Everything Has Historial Importance

Chapter Seven

There's no note. I slide into my chair silently. Why didn't I expect this?

"Are you okay?" Rookie puts their hand on my shoulder.

"Mmm," is all I can answer. Rookie hugs me. Samantha has her face in her hands whispering, "I knew it," over and over again.

"You know, maybe the person just didn't come today." Rookie pats my head. "You should write something else. Just in case."

"Okay," I sigh shakily. Theo comes over, and when he sees the way we all are, his face falls. "There wasn't a note, was there?" I shake my head, getting out the other half of the paper I used yesterday.

I don't know if you're still alive, but if you are, please answer. I want to know if you're okay.

Sincerely,

A Well Wisher

I repeat the letter, and Samantha gives me a thumbs up. Theo nods, and Rookie smiles sadly. We get on with our homework, trying to forget about what happened, but there's a heavy feeling in the air for the next threes weeks. I try to focus on other things, like the drawing contest, which I get second place in (the other kid who got asked about it got first), I couldn't get it off my mind.

"Hey. Marlo. Are you okay?" Dad waves a hand in front of my face.

"Huh?" I shake my head, shaking away the spaciness. "Yeah?" I make eye contact with him, because he won't think I'm listening otherwise.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I just can't stop think about JDG."

"What's that?" He looks confused, I realize that I never told him what we call the letters now.

"It's what we call the letters I've been getting."

"Ah, and what about them?"

"They've stopped coming."

"And?"

"The last note I got was pretty suicidal."

"Hmm, do you need to talk about it?" I shake my head, but I can tell Dad's not convinced. "I'm going to get you a therapist."

"What? But I don't need one!" I stand up, putting my dishes in the sink, and head to my room. I hear footsteps following me.

"Clearly you do. How long has it been?"

"Three weeks," I mumble quickly.

"What?"

"Three weeks," I say, louder this time.

"See? You should stop worrying. You don't even know this person!"

"Sometimes I feel like I do."

"Yeah, I'm getting you a therapist."

"Fine," I cross my arms and turn my back to Dad. He walks out, closing the door with a soft shuff.

"So, you've been getting these letters for, how long?" A woman sits, cross legged in a cushy, black chair across from me. She told me her name was Gwen in the very beginning.

"About three months? But they stopped coming after the first three. And now they've stopped again. But this time is different. I really think they've stopped coming altogether." Gwen nods.

"What was the last note again?" She uncrosses her legs. I reread it, glad that Papa told me to bring all of the letters. She nods. "Okay. If this is real—"

"It is," I interrupt her.

"Okay. Since this is real, do you think that the writer is dead?" My heart stops. I didn't want this question to come. I don't want to face the truth, even though I know I'm overreacting.