December 28, 2024
december 28, 2024
Jakey Jake,
Wow. Well first, I’m not even going to hesitate using your nickname. Can you even call it a nickname if it was simply the name I used to annoy the shit out of you? Again, will not hesitate. Of course you can still call me Shelly.
Getting your letter in the mail was a balm to my tired, weary soul. Okay, a touch dramatic, but it’s kind of true. Christmas was absolutely lovely, but these winter months after always suck. They’re cold, dreary, and miserable…especially in Mass. I’m counting down the days to June when I can drive back home to Mariner’s Cove and slurp on some fresh oysters and get a sunburn sitting outside looking at the water for too long. Counting. Down. The. Days.
You are correct, by the way. I left Los Angeles and moved back home. Well…not exactly home; I’m two hours away. I’m glad I still have my mail forwarding or I would have never received your letter. My new address is on the return label, and I also wrote it below.
Jakey Jake, what’s happened over the past six years? I know you said it’s kind of a long story, but I want the details. Are you okay now? Are you safe? I would hate to think you’re suffering and all alone and cleaning out your mother’s house. I will drive down and help you, if that’s something you need.
Yes, I’m still blonde. You can thank LA for that. I dyed my hair after my first semester at UCLA, and I’ve been a blonde ever since. My parents say it matches my personality, and you know what, they’re probably right.
I do still play the flute. Actually, fun fact; I play all the instruments. I finished my degree in music at UCLA and I am (surprise, surprise) a band director at Colchester Academy. Didn’t see that coming, right? I know, how unoriginal that the girl who fell in love with marching band decided to be a band nerd the rest of her life.
Do you remember the day we won States? I think about it all the time. I remember standing on the field at attention when they announced our win. Kiera marched to grab the trophy and I had to stand there all stoic, but my eyes were blurry with tears as the rest of the band screamed in the stands. I remember you got on Hernandez’s shoulders and lifted your sweatshirt, your chest covered in red paint with a white stallion at the center. When in the world did you paint your chest, by the way? And were you the only one?
I guess it’s been on my mind lately because my students don’t care. I’ve tried to tell them how exhilarating it is to win such a big award, but they’re so unmotivated. They’d rather make out on the band bus than prepare their dot books, and they certainly don’t run when I tell them to reset. I mean, I don’t get it; you can still make out on the band bus and be good at band. At least that’s how I always felt.
I refuse to burn your letter. My roommate Rachel actually thinks it’s sweet that you wrote to me instead of trying to track down my phone number. I could give it to you and make our lives easier, maybe catch up on the phone. But you know what? This is far more fun. I would like your very long story via written note. Bonus points if you use a quill.
You should pick up your sax and see how much you actually remember. Or you could make a generous donation to Colchester Academy’s Marching Band.
Actually…don’t. Those pipsqueaks won’t appreciate it.
Shelly