True Letters from a Fictional Life by Kenneth Logan Page A

least the length of this letter that you do exist and you’re not the sicko that all the violence in this world suggests you must be. Heck, from now on, for decorum’s sake, I’ll even give you the respect of capitalizing the pronouns that refer to You.
    So—You already know what I’m going to write, but I’ll go through the motions of doing it anyway. I guess that’s what praying is all about, huh? You’re probably not impressed that I have to ask about the point of prayer, but You can take that up with my parents. They fell away from religion before I had any say in the matter.
    Anyway, I’m writing to ask for a cure. “For Aaron?” You ask. Well, yes and no. Please let him get better soon, yeah, but the work’s not done after that.
    I want a cure for boys who like other boys. I’ve read that three percent of the population’s afflicted, so it’s not totally selfish. Gagging syrups, nauseating serums, caustic powders, horse-sized pills: I’ll take ’em. I’ll wash ’em down with orange juice. Just make my life a little easier, would You? I mean, how the hell am I supposed to handle all this? I don’t know if it’s Your fault that I like guys, but I don’t think it’s mine.
    Here’s what I’d like to happen: Tomorrow morning when I wake up I want to be with Theresa. I want to call her. She’s on my mind all day. I sit next to Hawken in math, and he interests me as much as the dull numbers on the blackboard. He smiles at me, and I do not want to put my arm around him. Theresa sits down next to me at lunch, and I get all nervous and happy, the way I usually do when I sit next to Hawken. When I kiss Theresa at her locker after school, I’m all grinny the way Derek used to get when he’d kiss what’s her name. Oh, that’s a good one: I can suddenly remember Derek’s girlfriends’ names without any trouble because I think they’re cute, too. Maybe Derek and I swap girls at some point. You might not be as into that part of the plan, but You get the idea.
    I’m glad We have an agreement. (Do I capitalize We because You’re involved, or does my own inclusion in the term sink it to the lowercase?) I’m looking forward to waking up straight tomorrow morning. I’ll strut downstairs into the kitchen, pour myself some cereal, and when my mom asks, “What’s happening at school today?” I’ll say, “Mom, I don’t know, but I want to go screw me some girls.”
    You’re the one who said go forth and multiply. Just trying to be obedient.
    Your faithful servant,
    James

CHAPTER 10
    I barely saw Theresa the rest of the week, and Derek mentioned the dinner party only once, during an afternoon run. “You were funny for about forty-five minutes, and then I wanted to murder you. I didn’t because I figured Theresa would want to do it herself.” I tried to change the subject. Had he talked to Kim since then? “We’ve texted, yeah. But you should be more worried about whether Theresa’s finally going to lose her patience with you,” he warned. “If I were you, I’d be on my best behavior at that dance on Friday. It might be your last chance with her.”
    Hawken and I had a rare midweek indoor soccer match, so I drove us down to the field with my dad. We werelistening to the oldies station. It’s a habit we’ve developed because there are so few options on the radio dial up here and Rex jammed a bunch of nickels into the CD drive a few years ago. While we were pulling onto the highway, the song “Just My Imagination” by the Temptations came on, the one with the chorus: “It was just my imagination / Running away with me.” It was weird, because I’d had that song stuck in my head all week. There had been moments in the days after Aaron got punched when I’d been convinced that I was going to wake up in my