Chapter Twelve: The Letter

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Dearest Blackbird (in case this letter falls into the wrong hands),

I'm writing this letter because I think you need to read it. Mom says the best way to have our thoughts heard is to write them down, that way they're able to be read over and over again until an understanding is gained. When I'm upset or angry, she makes me write down why in a letter, so that she can read it and understand it and then help me. And I can't write a letter to help you, even though I know school upsets you, because I don't know what you think and therefore can't put it down on paper form.

Well, I kind of know what you think. I know a bit. Best friends do know some stuff about each other, right? Like, I know that your favourites colours change a lot but they're always really bright and I know that your favourite toy is the doll you got last birthday, even though you're not really allowed to play with it how you like, and I know that being alone hurts, but it hurts more if you don't choose to be. I know that because I'm alone a lot and I wish I wasn't. Sometimes when the kids at school are horrible, I imagine that one day I do something amazing that wows them all, like build a Penrose Triangle—something superbly impossible—and they're all so impressed that they demand to immediately be my friend. And I imagine that when they do that, I tell them no. That I don't need them and I'm happy being alone, because they didn't like me when I was a nobody and that I refuse to like them when I'm a someone. It's a mean dream, but a good one, and I think you understand that, because it's why you're so mean to the girls at school. Or, partially.

You're just getting in first—if you're mean to them, when they're inevitably mean to you, it won't hurt as much, right? Because sometimes when we're playing you get upset if you think I'm faking having fun just to please you. I guess lots of people have faked being things around you, not just me when you're making me be a corpse again. It's the birthday parties, right? They're like the doll. They're something fun that your parents give you, but when you get there or you open the box, they're only fun on the outside. You can't play with them properly or how you're supposed to. You have to be too gentle or careful and maybe you're only there because dolls are something little girls should have and parties with people you don't actually like are only so that their parents can see what a good girl you are and think better of your parents. I don't understand that. I don't. I thought the parties was just because maybe they bullied you first at one and then you got MAD, but then Mom told me that and I don't GET it. If it's fake, why care? And I guess now I'm kind of angry, because if it's fake it DOESN'T MATTER. But do you know what does matter?

Last week a girl pushed me over because she said I looked better with dirt on my face, to remind me I'm not as smart as I think I am. Two days after that, they stole books from my locker and threw them into the water fountain. I get called names and pushed over all the time and none of it bothered me really, because those people don't matter to me. But then they worked out that I wasn't bothered and now when I walk into a room at school, no one looks at me. No one sees me. I'm no one. I'm the nobody no one ever thinks about, except you, but then you come home with letters about pushing girls over or cutting their hair and I think maybe you're like them. Nobodies don't matter to you. Nobodies like me.

You sound proud when you talk about how mean you are to them, because it makes them hate you and notice you which I guess you think is better than them pretending to like you, but all it does is remind me that we're different. You think them being fake is more important than you being mean. I'd rather have a friend who knows that sometimes people pretend and sometimes people are nobodies and sometimes people are wrong, but none of that is a reason to hurt them. That matters to me.

I just want you to know that even though you're a someone and you always have been, and I'm a nobody and probably will always be, that's never changed how much I like you. I always want to be your friend, but I guess it would be easier to be your friend if sometimes you didn't remind me of the people who hurt me. I know you're not her, but brains are stupid. And even a good reason isn't enough of a reason to be a bully—they thought they had good reasons too. All good reasons are bad reasons in the eyes of their victims.

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I still love you though. Please don't get mad at me for this letter, I just want to help.

Love, your best friend (if you still want to be), Dr. Joseph Bell. 1979.