later my eyes are sore and I glance at the phone. When did I say good-bye to Roger? How did the conversation even end? I turn off the computer with a shrug. Whatever it was it couldn’t have been too important or else I would remember it. I vow to try that bath thing as soon as possible. Getting stuck with needles isn’t quite as appealing.
All those people in their black-and-white worlds — they have no idea what they’re missing.
Chapter Eight
First thing Sunday morning I ride my bike to the grocery store. The cashiers are still setting up their registers. I don’t see the woman who checked us out the night I met Billy, but she suddenly appears from behind a huge stack of toilet paper. I hurry up to her and tap her on the shoulder. She jumps, and the toilet paper goes flying. I help her stack it back up into a pyramid.
“Sorry about that,” I say.
“Can I help you?” she asks wearily.
“Yes, I was in here a few weeks ago. You probably don’t remember me, but there was this lady …” I pause, suddenly feeling very stupid. “And her son … he was around five years old, and I was wondering if you might remember them? Their last name is Henkle?”
The woman shakes her head. “You know how many people come in here every day? I’m lucky if I can remember my own name.”
“Right,” I say, my hopes fading. “Thanks anyway.”
Winded from riding home at top speed, I leave my bike on the curb and run inside. It’s pretty unlikely that someone would have read my profile already, but I can’t wait. I go onto my mail screen, and the message “You’ve got mail” pops up. I find two letters from Jenna, one from Kimberly, and one from somebody whose e-mail address I don’t recognize.
“Please don’t let it be some stupid advertisement,” I say out loud as I open the mystery letter first.
DEAR MIA ,
WELCOME TO THE SYNESTHESIA MAILING LIST! MY NAME IS ADAM DICKSON. I’M FOURTEEN AND IN NINTH GRADE. I LIVE IN BOSTON, AND I HAVE COLORED HEARING AND COLORED NUMBERS AND LETTERS (LIKE YOU) AND I ALSO HAVE COLORED TASTE BUT ONLY A LITTLE. IF YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT THINGS, E-MAIL ME BACK. OH, I LIKE THE OUTDOORS TOO, AND I ALSO LIKE TO WRITE POETRY, EVEN THOUGH I DON’T TELL ANY OF MY FRIENDS THAT. SO IF WE BECOME FRIENDS, YOU’LL HAVE TO FORGET I TOLD YOU. WRITE BACK SOON.
FROM, ADAM
P.S. DO YOU HAVE YOUR OWN COMPUTER? I DO.
“What are you grinning at?” Zack asks as he walks in. His hair is sticking straight up, and he has toothpaste around his mouth.
“Nothing,” I answer happily.
Zack leans over me and peeks at the screen before I have a chance to cover it. “Who’s Adam?” he asks. “Your
boyfriend?
”
“Get out, Zack. I’m busy.”
“No way. It’s my turn to use the computer. You hogged it all last night.”
“Isn’t there a violent cartoon you can go watch or something?” I ask.
“I’m too old for cartoons.”
“Since when?”
“Since right now.”
I’m in too good a mood to argue anymore, so I tell him he can use it in ten minutes. He grudgingly agrees, and I’m alone again with my blank reply screen. There are so many things I want to ask Adam, but I don’t want to overwhelm him.
DEAR ADAM ,
THANKS FOR THE WELCOME. I HAVE TO SHARE THE COMPUTER WITH MY WHOLE FAMILY. IT’S A BUMMER, I KNOW. I’VE ONLY JUST LEARNED THAT MY COLORS DON’T MEAN I’M CRAZY AND THAT I DON’T HAVE SOME AWFUL DISEASE. I’M LEARNING MORE ABOUT IT FROM DR. JERRY WEISS AT THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO, AND IT’S KINDA COOL. WHEN YOU SAY YOU HAVE COLORED TASTE, DOES THAT MEAN THAT BROCCOLI TASTES LIKE (FOR EXAMPLE) THE COLOR BLUE? OR DOES THE COLOR BLUE TASTE LIKE BROCCOLI? W/B/S (WRITE BACK SOON).
FROM, MIA
P.S. THIS IS THE FIRST E-MAIL I’VE EVER SENT TO A BOY.
P.P.S. I WON’T TELL ANYONE ABOUT THE POETRY.
