at my desk trying to write this letter, and seriously, I’ve got nothing. Writing a letter is harder than I thought it would be. It’s not like having an actual conversation, you know? I feel like I’m talking to myself, which is dumb ’cause I don’t usually do that, but that’s what it feels like. I’m not sure what to say. Is it childish to ask you questions? I guess I’m nervous this letter is going to come across like a first grader writing a letter to Santa.
 

So yeah. I guess I’m going to end it now. Not sure what else to say at this point.
 

Except, good luck with ninth grade.
 

Sincerely,

Caden Monroe

I folded the letter, stuffed it into an envelope, and mailed it before I could chicken out. My second, third, and fourth days of school were slightly better than the first, but not by much. My house was almost completely silent all the time now, and I was starting to freak out. Something big was going down, either between my parents or to one of them, and they weren’t talking to me about it.
 

When I got back from school on Monday afternoon, a letter from Ever was sitting on the kitchen island. She had neat, bubbly cursive script handwriting, and each line of the front of the envelope was so straight I’d swear she’d used a ruler when she wrote the address. And the envelope itself smelled funny, like she’d sprayed it with perfume. Was that normal? I didn’t know. It smelled like Ever, though, and that was an incredible thing. I might or might not have sniffed the envelope a few times before opening it.

Dear Caden,

I’m so glad you actually wrote me! I was starting to think you’d forgotten. I’m glad you didn’t. I almost decided to write you first. I’m not sure why, except it seemed like you should be the one to go first. Does that make any sense? Is that too traditional? I guess maybe. I hope that doesn’t bother you.

I’m sorry your first day of school was so bad. Mine was okay. Eden and I are in only about half of our classes together, which is fine with me. When we do too many things together all the time, I start to get a little claustrophobic. That’s not the right word, though, really. I’m not sure how to put it. It’s a twin thing. It’s not claustrophobia exactly, because that’s more about fear of small spaces. This is more about…identity? If I dress like Eden and look like Eden and talk like Eden and have all the same classes with Eden and have all the same friends as Eden, I start to feel like my identity as Ever is getting lost a little bit, like I’m just a twin, just one of a pair instead of someone totally unique and myself and not like her at all. I mean, I am like her, I suppose, in some ways. We are twins after all, and we share, like, all of our DNA and whatever. But inside our heads and stuff? We’re totally different. And I hate feeling like I’m stuck inside this twin-bubble even though I love her and couldn’t ever live without her.
 

No, it’s not weird for me to use the word “ever” in a sentence. A lot of people ask me that, so I figured I’d give you the answer before you asked.

As for school? Yeah, I know what you mean. The seniors are assholes. I know it’s probably different for guys, but senior girls are just as big of assholes as the guys, I’m pretty sure. With senior girls, they’re just evil, but they’re usually subtle about it. Usually. It’s this snipey, snippy attitude. They make fun of your outfit, which is a big deal for girls, if you didn’t already know. They make fun of your shoes or your makeup or your purse, simply because you’re not them. I’m pretty on top of fashion, I guess, but I just don’t care enough to make sure I have the newest style purse or the latest shoes or whatever. It’s just stupid. I like to look good, sure, but it’s not as important to me as it is some other girls. The popular clique senior girls, it’s all they care about. They’re so vapid and shallow it makes me sick. They drive their daddy’s BMW or Mercedes or Range Rover and act like they earned it. I know my dad has as much money as theirs, and I know that everything I have, all the clothes and whatever, is because of his job, not because of anything I did. These stupid senior girls, the cool, in-crowd ones? Have you ever seen that old movie
Clueless
? Probably not. It’s this movie about all these, haha, clueless rich girls at a school in Beverly Hills, and they all act so superior because their daddies are rich. And that’s how these idiotic Bloomfield Hills bitches act. Like how much money their daddy has versus mine versus the other girl and whoever is so important, like it’s a social ladder, you know? And I just don’t care. I don’t.
 

I just want to paint and sculpt and not miss Mom anymore.
 

And by the way, your letter was totally fine. You sounded just like you, and that’s what I wanted. It’s fine to ask questions. Friends ask friends questions, right? So ask me anything, and don’t ever feel weird about how your letters sound. No one will ever read them except me. Promise.

I guess I’ve rambled on enough for now, so I’ll end here.
 

Funny, I almost wrote “let you go” like I was talking on the phone.
 

I hope school gets better for you. I’m looking forward to your next letter.

Sincerely,

Your friend,

Ever

indelible ink inscriptions

Dear Ever,

It’s hard to write this letter. I’m not sure what to even say, but I feel like I can tell you things because we’re friends, and somehow these letters are almost like a journal. I know you read them, and I read yours.
 

