December. That was like seeing a ghost. This is a real, living person I used to know, who used to
know me.
John was smart; he made the best grades of the boys, and I made the best grades of the girls. We
were in honors classes together. He liked history best—he always did his readings—but he was good
at math and science, too. I’m sure that hasn’t changed.
If Peter was the last boy in our grade to get tall, John was the first. I liked his yellow hair, sunny
and fair like white summer corn. He was innocent and sweet-cheeked, he had the face of a boy who’d
never been in trouble, and the neighborhood mothers loved him best. He just had this look about him.
That’s what made him such a good partner in crime. He and Peter used to get into all kinds of
mischief together. John was the clever one, he had the great ideas, but he was a little bit shy to talk
because he used to have a stutter.
He liked to play a supporting role, whereas Peter loved to be the star. So everyone always gave
the credit, and the blame, to Peter, because he was the scamp and how could an angel like John
Ambrose McClaren really be to blame for anything? Not that there was even much blame. People are
so charmed by beautiful boys. Beautiful boys get an indulgent shake of the head and an “Oh, Peter,”
not even a slap on the wrist. Our English teacher Ms. Holt used to call them Butch Cassidy and the
Sundance Kid, which none of us had ever heard of. Peter convinced her to show the movie to us in
class one day, and then they argued all year over who got to be Butch and who had to be the Sundance
Kid, even though it was very clear to everyone who was who.
I bet all the girls at his school like him. When I saw him at the Model UN scrimmage, he looked so
assured, the way he sat tall in his seat, shoulders squared, utterly focused. If I went to John’s school, I
bet I would be right there at the front of the pack, with binoculars and a granola bar, camping out at
his locker. I’d have his schedule memorized; I’d know his lunch by heart. Does he still eat double-
decker peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on whole wheat bread? I wonder. There are so many things
I don’t know.
Peter’s car honking out front is what shakes me out of my reverie. I jump guiltily at the sound. I have
this crazy impulse to hide the letter, to tuck it away in my hatbox for safekeeping and never think
about it again. But then I think, no, that would be crazy. Of course I’ll write John Ambrose McClaren
back. It would be rude not to.
So I tuck the letter in my bag, throw on my white puffer coat, and run outside to Peter’s car.
There’s still a bit of snow on the ground from the last storm, but it looks shabby, like a threadbare
rug. I’m an all-or-nothing kind of girl when it comes to weather, I’d much rather it all melt away or
have feet and feet of snow, so deep your knees sink in.
When I get in Peter’s car, he’s texting on his phone. “What’s up?” I ask him.
“Nothing,” he says. “It’s just Gen. She wanted me to give her a ride, but I told her we can’t.”
My skin prickles. It rankles that they still text so much, that they’re in such easy contact, enough to
ask for rides. But they’re friends, just friends. That’s what I keep telling myself. And he’s telling me
the truth, just like we promised we would. “Guess who I got a letter from.”
He backs out of the driveway. “Who?”
“Guess.”
“Um... Margot?”