Dear Arnold,... My Dearest Arnold,... Hey Football-head,...

I rapped my pen against my notebook impatiently. I was drawing a blank, which was unusual. Words always came so easily...

The candlelight flickered violently against my paper and illuminated numerous volumes of diaries on the selves surrounding me. They towered over me mockingly. I had filled several books this summer with sonnets of longing, soliloquies of heartache, haiku's of regret and even a few optimistic limericks. At one point around mid-summer, I had even considered writing an epic, though it never panned out due to my increasing fear of becoming completely mad. These past few months I had spent most of my time in solitude. It had transformed me into a slave of my emotions, and writing had become my only outlet of expression. But today I could not write.

Sometimes I wonder how I'm able to so easily spill my guts onto a piece of paper. I had spent my entire life creating a mask to shield my true self from the world, yet one glance at those pages demolished all I had created. It allowed the reader to see past my protective, hostile veneer and into the vulnerable depths of my tormented sixteen year old soul.

Suddenly I felt inspired again,

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone

I stopped writing and starred down blankly at what I had written. The candlelight danced around the words. One in particular glared up at me: Alone.

I stood up abruptly and swung open my chamber door. Morning light slapped me in the face, and my fantasy world began to melt away.

I moaned, reading the time to be 9:45 am. It was the last Saturday in July, leaving just three weeks of summer vacation. I tossed aside my notebook before dragging myself over to the bathroom. Maybe it was the summer heat that brought on these bouts of delirium...

I splashed cold on my face before daring to meet my reflection. Two large blue eyes stared back, accented by my heavy brows above and two dark rings beneath. There was no doubt my lack of sleep is to blame. My insomnia and recent avoidance of daylight would also explain the sallowness of my cheeks.

I ran an uneasy hand through my long hair. My roots were actually a nice shade of ash blonde. It suited me. The chunky streaks of honey blonde did not. They were the unfortunate result of unsuccessful sisterly bonding.

"Criminy" I muttered angrily, scowling at the reflection I wished was not mine.

Not only did my face look lifeless today, but my collarbones seemed to jut out further than usual. I was gangly as ever, standing just shy of 5'8 with the shape of a twelve year old boy. I didn't even fill out an A cup completely. The only thing feminine about my body was my slight frame, and I hated it. It had become much harder for me to ward off teasing than when I was nine..

Perhaps my looks didn't warrant this level of scorn. Truth be told my face wasn't half bad. I had a clear, fair complexion, thick lashes and even thicker brows, which had apparently become a good thing. Even Rhonda had thrown me a compliment, something along the lines of full brows being "so in" right now because of some British model. Of course I am speaking of two, defined eyebrows. Olga had dragged me to some "spa" when I turned thirteen, convincing me to get rid of my unibrow and that it "wouldn't hurt a bit, Baby Sister." Not only did this "spa" more resemble a cold doctor's office, the "nurse" seemed hardly qualified to handle a machine that could blind me...and it hurt like a bitch.

Absent mindlessly I rubbed the spot between my brows, as if it still burned. I dropped my hand and looked away. I wasn't sexy in the least, but sometimes I could pull off pretty. Still there was something, a gray cloud in my sky always casting a shadow over me.

My wandering eye stopped at the photograph of my repulsively perfect and gorgeous older sister, taped to the corner of the mirror. It was just like Olga to plaster herself anywhere she could. She was my constant reminder of my inadequance. In her presence, I could always feel myself shrink to the background. Next to her I was unimportant.

I took a swig of mouthwash, swashing it noisily. I looked again at my reflection, made a face, and spit. Not in the sink though, but all over the mirror, all over Olga's revolting face. I howled with laughter. My thin lips cracked into a wide smile, overtaking my face. Immature pranks like this were as satisfying as ever, and in that I managed to find the silver lining.

Grinning ear to ear, I strutted back to my room. Carelessly tossed over my desk chair were my favorite pair of jeans. They were the same straight leg jeans I had worn over the past few years. I pulled them on admiring how much the dark denim had faded. One large hole in the front revealed my knobby left knee.

I found comfort in routine. I wore the same clothes for as long as they'd hold up. I still wore my hair in pigtails despite the fact I am now in high school. I had loved the same boy since I was four and still had the pink bow I wore the day I met him. I guess you could also say I have trouble letting things go...

