Numbers have always made sense to you. It comforts you to solve an equation, to see numbers balance each other out. In high school, you got As in all of your classes, but math was the class you really looked forward to. You sat in the front row of the classroom and always volunteered first when the teacher asked for someone to solve an equation on the chalkboard. You would write out the solution in your clear, precise handwriting, smiling to yourself as the teacher nodded and said, with a sense of wonder in her voice, “Very good, Angela.”

You were grateful to have numbers to comfort you when your best friend decided that she would rather hang out with more popular girls, girls who smoked and skipped class. You went to the library alone and flipped through college-level textbooks, finding that you were able to solve most of the problems in the books, which made you feel a little better. You started eating your lunch on a bench, alone, far away from the noisy, crowded cafeteria.

One day a boy with dark hair and green eyes asked if he could join you on the bench. He pointed to your Calculus book and raised his eyebrows, impressed. His name was Bobby and you started eating lunch together every day. He was funny and kind and became your first kiss. You let him call you Angie. One night he took you to see a movie and afterwards, in his car, he started unbuttoning your blouse. When you said no, he tried again. When you, finally, slapped him he smiled, cruelly. He shook his head and muttered something about Marissa winning. Marissa was the most popular girl in your high school and you wondered what he was talking about. Instead of asking him, you demanded that he drive you home. You stayed up all night, solving math problems in your books and wiping away tears.

The next day at school, you passed Bobby and Marissa, standing close together in the hallway. As you walked by, they snickered. You had to rush to the bathroom. You didn’t want anyone to see you cry. As you entered the bathroom, you passed your former best friend. She stood in front of the mirror, applying lipstick and laughing with another girl. For some reason, she looked guilty when she saw you and told the other girl that she would meet her in the hallway in a second. She filled you in. Told you that Bobby and Marissa were friends and that she had bet him that he couldn’t get you to let him feel you up. Bobby had gone one step farther. He had bet Marissa that he could get you to sleep with him. Your best friend left and you never saw her again. You went home that night and begged your parents to enroll in Catholic school.

Dear Pam,
I am writing this to you in History class, because Mr. Harrison told us to study quietly, which I’m pretty sure means that he was too busy with Miss Wright last night and didn’t write a lesson plan. (Is that gross or romantic? I can’t decide.) Anyway, I was wondering if you were going to come to the movies with me, Jill, and Cassie tonight. We haven’t decided what we are going to see, but Cassie heard that Craig Brooks works there now and she has the hugest crush on him. So we will probably just stand around outside the movie theater trying to talk Cassie into entering the theater and talking to him. Lame, I know, but it will be so much more fun if you come! So please do! Oh, and Mr. Harrison has your drawing of Abraham Lincoln hanging behind his desk. The one you did in, like, twenty minutes? I can’t believe he let you do that instead of writing a paper like the rest of us! Ok, bell just rang and I’m going to meet you in the hallway and give this to you! LYLAS!- Melissa

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Dear Pam,
Hi! I am writing you back in Science class, because we are learning about atoms and it’s either write you or fall asleep. (Plus, I needed to tell you some things!) Firstly (is that a word?), congrats on getting second place in the school art show! I know you are upset that you didn’t get first, but Joey Thompson just moved here from New York, and he went to some fancy art school there. I think he’s really cute, in a dark brooding kind of way. Second, it is only the beginning of senior year and my mother is already nagging me to apply to colleges. Is yours? Where are you applying? I am trying to decide between going to New York or Philadelphia. New York would be amazing! You should apply to art school in New York and we can be roommates! Wouldn’t that be awesome? I haven’t even decided what my major will be, though. Third, are you going to the Homecoming dance? Should we all try to get dates, since Cassie will be going with Craig? Or should we blow it off? I think we should go and just make fun of everyone. (Especially Cassie and Craig!) LYLAS!-Melissa

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Pam-

Writing this in a rush, because I don’t want anyone to see it. Roy Anderson just asked me if you had a date for Homecoming! Pam, he is the most popular guy in school right now. I am sure he’s going to ask you to go to the dance with him! Why would he ask me if you had a date if he wasn’t planning to ask you? I am so excited for you! You must tell me the minute he talks to you! - Melissa

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Pam!

