Dear Wigleaf,

Went to Maggie's senior recital yesterday. Saw Caitlin, sitting six rows ahead of me. I guess she goes to school there, studies graphic design. She looked the same. Same hair, same clothes. She has a ring in her nose now. Makes her look even uglier. I hadn't seen her in five, maybe six years. I wasn't sure if I wanted to say hello. I mean, part of me wanted to talk to her, but I knew that if I talked to her she'd call me that stupid fucking nickname, the one Nathan gave me in ninth grade, when he stole my student ID before I had a chance to pick it up from the front desk, drew glasses over my glasses, crossed out San and wrote Pooquist. Nathan and Emmett stopped calling me that name years ago, and they were the only two besides Caitlin who ever said it to begin with. But Caitlin's never let things go, she was always easily amused. She's every bit as awful as I remember. I knew exactly what she would say and how it would sound. Like some smug talking bird, squawking out that dumb denigrating bastardization of my last name in front of a lot of well-dressed, well-mannered young adults. Why did I tap her on the shoulder in the lobby after the performance? She didn't see me, I could have avoided her completely. I don't know. I must be some kind of masochist.


The music was fantastic, but the weather here's been unpredictable. John is shooting junk again. He's in Miami, if you see him say hello. Irene and Tucker ran off to Honolulu. Nina said her knee was swollen, but I don't know anything else. Have you heard from Claire? I saw her on a billboard last week, but she doesn't answer when I call.

Give my love to Richard. I'm thinking of you and him, always.


PS: What the fuck does a person need to go to a forty thousand dollar a year art school for to study graphic design?

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Read IS's "Clyde Smith Waltzes with Martin Luther...."

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