hi, and welcome to our cultural exchange programme

jackson

I'm a nosy person. It's the gift that allows me to enjoy hours of reality tv, unlike my sister who's off-put by the slightest whiff of drama. It's not about the drama, not for me at least. It's the glimpse into other people's psyche. The way people act when they think they're in control of the narrative. Reading is the same, isn't it?

I like people. It might not appear that way at school. You've probably never even noticed me so this might come as an interesting fact—or maybe not.

To be honest, I think we should be friends. First of all, you hang around too many of our white peers. Let me guess, they don't exactly listen to Sahrawi blues, do they? They pay too much attention to the way you're different, and yet, not enough. Not nearly enough, Jackson. How do I know? Well... How do I know you're still grieving? That you think about quitting track? That you catalogue just about everything in your life, down to how many calories you consume, and—of course—your scribbles. Poetry? Can I call it poetry? I didn't know you could write like that, which brings me back to my point: you and I should be friends.

There's no easy way to break this to you, so I'll just go ahead and say it. I saw you cramming your books into the recycling bin. Like, all of them. Aggressively. I knew the face you'd pull if I went over and asked what was up—and honestly, did I want to? No offence, but you're not exactly... You seemed upset. Do you remember seeing me at all? Because for a moment there it was like I was a translucent blob, neither standing in your way nor significant enough to hurl your anger at. And then you were gone.

This is what I knew about you prior to becoming nosier. You're the personification of a jock. The whole package: church-affiliated, national recordholder, picture-perfect home. You even have a dog. You dated what's-her-name... I'm trying, but I can't remember every detail of your life, can I? Let's call her Blondie. You dated Blondie, but then your friend died, allegedly by driving under the influence, and now you two are broken up. Cue the bad boy act, the angry writing, the angsty poetry. If you ask me, it's a step up from the bland cardboard cutout you used to be.

On March 14th, two days before your escape from the Matrix, you wrote—is that the right word? you more or less etched this in your school diary with a pencil—in big letters, just these words: he's dead no more. That's the page your diary flipped to when I picked it up. Alongside it in the trash was a battered copy of L'étranger from Mr Vucic's class, your physics textbook, and a stack of old notebooks.

I didn't steal—let's get that straight. I borrowed. Once I'm done reading everything twice, a third time—who knows—I'll give it back, and that will be my way in. Hi, I sorta found your notebooks. Oh, god, that's so lame. Whatever, I can come up with something better. To say I thought about it would be an understatement. I've been thinking about you since I saw you in the hallway. Not you technically. The you in your writing. The scrupulous you who's chronically booked and busy. On more than one occasion I've wondered what your therapist (Tuesdays, 6:45 PM) would say about that. Screams to me like someone who's avoiding being alone with their thoughts. You've got P.E. in the morning and Sprint in the afternoon and about four classes each day crammed in between. Then on top of that, you've got Org at 7:30 PM on Thursdays, whatever that is. Question: When do you have time for homework? Downtime with the family? Or do your parents  hate each other and that's why you're at Kyle's all the time?

There's shock, and then surprise, and these feelings weave in and out as I flick through your notebooks. You scribble across every two days that make up a diary page as soon as those days have passed. It's like an ongoing art project, and I hate that on top of everything else, you're also creative. I'm being salty of course because, in actuality, I love it. Is it wrong of me to have become protective of this side of you? There ought to be more space in your life to say fuck it to these rules that govern your perfect existence. Life's messy. Life took your best friend. Why not be messy in return and turn these pages into something tangible?