And as far as coming up to see you the week after next, I’m not worried about not being able to go on camp property as long as you can get off it. Even if it’s only for one day, it’ll be worth it. You know how much I love you, Robin. Seriously, I would come all that way even if it was just for a few hours.

So my sweet, sweet sweetheart, please don’t make any drastic decisions about us and our future together. Not when we’re so far apart. I remember how long it took you to get to the point where you felt what we had was real. And once you got there, you were totally committed. That’s the way I still feel. I miss you like crazy. Love you like crazy. Seriously, if this is all you’re worried about (is there anything you haven’t brought up that I should know about?), I can fix it. Less grass smoking, no acid, and no more living out of Odysseus.

Consider it done. Love you buckets and buckets. Counting the days till we’re together again.

Love,

Lucas

Finished. First time in my life I’ve edited and revised a personal letter and then written a final draft. My eleventh-grade English teacher, Miss Landers, would be proud. She was always telling me I didn’t revise enough. (I didn’t revise, period.) My hand is cramped from all that penmanship. And yet, almost immediately I feel the urge to start another letter. But I catch myself. Be cool, man. Don’t overwhelm her. Don’t sound desperate even if that’s the way you feel.

The truth is, I feel shredded. Shredded, empty, and hurting. It isn’t even dinnertime (not that I have an appetite), and there are hours to go until the welcoming oblivion of sleep. That mantra about today being the first day of the rest of your life may be true, but if today were to be the first day of a life without Robin, I’m not sure I’d want to live until tomorrow. I’m hoping that, sixteen days from now, I’ll truck on up there and make things right. But for now, out comes my Swiss Army knife. With the Phillips head, I unscrew the bottom of my stereo and pull some reds out of my stash.

I don’t have a drug problem,

Except when I don’t have drugs.

Saturday, July 12

“Don’t say anything,” Arno warns. His face is puffy and, except for a whitish band across his eyes, streaked the reddish-brown color of an overripe strawberry. He stinks of menthol and mothballs — the scent of Noxzema skin cream.

I can’t stop staring. “What’d you do?”

“Iodine and baby oil,” Milton says.

Girls use that mixture to get darkly tanned fast, but it never comes out like this. Arno’s face looks like it’s been napalmed.