From the Desk of Zoe Washington(12)

But, back to happy stuff. You asked about Little Tomato. It’s from a song. You can probably tell I’m really into music. The song is called “Hang On Little Tomato,” and it’s by a group called Pink Martini. I liked the sound of Little Tomato for a nickname, so I started calling you that. Now you’re Zoe, but you’ll always be my Little Tomato.

Speaking of names, yes—you can call me Marcus. I understand how weird this is for you. Don’t feel bad about that. It’s got to be especially strange since it sounds like you never got my other letters. I’ve sent you a lot over the years, but when I never heard back, I figured either you didn’t want to write me, or maybe your mom wouldn’t let you. I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t. But I kept sending letters so you’d always know that I wanted to hear from you. I’m so glad you wrote back now.

I’m happy you want to get to know me. You can ask me whatever you want, and I promise to answer honestly. You’re probably wondering about my life. Prison is not a great place to be, but I try to keep my head down and focus on my studies. I first got here right after I started college. Getting a degree was always really important to me, and I didn’t want being in here to change that. It took me a while, but I eventually got my bachelor’s degree from a college that mails the coursework to inmates at my prison. I decided to study sociology—why people are the way they are. Now, I’m working on my master’s. It helps me pass the time and keeps my brain working. I hope you understand how important it is to have an education. Do you like school? What else are you into?

I hope you’ll write me another letter.

Love,

Marcus

My mouth dropped open as I finished reading.

I read the letter again. Was he pretending to be nice, to care about me? He seemed so sincere, so real.

My gym class teacher once had us do this relaxation exercise where we had to lie on the floor, tense up all of our muscles one at a time, and then relax each muscle one at a time. I thought it was pointless, and the mats we were lying on smelled like a hundred sweaty armpits. But by the end of the exercise, I actually did feel better. Looser. Reading that letter, it was like I’d been tensing my whole body for all of my twelve years, and now I could finally relax. At least a little bit.

“Zoe, what’s wrong?”

I startled at the sound of Grandma’s voice. She was now standing in my bedroom doorway. I gripped the pages in my hand, almost crushing them.

“You were gone for a while.” She took a couple of steps closer to me, worry lines all over her face. I sat on top of the letter so she couldn’t see what it said.

“What’s going on, baby girl?” Grandma asked. “You can talk to me.”

I said the first thing that popped into my head. “It’s, uh, Maya. She wrote me a letter from camp.” The words tumbled out. “I miss her.”

Grandma nodded. “I can understand that. I promise she’ll be back home before you know it.”

I nodded, barely able to look her in the eyes. I couldn’t tell her who the letter was really from. She might tell Mom and Dad.

Grandma glanced at my desk and saw the open box of stationery. Her face lit up. “You’re using the stationery I gave you.”

“Yup.” I had to think of a lie—fast. “I’m, um, gonna write Maya back at camp.”

“Great.” She flashed me a warm smile. “Well, the oil’s hot and ready. I don’t know about you, but my mouth is watering thinking about these fried Oreos.” She winked.

I glanced down at the letter and then back at Grandma. Writing back to Marcus could wait. “Mine too. I’ll be right there. Just give me a minute.”

“Okay,” Grandma said.

She left, and I folded up the letter carefully, putting it back into its envelope. I opened my desk drawer, took out my sixth-grade math notebook, and hid the envelope between two random pages.

That night after dinner, I went into my room, closed the door, and read Marcus’s letter again. I knew I’d only planned to write him back one time, but I still had so many questions for him.

I couldn’t believe he’d sent other letters, and I’d never gotten them. I wondered how many he’d sent, and what could’ve happened to them. Maybe they got lost in the mail, or he didn’t have my address correct until now. I wish I knew what they’d said.

I grabbed a fresh piece of stationery and put on my headphones. I’d downloaded “Hang On Little Tomato” to listen to as I wrote. It was totally different from the Stevie Wonder song. The first half was instrumental, with only a horn playing the melody, and then a woman started singing along in the second half. She had a really pretty voice, and she sang about hanging on when you felt sad or alone. If you hung on, everything would be all right. I wasn’t completely sure what you were supposed to hang on to, but I liked the message—the idea that things would get better eventually. Maybe it meant things between me and Trevor could get better.

It wasn’t until the song repeated for the third time that I realized the words “little tomato” weren’t even in the lyrics. Why name the song that, then? I thought about it, and figured that Little Tomato must be who the song was for—the person the singer was singing to. The picture on the song’s cover was a guy holding a small child in the air. Maybe it was a message to that little kid that everything would be okay. It made me smile.