Dispatch by Bentley Little Read Free Book Online Page B

until this afternoon!"
    I ignored her and made my way down the hall to my bedroom, where I pushed a pile of dirty clothes against the door to keep anyone from opening it too quickly and then sat down at my desk. It was daytime, it was dangerous, and everyone was awake, but I'd forsaken a day of fun for this and I had to write. I pulled the top off my pen, took a deep breath and let the feeling of joy wash over me.
    Dear Kyoko , I wrote...
 
    On Easter vacation, I killed my dad.
    Not really. But in a letter to Kyoko, I said that my father had died in a tragic automobile accident, killed by a drunk driver. I took a sort of gleeful pleasure in inverting the order of the universe, killing his fictional counterpart with someone quite close to his true self, though of course I professed my deep anguish at the loss of a beloved parent.
    I had to kill him off because she kept asking me about my upcoming trip to Japan. She'd even told her parents about it, and the whole family was making plans to meet me. That was a narrative thread I should not have started, and while I did not regret lying to her, I regretted telling that particular lie. But all's well that ends well, and I killed off the fucker and populated his funeral with powerful famous people to boot.
    It was the longest letter I'd ever written—and the most detailed. I found that I enjoyed writing about my dad's death, and I got a strange sick satisfaction from describing the details of his demise. The emotions I expressed to Kyoko were far more profound than any I would know once my dad really died, and in a way that made the writing a more cathartic experience, since it enabled me to vicariously feel what I would never have to face in real life.
    I had so much fun composing the letter that I immediately followed it with another, equally long. This one I dated a few days later, and in it I pretended to be having a difficult time coping with the loss. I could not eat, refused to go to school and shunned my friends.
    Kyoko felt she really knew me by then and took it hard. The ink on her next letter was stained with tears, her carefully drawn letters smeared. I felt bad for deceiving her, but even if I wanted to, I couldn't apologize and take it back. Once a lie of that magnitude was out there, to admit culpability would amplify its import. The only thing to do was let it ride.
    I was astonished by the eloquence of her commiseration. The shock of sudden death had nullified her English problems, and though the grammar and syntax were still not perfect, her words came from the heart and were more expressive than I ever would have expected. It was as if the curtain of formality that, because of her culture or personality, had always been between us had been lifted and she was suddenly able to communicate with me on an open, honest emotional level.
    I thought of Paul and how all he ever thought about was sex stuff. I would be lying if I said I hadn't started thinking about those things, too, especially since I was
spending so much time writing to and thinking about a girl. A pretty girl. I realized this would be a perfect opportunity to introduce some of that into our relationship.
    I told Kyoko I loved her.
    I regretted it the second I dropped the letter into the mailbox the next morning, and I was almost tempted to pull some Fred-and-Barney scheme in an effort to get my envelope out again. Embarrassment was my overriding emotion. I spent the next two weeks in an agitated state that took its toll on my concentration and my grades, and made me step on some emotional land mines at home that left me battered and bloody.
    To my great relief, she wrote back to tell me that she loved me, too, that she'd loved me for over a month and was so happy that I'd finally said it to her so she could say it to me.
    I didn't really love her. And a small part of me even felt guilty for playing her this way, for pretending I had feelings I did not. I liked her, of course, but I didn't love her. I