Dear Nick,

The other day, Mrs. Rosenthal asked, “What do you imagine you’ll be in the future? Where will you live, and what will you be? Do you have anything you’d want yourself to remember?” And so on, in her nasal mumble. Then she sat down and picked her nose with a tissue.

The classroom slowly was whispers then conversations. Joanna Rigart and Heather Potts clucked about big mansions and movie stars. James Dorman was driving race cars and playing in the World Series. Smelly Joey Wilkerson sat by himself in the corner.

Seventh grade is a crazy place, Nick. Boys are hormones and hopeless, and girls are horses and hearts.

It was strange, because somehow I knew already. I knew one day, Joanna’s twins would repaint her life in puke and poop. I knew Heather would marry a gay governor in Milwaukee. James wouldn’t quite recover after crying on the rope in gym class. Joey would be a track star and marry a cheerleader.

And then there was me. Or you, depending on how you look at it. Yeah, Y-O-U. Sitting there reading this letter at mom and dad’s, in your old room.

When I close my eyes, my future appears in a trickle of images:

• High school, a blur of masturbation and boredom.
• Finding out my girlfriend is cheating on me with Tim Lawrence, with new earrings in my pocket.
• A degree in accounting, and a cubicle in a high-rise.
• A little one-bedroom on McLintock Avenue, with black stuff on the bathtub floor.
• Your tie drawer. Your empty refrigerator.
• And other horrifying, depressing things.

Mrs. Rosenthal’s homework presents an odd situation. We both know the truth: There’s not much to talk about. Not 500 words worth, anyway.

But, then again, you’re me, and you’re not dead yet, even if the differences are negligible. (Ha ha.) I believe in you. Partly because I have to, but mostly because I think hope is better than giving up. So let’s talk strategy.

In about three weeks, you’ll be on a date with that girl Kevin’s wife keeps trying to set you up with. Stop fighting it. Take the offer.

That means three weeks to start doing push-ups. Pull-ups. Generally, just getting up. You used to like the outdoors and movement. You’re just out of practice. Get a dog if you have to force it. (I could have, should have, written this essay about your not having a dog. 1,000 words, easy. Also, your car, your video game habit, your spare tire? Anyway.)

Wear a tie and jacket on the date. Don’t be a selfish, awkward loser. Ask her about her cat, and her necklace, and her childhood home. Make a joke. Tell her about something you hope for. And every moment doesn’t weigh as much as you think. At the end of everything, the sum of your good moments just has to outweigh the sum of the bad ones.

Oh. You’ll stumble on the way out of the restaurant. I’m warning you about it, but you’re going to be so far beyond this letter that you’re going to do it anyway. It’ll be a nice tumble. Embrace the embarrassment. Embarrassment is endearing if you care enough to turn it around.

You know what she’ll like? Dessert, desire, drive. (Dirty words later, too. Wink.)

I’m kidding. I really think it could work. I think she could make a difference, and she could help you turn my life around.

Your name is Nick Wright. You live on Freeport Road. You are 12 years old. You like fishing and biking and movies. You dream about boats and carry a lucky rock in your pocket. You love launching myself from the swing set to the sandbox at recess. Just the feel of it. It’s like flying.

Her name is Emily.

Sincerely,
Nick Wright

P.S. – I’m over 500 words and I’d normally stop right here. (I have a math test and Spanish homework too.) But let me add one more thing. Last week, we were playing against West Harbor. We were tied in the eighth, with Josh Baker on second, and I was up to bat. I ran the count to 2-2. Then I hit a double to knock in Josh. Won the game. Best moment of my life. So far, anyway.

Image: "Boy in Palumeo." by Flickr user Prupert