asked, glancing at the closed door to her sister’s room.
“Billy Bear!”
“Michelle’s lizard?” An image of the dirty green stuffed animal surfaced, drooping from Michelle’s hand by its tail as she dragged it around.
“Billy Bear the lizard,” she heard her father say, laughing sadly. “Where everyone else saw a lizard, Michelle saw a bear. Of course.”
“I suppose we’ll put it in her room,” her mother said, choppy. Kelsey wiped her nose. She felt something thaw inside her, a little, for her mother.
“That sounds good, Mom,” she called.
“I can’t go into her room right now,” her dad said to her mom, quiet. “Put him on the stairs.”
“I’ll bring him in later,” Kelsey said aloud, and softly shut the door. She had just realized something.
She whipped under her bed and brought out Michelle’s laptop. In the email sign-in box, she typed Michelle’s name. In the password box, she typed another.
“B-i-l-l-y,” she whispered. “B-e-a-r.”
It worked. Hundreds of unopened emails flooded the screen. The first dozen or so were from Peter. First from his personal account, and then his military account: PFC Peter Farrow. So that was his last name. Peter Farrow. She had to stop herself from clicking open the most recent. This was snooping. This was definitely snooping. And yet…
She typed Peter’s name into the search function so that only his emails appeared. They were all there, from the very beginning of the summer, from the very first time he and Michelle had met.
The first subject line was “Here is that band I was telling you about.” The second was “Saw this on the way to Wichita, thought of you.” Another was “Roadtrip?”
Kelsey paused again.
Peter was the person who knew Michelle most recently. He was, at least, the person who Michelle wanted to know her.
Kelsey’s fingertips sat on the warm laptop keys.
It wasn’t just about the mysteries behind Michelle anymore.
It was the little things, too. Kelsey craved hearing her voice, the rhythm of her words, her everyday thoughts. A current ran through her, animating her hands.
She clicked the first email open. “Michelle,” it read. “Peter here. From the concert. You were a great tour guide.…”
“Peter, I like how you said, ‘Peter here,’ even though your email address has your first name. Of course it’s you. Who else would it be? I’m kidding. It was nice to meet you, too. I had no idea the Avett Brothers were originally a punk band. Did you follow them before? Can’t say punk is my thing but…”
“Michelle, Peter here, again. It’s me, Peter. From before? (Haha.) Punk is to me like fantasy novels are to some people. It’s like the fantasy of being angry and raw and on drugs. I am none of those things, but when I listen to the Ramones, I can pretend I am while dancing around my room.…”
“Peter, this is Michelle, the girl who you have been previously emailing, and met once in person outside the Granada after a concert, when my middle-aged friend Emerald tried to sell you a painting of her spirit animal. I believe it was an egret. Anyway, it’s me.…”
“Michelle: Kansas, though large, is flat and easily traversed, especially in a car. I would like to see you again and finally visit the Art Museum, preferably without the company of your friend Emerald, but if she wants to come, that’s okay, too.…”
By the time she got through all of them, it was late. Later than late. It was early. Michelle’s words leapt around her mind like exploding kernels of popcorn. She couldn’t believe the emails were over. She didn’t want them to be over.
The only light in the room came from the computer. Kelsey could feel her eyelids drooping. As she drifted off, a sound like a rock dropping into a pond rang out from the laptop speakers. Kelsey jumped, blinking her eyes open.
Peter: you there???
Me: yep!
She took her hair down from its bun.
His call popped up in a small window. She pressed ANSWER
“Billy Bear!”
“Michelle’s lizard?” An image of the dirty green stuffed animal surfaced, drooping from Michelle’s hand by its tail as she dragged it around.
“Billy Bear the lizard,” she heard her father say, laughing sadly. “Where everyone else saw a lizard, Michelle saw a bear. Of course.”
“I suppose we’ll put it in her room,” her mother said, choppy. Kelsey wiped her nose. She felt something thaw inside her, a little, for her mother.
“That sounds good, Mom,” she called.
“I can’t go into her room right now,” her dad said to her mom, quiet. “Put him on the stairs.”
“I’ll bring him in later,” Kelsey said aloud, and softly shut the door. She had just realized something.
She whipped under her bed and brought out Michelle’s laptop. In the email sign-in box, she typed Michelle’s name. In the password box, she typed another.
“B-i-l-l-y,” she whispered. “B-e-a-r.”
It worked. Hundreds of unopened emails flooded the screen. The first dozen or so were from Peter. First from his personal account, and then his military account: PFC Peter Farrow. So that was his last name. Peter Farrow. She had to stop herself from clicking open the most recent. This was snooping. This was definitely snooping. And yet…
She typed Peter’s name into the search function so that only his emails appeared. They were all there, from the very beginning of the summer, from the very first time he and Michelle had met.
The first subject line was “Here is that band I was telling you about.” The second was “Saw this on the way to Wichita, thought of you.” Another was “Roadtrip?”
Kelsey paused again.
Peter was the person who knew Michelle most recently. He was, at least, the person who Michelle wanted to know her.
Kelsey’s fingertips sat on the warm laptop keys.
It wasn’t just about the mysteries behind Michelle anymore.
It was the little things, too. Kelsey craved hearing her voice, the rhythm of her words, her everyday thoughts. A current ran through her, animating her hands.
She clicked the first email open. “Michelle,” it read. “Peter here. From the concert. You were a great tour guide.…”
“Peter, I like how you said, ‘Peter here,’ even though your email address has your first name. Of course it’s you. Who else would it be? I’m kidding. It was nice to meet you, too. I had no idea the Avett Brothers were originally a punk band. Did you follow them before? Can’t say punk is my thing but…”
“Michelle, Peter here, again. It’s me, Peter. From before? (Haha.) Punk is to me like fantasy novels are to some people. It’s like the fantasy of being angry and raw and on drugs. I am none of those things, but when I listen to the Ramones, I can pretend I am while dancing around my room.…”
“Peter, this is Michelle, the girl who you have been previously emailing, and met once in person outside the Granada after a concert, when my middle-aged friend Emerald tried to sell you a painting of her spirit animal. I believe it was an egret. Anyway, it’s me.…”
“Michelle: Kansas, though large, is flat and easily traversed, especially in a car. I would like to see you again and finally visit the Art Museum, preferably without the company of your friend Emerald, but if she wants to come, that’s okay, too.…”
By the time she got through all of them, it was late. Later than late. It was early. Michelle’s words leapt around her mind like exploding kernels of popcorn. She couldn’t believe the emails were over. She didn’t want them to be over.
The only light in the room came from the computer. Kelsey could feel her eyelids drooping. As she drifted off, a sound like a rock dropping into a pond rang out from the laptop speakers. Kelsey jumped, blinking her eyes open.
Peter: you there???
Me: yep!
She took her hair down from its bun.
His call popped up in a small window. She pressed ANSWER
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