Dear Ava,
Hi. Well, it’s a Monday and you know what that means. Yep. Another day in hell. Okay, I’m over reacting. But it’s close, though.
If you remember, I’m just your average high school guy. Not popular, but not totally at the bottom of the social pyramid, either. Which is a shame, because I’d really like to be invisible now. I can just imagine your response to that. “Carter West, don’t you dare say that! Ever!” You say that a lot, don’t you? (Notice how I used “say” instead of “said.”) To which I would roll my eyes and say sarcastically, “Okay, Mom.” Then you’d roll your eyes and remind me. If I was invisible, we wouldn’t have met. I’d say teasingly, “Well, we still would you know. It’s fate.”
“Right. Fate,” you’d scoff. “Nice try, Carter.”
Yeah, I never really know what caused you to not believe in fate. I believe in fate as much as I believe my name is Carter, and I am an American. Mom raised me that way, and since I am a Mama’s Boy, I believe in fate, too. There’s a thin line dividing fate from coincidence. Very thin. My mom explained it to me when I was, like, ten. It was a rather long explanation, mind you, and since I, as a ten-year old, had a short attention span, I forgot about it in less than twenty-four hours and I never asked her again.
Anyway, when I asked why you don’t (again with the present tense) believe in fate, you always said that fate is for sappy weaklings—your words, not mine. “And besides,” you said (past tense ‘cause we only had this conversation once) while flipping your hair. “I’m omniscient and logical.”
Then I shoved you, not caring if you were a girl, and you were so shocked you fell into a sand pit. We were walking through the park, and we stopped by the playground. We swung on swings, talking. Then we had the fate conversation, and there you were, red-faced on a sand pit. “You’re gonna regret that,” you said to gritted teeth.
Anyway, I just got home from school. Sarah and I sat together during lunch. She heard about…that day. Said she was sorry. That she misses you too. Albeit not as much as me. She read this book the other day, and she got a joke from it.
“Hey Carter, I gotta joke,” she said, swallowing her bite of sandwich.
I sipped my orange juice—I know, lame—and said, “Okay, shoot.”
Sarah smiled. Her smile is pretty, I got to admit. And she knows it, so she uses it frequently, just to rub it in. “Okay, okay. So it is a knock-knock joke. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“You start.”
Huh? “Um. Knock-knock?”
That smile never left her face. “Who’s there?”
We stared at each other. I waited for the punch line.
And then I got it. My lips twitched upward. I smacked her upside the head. “That was stupid.”
“Um, ow.” She told me, as if I had to know it hurt.
“Yeah?”
“Nothing,” she grumbled, returning to her lunch.
Did you get it, Ava? Pretty corny, huh? Remember when you said you’ve always loved Friends and Matthew Perry’s accent was “just…ugh.” Seriously. That’s how you’ve always said about him. “Oh my god he’s so funny I can’t even…ugh.” And I’m sitting across from you like—can’t even what? Just what? Seriously, finish your sentences!
Then you’d roll your eyes. Many eye rolling in our friendship, I’ve got to say.
Anyway, back to Matthew Perry, I heard that he’d co-host on Ellen, and I watched. Just to see what the fuss is all about. He told jokes there, Bridge. And—don’t hate me—I really don’t get it. Well, I do, but then again, I don’t. I know, I’m a confusing guy.
I waited a whole hour—60 minutes, 120 seconds—to hear his joke. And this is what he told Ellen, the four hundred people in the studio, and the millions of viewers worldwide:
The joke is about this polar bear. He asks his mom one day if he really is a polar bear. Mom goes “yes of course. If you don’t believe me, ask your dad.” So the polar bear asks his dad and asks the same question he asked his mom. The father says, “Yes, of course. You’re a polar bear, I’m a polar bear, Mom’s a polar bear. Why would you ask such a silly question?” and the polar bear says, “Because I’m freezing. I’m really cold.”
The audience—and Ellen DeGeneres herself—got a kick out of that.
It would’ve been funnier if you actually heard him, Ave. But, seeing as you can’t you got to make do with my lame-o letter.
Unless you think it’s not lame and then in that case, I totally agree with you there.
Tomorrow, then.
Without wax,
Carter
a/n: Dedicated to my good friend, Charlene (aka DivineMichi). Hii, girl! :DD
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