Okay, this one doesn't have a date yet:
Dear Brian,
The first week of summer passed, and I still have no plans, no idea what I can do to get out of this jail. For the past few years—since you left—yeah, it’s been crappy; but Mom always sent me away to camp. The only time I’d be home all day was over the weekend, and that happened during the school year also. By then I was well-adjusted to the endless quiet that would last until I decided that even talking to myself was better than no sound at all. During those times, my voice sounded like it echoed in the mountains.
“I wonder what I should make for dinner,” I would say and then ponder my options aloud.
If Mom wasn’t home, I’d murmur, “I wonder when Mom’ll be home tonight.” If she was: “I wonder if she’ll come out of her bedroom today.” Sometimes, I’d sit on the floor in my room and play solitaire, a game I’ve already mastered. Between you and me, most of the time I cheat—because that’s the only way to ensure that you win; and I have to feel in control of
something in my life. Besides, it’s just solitaire.
Well, this year, three weeks before school ended, Mom sat me down on the sofa and looked at me with sad eyes. For a second I flashed back to Mr. Jacobson in second grade, who would give me that pitying stare every time he handed back one of my math tests. (I tried, I really did; but every time I sat down to study, I’d end up sitting there and thinking of you. I remember failing nearly every single math test that year—I’m sorry.) Remembering that just got me depressed all over again, so I focused again on what Mom was telling me.
“Benny, honey, there won’t be any camp this year,” she murmured so quietly that I wasn’t sure if she spoke at all.
When I asked her why, she started to tell me something about being “monetarily challenged.” That was always the excuse—always. Money’s the reason why I’ve had the same ugly glasses for two stinkin’ years, it’s the reason we can’t move out of this smelly apartment, and now it’s the reason why I’m being locked up in a home I hate more than our father. And since I’ve adopted your loathing for the guy that abandoned us, that’s definitely saying something.
No matter what, though, I knew she wouldn’t change her mind; so I didn’t bother saying anything at all. Leaving, I closed my bedroom door and lay down face-first on Simon’s bed. Once since the funeral last year, Mom went into my room and neatened up Simon’s bed while I was at school. The instant I saw it, I totally freaked and tore the blanket from the bed. When she came in one night to find it in a heap at the foot of the bed, she said nothing; but she hasn’t been in my room since.
By now your bed already lost its scent of you, but sometimes I’ll lie down and pretend that I can still smell the soap you used (it smelled like Mountain-Air Freshness), even though Mom stopped buying it after we got the news. Simon’s bed still smells like him, though; and I practically inhale it every time I walk into my—our—room.
If Simon’s up there with you, tell him I miss him loads, okay? Tell him I miss him so much that I wouldn’t even mind much if he called me “brat.” Simon, are you reading this right now? You can call me brat if you want to. I know I probably act enough like one to justify it.
So for the past week I’ve been moping around not doing much of anything. Yesterday I finally decided to do something at least semi-useful. While Mom was shut up in her room, I scrounged around in her pocketbook for a five-dollar bill. Then, leaving quietly so she wouldn’t hear me, I rushed down to the corner store and paid $0.75 for a mini notebook. Once a day, I plan on writing down what I’m thinking and what happens all day and stuff like that. It’s not like a diary or anything because diaries are for girls. And besides, it’s not like I’m pouring out my heart to some dumb book; all I’m doing is writing down anything interesting that happens over the summer. Nothing dumb about that. It’s the only way I could think of to stay sane.
Because it’s true, Brian; I’m going to go insane this summer if I don’t find something to do. There’s no one to talk to around here. Whenever Mom pays me any attention (uncommon as it is), she treats me like a little baby. (She still calls me Benny, for crying out loud!) If you were here, I know you wouldn’t be treating me like an idiot baby the way Mom does… even though, when you were home, I was still one.
Love,
Ben
Hm, this one's also pretty short. *shrug* I think age twelve is a long one -- or long-ish.