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“I am,” he maintains and then he tightens his arms around me. “I just want to make music with you, and I want people to hear it and love it, but I don’t need to be bigger than this. I don’t need the hype. I’m happy.”
I caress his face. “Most people don’t get a chance to be a god,” I say. “Are you sure you’re not missing out? You won’t live forever, after all.”
“No, but my music can.”
He always has the perfect answer for everything. He’s right. He’s not missing anything. Would we be happier, sacrificing the time we have together to give it to others? No.
“And you and me in the lyrics,” he finishes. “That’s all that’s important, and I won’t tolerate any distractions. I’ve only got one shot to do this right, and that’s what I’m doing.”
I bring him in, kissing him. I love him so much.
But his words remind me of our favorite rapper, and I pull back, unable to resist teasing him. “Hey, ‘only one shot’ just like in Eminem’s ‘Lose Yourself.’”
And I start singing the song, belting out the lyrics at the top of my lungs.
He pushes my head back, dousing me under the shower as I squeal in laughter.
Hey, what did I say?
THE END
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Please turn the page to read Ryen’s letter to Delilah.
Dear Delilah,
&nbs
p; My name is Ryen Trevarrow. We were friends in fourth grade.
I’m sure you don’t even remember me, but I remember you. In fact, you cross my mind quite a lot. And if you do remember me, then please keep reading, because there are a lot of things I’d like to say.
You’re under no obligation to listen, but I would be grateful.
By now, I’m sure your life—like mine—has changed a lot. Your memories of me—if you have any—could range from resentful to so ambiguous that I barely register on your radar anymore. Maybe you haven’t thought about me in years.
But just in case…I needed to do this. Maybe for you but especially for me. I have a lot of guilt, and I deserve it, but there are things that need to be said, and it’s long past time.
You see, the image is still in my head. You standing against the wall on the playground, alone because I wouldn’t be your friend any more. I can’t imagine what you were thinking that day and every day after, but I hope you know that what I did and what everyone else said or put you through was never your fault. It was mine, and you were simply there.
There’s a secret I want to share with you. I haven’t even told my best friend, Misha, because it was so embarrassing.
When I was nine I had a routine every Sunday night. At about six o’clock, after dinner, I would start to gather all of my hygiene products: shampoo, conditioner, soap, loofah, clippers, nail file... I’d line up everything on the window sill above the bathtub, and for the next hour, I’d bathe.
That’s right. I was in the bathroom, cleaning, scrubbing, and making sure every damn piece of hair smelled like a lily-scented brook in a mountain meadow for an hour. Then I’d finally emerge and begin the moisturizing and nail cleaning process.
Good grief, right? But wait, there’s more.
Then I spent ten minutes flossing and brushing, and even more time picking out my clothes, which of course had to be ironed and laid out for Monday morning. It was a new week, and it was a new me. I was going to have more friends. I was going to be with the popular girls. People would like me.
Because in my nine-year-old head, the bath washed away more than the daily grime. It washed away the old me, and somehow, because I polished up my appearance, my personality would magically be different, too.
This went on for about a year. More than fifty Sundays of high hopes, and more than fifty Mondays ending with not a damn thing different than it was the previous week. No amount of soap and water, perfect nails, or pretty hair could change what I hated about myself on the inside.
That I was timid. That I was uptight and never broke rules. That I felt so uncomfortable in large groups and couldn’t talk easily with people. That my music and movie choices weren’t like the average kid.
