Of what we could have been.

In a small and tattered Chucks shoebox lay the reason why I fell in love with Baron “Vicious” Spencer in high school.

It was a tradition at All Saints High to have an anonymous pen pal from the same school and same grade for the whole year. Participation was mandatory and the rules were simple:

No foul language.

No dropping hints about who you were.

And absolutely no switching pen pals.

Principal Followhill, Jaime’s mother, thought it would inspire students to be nicer to one another because you could never be sure that you weren’t actually talking to the pen pal you’d established a written friendship with. It was surprising how such an old-school, dated game stuck. People didn’t actually mind writing to their pen pals, it appeared. I saw the looks on people’s faces when the designated teacher for that day slid envelopes into their lockers, wishing they could pounce on said teacher and ask them who the heck their pen pal was. It was useless, though.

Principal Followhill was the only one who knew who was writing to whom.

But the students never did. The letters were always printed, not handwritten, and we were supposed to sign with fake names to keep our identities hidden.

All the same, I grew attached to my pen pal from the very first letter I received during the first week at my new school. Maybe it was because no one gave me the time of day at All Saints High. Black had decided to start our conversation like this:

Is morality relative?

—Black

It was a philosophical question an eighteen-year-old wouldn’t normally ask. We weren’t supposed to share our letters with other students, but I knew for a fact most pen pals talked about school, homework, the mall, parties, music, and just regular stuff, not this. But it was the beginning of the year, and I was feeling hopeful and pretty damn good about myself, so I answered:

It depends on who’s asking.

—Pink

We were only required to exchange one letter a week, so I was excited to get a letter back in my locker only two days later.

Well played, Pink. (Technically, you’re breaking the rules since I can tell by your name that you’re a girl.) Another question coming your way, and this time, try not to get around it like a pussy. When is it okay, if ever, to disobey the law?

—Black

I actually giggled, for the first time since I’d gotten to Todos Santos. I licked my lips and thought about the question all afternoon before I wrote back a response.

Well, Black, (and I fail to see how Pink is any different from Black. Clearly, you’re breaking the rules too, because I can tell by your name that you’re a guy), I’ll give you a straight, surprising answer: I think it’s okay to disobey the law at times. When it’s a necessity, an emergency, or when common sense overrules the law.

Like civil disobedience. When Gandhi went down to the sea for salt, or when Rosa Parks took a seat on that bus. I don’t think we’re above the law. But I don’t think we’re below it either. I think we need to be level with it and think before we do things.

P.S.

Calling me a “pussy” is breaking the no-foul-language rule, so technically, you’re practically an anarchist in the realm of this pen-pal world.

—Pink.

The answer came the same day, and it was an all-time record. Nobody was overeager to write more often than they had to, but I liked Black. I also liked the anonymity of the project, because I was starting to believe that Black, like everyone else, was treating me like crap daily just because I was the daughter of servants. I could use a friend.

I’m semi-impressed. Maybe we should break more rules by you coming to my house tonight. My mouth is not only good for talking philosophy.

—Black

I flushed red and crumpled his letter, throwing it into the trashcan next to my bed in my room at home. Here, I thought I was talking to someone who was actually funny and smart, and all he wanted was to get into my pants. I didn’t answer Black, and when I absolutely had to send my weekly letter, I responded with:

No.

—Pink

Black, too, waited until the very last day before he answered me next time.

Your loss.

—Black

The next week, I decided to stop playing games and write something lengthy. It was a bad week. The week when my calculus-book incident happened. Vicious took over my thoughts, so I tried to quiet him down by thinking of other things.

Do you think we’ll ever crack the riddle of aging? Have you ever wondered if maybe we were born too soon? Maybe one hundred, two hundred years from now they’re going to find a cure for death. Then everyone who lives will look back at us and think, “Well, they were screwed. We’re going to live forever!” Muahahaha.

I think I might be a pessimist.

—Pink

He answered the next morning.

I think it’s more likely that these people will have to deal with the wrecked, polluted world we left them because we did fuck-all and partied hard when they weren’t even a sperm and an egg yet. But to your question, no, I wouldn’t want to live forever. What would be the point in that? Aren’t you hungry for something? Don’t you have dreams? What weight and significance do your dreams have if they don’t have a deadline? If you don’t have to chase them today because you can do it tomorrow, in a week, a year, or in a hundred years’ time?

I think you’re just realistic, and possibly weird as shit.

—Black

I didn’t write him the next day because I was getting ready for another important exam, though I was planning to write him that evening. But it was too late. Black wrote another letter.