I send off the letter before I lose my nerve. It’s so much easier to talk to people over e-mail than it is in person. I feel like I made a new friend, and I never even
All those people in their black-and-white worlds — they have no idea what they’re missing.
Chapter Eight
First thing Sunday morning I ride my bike to the grocery store. The cashiers are still setting up their registers. I don’t see the woman who checked us out the night I met Billy, but she suddenly appears from behind a huge stack of toilet paper. I hurry up to her and tap her on the shoulder. She jumps, and the toilet paper goes flying. I help her stack it back up into a pyramid.
“Sorry about that,” I say.
“Can I help you?” she asks wearily.
“Yes, I was in here a few weeks ago. You probably don’t remember me, but there was this lady …” I pause, suddenly feeling very stupid. “And her son … he was around five years old, and I was wondering if you might remember them? Their last name is Henkle?”
The woman shakes her head. “You know how many people come in here every day? I’m lucky if I can remember my own name.”
“Right,” I say, my hopes fading. “Thanks anyway.”
Winded from riding home at top speed, I leave my bike on the curb and run inside. It’s pretty unlikely that someone would have read my profile already, but I can’t wait. I go onto my mail screen, and the message “You’ve got mail” pops up. I find two letters from Jenna, one from Kimberly, and one from somebody whose e-mail address I don’t recognize.
“Please don’t let it be some stupid advertisement,” I say out loud as I open the mystery letter first.
DEAR MIA ,
WELCOME TO THE SYNESTHESIA MAILING LIST! MY NAME IS ADAM DICKSON. I’M FOURTEEN AND IN NINTH GRADE. I LIVE IN BOSTON, AND I HAVE COLORED HEARING AND COLORED NUMBERS AND LETTERS (LIKE YOU) AND I ALSO HAVE COLORED TASTE BUT ONLY A LITTLE. IF YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT THINGS, E-MAIL ME BACK. OH, I LIKE THE OUTDOORS TOO, AND I ALSO LIKE TO WRITE POETRY, EVEN THOUGH I DON’T TELL ANY OF MY FRIENDS THAT. SO IF WE BECOME FRIENDS, YOU’LL HAVE TO FORGET I TOLD YOU. WRITE BACK SOON.
FROM, ADAM
P.S. DO YOU HAVE YOUR OWN COMPUTER? I DO.
“What are you grinning at?” Zack asks as he walks in. His hair is sticking straight up, and he has toothpaste around his mouth.
“Nothing,” I answer happily.
Zack leans over me and peeks at the screen before I have a chance to cover it. “Who’s Adam?” he asks. “Your
boyfriend?
”
“Get out, Zack. I’m busy.”
“No way. It’s my turn to use the computer. You hogged it all last night.”
“Isn’t there a violent cartoon you can go watch or something?” I ask.
“I’m too old for cartoons.”
“Since when?”
“Since right now.”
I’m in too good a mood to argue anymore, so I tell him he can use it in ten minutes. He grudgingly agrees, and I’m alone again with my blank reply screen. There are so many things I want to ask Adam, but I don’t want to overwhelm him.
DEAR ADAM ,
THANKS FOR THE WELCOME. I HAVE TO SHARE THE COMPUTER WITH MY WHOLE FAMILY. IT’S A BUMMER, I KNOW. I’VE ONLY JUST LEARNED THAT MY COLORS DON’T MEAN I’M CRAZY AND THAT I DON’T HAVE SOME AWFUL DISEASE. I’M LEARNING MORE ABOUT IT FROM DR. JERRY WEISS AT THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO, AND IT’S KINDA COOL. WHEN YOU SAY YOU HAVE COLORED TASTE, DOES THAT MEAN THAT BROCCOLI TASTES LIKE (FOR EXAMPLE) THE COLOR BLUE? OR DOES THE COLOR BLUE TASTE LIKE BROCCOLI? W/B/S (WRITE BACK SOON).
FROM, MIA
P.S. THIS IS THE FIRST E-MAIL I’VE EVER SENT TO A BOY.
P.P.S. I WON’T TELL ANYONE ABOUT THE POETRY.
I send off the letter before I lose my nerve. It’s so much easier to talk to people over e-mail than it is in person. I feel like I made a new friend, and I never even
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