In my closet I found my pink and white raglan tee and paired it with a well worn baseball cap. I sloppily tied my hair back in two low pigtails as I strolled over to my notebook. Picking it up, I reread the short poem I had managed this morning and realized it was just an excerpt from Edgar Allen Poe's "From Childhood's Hour."

"Ha, just what Arnold wants to read, a recycled poem about my misspent youth. Criminy!" I spat. "Is it so hard to write a normal letter?"

I ripped the page out and crumpled it up before tossing it into the waste bin.

"Maybe I just need a change of scenery."

I slammed my closet door shut.

"And some fresh air."

I glanced hopefully towards the window. Sunlight was pouring in and beckoning me to follow.

At the park, I found a secluded bench near the lake. I flipped open my notebook and clicked my purple pen. All of a sudden, a cold chill of paranoia ran up my spine. I felt eyes watching me, peering over my shoulder. I whipped around like a mad woman, claws bared. To no surprise, there wasn't anyone. In fact the only people in sight were a few kids playing catch and tourists strolling by the lake infrequently.

I took a deep breathe to steady myself but to no avail. My mood swings were in full force today. Suddenly I felt a hot wave of anger overtake me. Why hadn't Arnold written all summer? Was it so hard for him to take a few minutes of his precious time to think of me? After all wasn't he the one that would have all the amazing stories to share. He was the one having a grand summer adventure, while I was left behind in this depressing city.

Then I remembered why he was probably avoiding the thought of me. A heavy weight dropped in the pit of my stomach. Embarrassment. Shame. Oh, it made me devastatingly nauseous.

I took another deep breathe to clear my mind, and then I finally began to write:

Dear Arnold,

How is everything? Sorry I haven't written all summer. It's not that I forgot about you, I've just been unsure if you'd want to hear from me. Anyway, I know you're probably preoccupied with your family, building orphanages in San Lorenzo, and putting all us normal, selfish people to shame.

This summer has been alright for me. Miriam finally enrolled in her 12 step program. I'm trying to be optimistic that this time everything will work out. Maybe she just needs us to believe in her... God, I'm starting to sound like you.

Big Bob has been, well, Big Bob, but the company's finally turned around! They just closed a huge deal with Samsung; I guess they'll be getting an exclusive line of smartphones. Speaking of phones, have you really been without service this whole summer? Talk about roughing it, I couldn't even imagine.. but I bet that hippie, nature loving part of you loved it, UGH!

I paused for a moment. The tone was becoming too snarky...

I wish you had a phone, there have been so many times I wanted to talk to you.

I crossed out "wanted."

Needed to talk to you. Dammit I miss you, more than I'd like to admit. I know I was a real bitch to you before you left, and I still feel awful about it. My insecurities got the better of me; you know how I get like that at times. I was just scared of losing you. Of course all I did was push you further away.

Sorry, I know it's not fair of me to dig up all this muck while you're off enjoying your summer with your family. It's just I can't stop thinking about you and how we left things. This isn't me groveling for forgiveness, I don't expect you to let me off easy. I just need to know that you care enough to try.

Anyway, I won't keep you any longer; those kids need you! I hope this letter finds you well.

Quietly I read the letter back to myself. It was sincere without being intimidating like most of my other letters, which consisted of insomnia fueled rants, neurotic poetry and mentions of old shrines. Yes, this one read well with its heartfelt moments and appropriately placed snide remarks. Finally, I would send him a letter, after almost three months of no contact. As I signed, I spoke aloud.

"Love always, Hel- AGHH!"

I tumbled off the bench and hit the ground hard. That was definitely going to leave a bruise. A baseball had come hurtling towards my face, barely missing me.

"Sorry!" called a boy, running up to me. "Must be the wind!"

"More like your shitty aim," I sneered, throwing the ball far over the kid's head.

"Bitch!" he muttered, turning around to chase down his ball.

I stood up and brushed myself off. I sat back down on the bench to retrieve my letter, only there was no letter. An unnerving numbness spread inside me. I looked around frantically, underneath the bench, through my notebook, inside my bag- Then I spotted it. Soaring up and up, the wind was carrying my letter away.