My mom has cancer. I just found out today. Breast cancer. I guess she’s known for about two months, and they never told me. They wanted to wait and see if the chemotherapy would help before telling me, or something. I don’t know. But I guess it’s not helping, and they don’t think anything will.
 

My dad told me. He used the same kinds of words I’m guessing the doctors used with him, big words, medical terms. All it means, once you cut through all the bullshit, is that Mom is going to die.
 

Shit. Seeing that in writing is so much different than thinking it.
 

What do I do?
 

She’s afraid, and my dad is afraid. I’m afraid. But we’re not talking about it. They talk about keeping up spirits and thinking positive and fighting to the end, and all that morale-raising shit. They don’t believe it. I don’t. No one does.
 

How can you, when each day passes and I can see her getting skinny, like the skeleton inside her is coming out through her skin? Am I supposed to tell myself it’ll be okay when it won’t?
 

Shit. I’m not a very good pen pal, I guess. I shouldn’t be telling you this stuff. It’s depressing.
 

I’m not even going to bother writing anymore. You don’t have to write back, if you don’t want to.

I hope you’re okay.
 

Sincerely,
 

Your friend,

Caden

Caden,

Of course I’d write you back. I’ll always write you back. This is what pen pals are for, after all, right? I’m okay. I learned a lot at the arts camp, and I’m using it all in my photography. Maybe next letter I send you I’ll include a print of one of my photos. Daddy is thinking of making me a darkroom in the basement so I can do my own developing.

I guess I’m not sure how to talk about your news about your mom. I’m so sorry that’s happening. I know “I’m sorry” or “that sucks” doesn’t really help, but I don’t know what else to write. I wouldn’t try to tell you it’ll be okay. When someone you love is hurt, or dying, or dies, it’s not okay. I know how you feel. I lost my mom, too. She was in a car accident. I think we talked about this at camp. I told you, and I don’t tell many people. But I feel like I can trust you. Maybe we understand each other, or something. Like, in some kind of way that words don’t really explain. I feel that way. And I know what you mean about these pen-pal letters being like a journal. I write them and send them knowing you’re going to read them, but I never feel embarrassed to write things that I wouldn’t tell anyone else.

So I’ll tell you this: write me as much as you want. I’ll write you back every time. I promise. I’m your friend.
 

I’m sorry you’re going through this. No one should have to go through it, but you are, and you have a friend in me. You can talk to me about what you feel.
 

Be strong, Caden.

Your friend for always,

Ever

I read Ever’s letter ten times before I finally folded it back up, slid it carefully into the envelope, and tucked the envelope—which smelled ever so slightly of perfume, like her—in the front of the shoebox that contained the others from her. There were six letters so far, one for every week that had passed since the end of the Interlochen summer arts camp. I picked up the lid to the box, which had once contained the very shoes I was wearing, a pair of Reebok cross-trainers. They were a year old now, and getting too small. I wasn’t sure why I had kept the box, but I had. It sat in the bottom of my closet, buried on the left side beneath an old hoodie and a ripped pair of jeans, until I had gotten the first letter from Ever Eliot and needed somewhere safe and private to keep the letter.
 

Now the blue box with the red Union Jack flag had six letters in it, and it sat under my bed.
 

I slid the box back under the frame of my bed and moved to my desk. Even though I had a laptop and there was a printer in the living room, I still wrote the letters by hand. I took a long time for each letter, because my handwriting was almost illegibly sloppy most of the time.
 

I sat staring down at the spiral-bound notebook for a long, long time, the pencil in my fingers, unable to summon the words. I blinked, took a deep breath, clicked the top of the mechanical pencil, and started writing.

Ever,

It feels stupid to write “dear” all the time. So I’ll leave that part off, I guess, unless I think of something else to put there.
 

I’m writing, but I’m not really sure how long this letter will be. Mom is in the hospital full-time now. She stopped the chemo, said no to the surgeries. I guess they said they could do a surgery and it had a 20% chance of working, and it was really dangerous. She said no. They already removed her breasts. She has no hair. She’s like a stick covered in paper now. She’s my mom, in her eyes, but she’s not. I don’t know how to put it.
 

Ever, I’m scared. I’m afraid of losing her, yeah, but I’m afraid for my dad. He’s losing his mind. I don’t mean that in an exaggeration. I mean it for real. He doesn’t leave her side, not even to eat. No one can, or even tries to make him leave.
 

Will it make me sound selfish if I say I’m afraid of losing him, too? It’s like as sick as Mom gets, he’s there with her. Going with her. But I’m only 15, and I need my parents. I know Mom is going to die, but does Dad have to go, too? He loves her so much, but what about me?

I hate how whiny that sounds.
 

Please send me one of your pictures.