You've Reached Sam(9)

“Shouldn’t this be a set?” I ask. “Where’s the other piece? It’s missing.”

“I could only afford one at the time,” Sam explains. “But I just got paid. We can go back for it now.”

When we return to the antique store, the other half was already sold.

“Who on earth buys half a bookend?” Sam asks the woman behind the register.

I turn to him. “You.”

It became an inside joke for us. But it doesn’t matter anymore. I threw it out in the box with the rest of his things.

This town is full of memories of us. There’s the record store where I’d always find him when I got off work. The red door is propped open with a chair. A few people are looking through the aisles of old records. Someone is changing the strings of an electric guitar. But no Sam sitting on the counter by the speaker, adjusting the music. He didn’t even work here. He just knew everyone. I hurry off before someone sees me and tries to start a conversation I don’t feel like having.

I don’t know how much longer I can stand to be in Ellensburg. I’m tired of reliving these memories in my head. Graduation isn’t far away, I remind myself. Only a couple more months, and I’ll be out of here. I don’t know where exactly I’m heading yet, but it doesn’t matter as long as I never have to come back to this place.

I don’t remember how I ended up at the lake. It’s nowhere near town. In fact, there are no trails leading up to it, and no signs pointing toward it, meaning you have to go and find it yourself. From the long list of places I planned on avoiding today, this was the last spot I expected to end up.

A few leaves fall from a tree as I throw my things on the bench and sit, facing the lake. Sam and I used to meet here in the warmer months. It was our little escape from the world. Our secret getaway when we couldn’t afford to leave town. Sometimes, I would sit with a notebook, trying to write something, while Sam was out swimming. If I close my eyes, I can hear him paddling in the water, see the blades of his glinting shoulders cut across the lake. But then I open them and see the glassy, flat surface of the water, and find myself alone again.

Stop thinking about Sam. Think about something else.

Writing often helps me keep my mind off things. I brought a notebook with me. But how do you write when it’s hard to focus? Maybe if I sit here long enough, something will come to me. I touch my pen to a blank page and wait for the words to pour out. We don’t have spaces for creative writing at school, so I try to do it on my own time. You never get the chance to write what you want in class anyway. I understand you have to know the rules before you break them, but writing should bring you joy, right? I think teachers forget that. Sometimes, I forget that. I hope college will be a different experience.

I should be hearing back from colleges soon. Reed College is my top choice. It’s where my mother went. You would think that might help me in this situation. “I don’t have the greatest reputation there, so I wouldn’t mention me,” my mother warned. “When you’re old enough, I’ll tell you the story. Other than that, Portland is a wonderful city. You’ll love it there.”

It doesn’t hurt that it’s only four hours away, so we won’t be too far from each other. I went through their course catalog the other day, and it’s full of creative writing classes, all taught by established writers from all over the world. I think I can be myself there, find out what I’m good at. Maybe I’ll end up writing a book for my creative thesis. But I’m thinking ahead of myself. I found out they need a writing sample from me. So even if I do get accepted to Reed, I might not make it into the program. I have some pieces of writing I could look through, but I’m worried none of them are good enough. I should work on something new. A strong sample that will impress them. But this last week has made it so hard to be creative. I can’t get Sam out of my head, no matter how hard I try. He won’t be there when I open my acceptance letter. He’ll never know if I get in.

An hour passes and the page remains blank. Maybe I should try reading instead, at least for inspiration. The yearbook sits beside me. I tried to leave it at the diner earlier, but the waitress followed me out and nearly threw it at my head. The cover is a tacky gray-and-blue design. I skim through some pages. Club and sport photos take up a good portion, but I skip through them entirely. Next are senior favorites, class clown and best friends, that I didn’t care to see who won. There were several people from our class who went around campaigning. A little embarrassing, if you ask me. The next section is senior portraits, but I don’t feel like looking through them. I skim all the way to the end until there’s nothing left but blank white pages for people to write in. And then I realize someone did, there on the second-to-last page. I guess Mika must have found time to sign it before she gave it to me. But then I look closer at the handwriting and notice it isn’t hers. No, it’s someone else’s. It takes me a second to recognize it. But that can’t be right.

Sam. It’s his handwriting, I know it. But how did he get ahold of this?

When was he able to write to me? I can’t seem to wrap my mind around it. I shouldn’t read this, at least not right now when I’m trying so hard to forget.

But I can’t help myself, my hands start to shake.

His voice fills my head.

Hey.

Just to make sure I beat everyone to it, I wanted to write in this first. I hope that’s some more proof of how much I’m in love with you. I still can’t believe it. How did three years go by so fast? It feels like yesterday I was sitting on the bus behind you trying to build the courage to say something. It’s crazy to think there was a time before we knew each other. A time before “Sam and Julie.” Or “Julie and Sam”? I’ll let you decide that one.