I just read you letter and, of course, I will go shopping with you to find a dress for the dance! I am so excited for you! I haven’t decided yet if I am going to go or not. Tell Roy that I really don’t think I want to go with his brother, Kenny (isn’t he way older than we are, anyway? I think he graduated with my brother Mike, and he just turned 28). Tell him I said thanks, though. I cannot believe that Joey Thompson asked you to the dance, too! I agree with you, though. There is no way that you could tell Roy Anderson that you changed your mind. Even if you and Joey do have a lot more in common. LYLAS! Melissa

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Dear Pam,

Wow, last night was crazy. I cannot believe that we went to a party on a school night. A party with an actual keg! Who were those people anyway? Kenny’s friends? It’s okay that you had to leave early after Roy got in a fight with that guy. I got a ride home with Gina and Steve, who are actually pretty nice. What happened though? What did that guy say to you that made Roy jump on him like that? It was pretty scary. I think he had to get stitches. Write me back! LYLAS, Melissa

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Pam,
I just read your letter and, yes, I did get into NYU. I decided that I am going to major in English Literature. I guess I can always be a teacher! I am sad that you decided not apply to art school because Roy said that art wasn’t a real job. Are you really going to stay in Scranton and go to community college? I hope you are not doing that just because you think that you are in love with Roy. I’m sorry to say this, but you are my best friend and I don’t want you to do what some guy tells you to do. Call me sometime, ok? I know that you are super busy with Roy and his friends, but I miss you. Still LYLAS- Melissa

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Dear Pam,

I put this in your mail box because, apparently, you are not speaking to me. I’m sorry that I upset you. I am leaving for NYU in two weeks and I would love to see you sometime before that. Of course, I didn’t mean it when I told you that I thought Roy was a loser. It just made me really mad how he rolled his eyes when you mentioned that you were going to sign up for art classes in the fall. I understand that he was just upset because he totaled his car, but I still don’t think he takes you seriously. Art was always your thing. You were going to go to art school. Now what? You are taking typing classes because his mother thinks it’s the sensible thing to do? Please call me. Love, Melissa

You’re not sure how it happened. You aren’t even exactly sure when it began. Most important, you aren’t really sure that you’re all that happy with the way things have turned out. But it doesn’t matter, because it’s done: You have become the guy who girls go to for advice. Which doesn’t really sound that bad, because, you know, at least girls are talking to you. The thing is they don’t really seem to see you as an actual guy, one they could possibly date. It’s almost as if, to them, you’re asexual. And the thought makes you shudder. At first it was just your friend Chris’s girlfriend, Jenny. And that made sense, because you do know Chris pretty well. But then, she must have told her friends how great you were at helping her, because now they’re all coming to ask you stuff.

It’s always when they’re having a fight with their boyfriend or have a crush on some loser who won’t give them the time of day. They tell you the situation and then you offer them words of wisdom. Or so they say. You sure don’t feel wise though, because you can’t get a date to save your life. Lately, as you sit with some girl on the steps in front of the library or on the swings at the park you have to force yourself to actually listen to what she’s saying. She’ll be going on and on about how he just doesn’t understand her and never does anything romantic. Eventually it escalates and she’s starting to cry and asking why she can’t be prettier or skinnier or, occasionally, smarter. It’s getting harder and harder for you to nod quietly and smile sympathetically like you usually do, because lately you have the strongest urge to just grab her, whoever she is. Not in a rough, violent way, but a loving, even passionate way. You want to hold her and wipe her tears away and explain to her that she is perfect as she is and anyone who doesn’t appreciate that isn’t worth her time. You, honestly, don’t think you will ever actually do it. You have resigned yourself to just being “the friend.”

Your guy friends are all suspicious of you, sure that you must know all sorts of juicy secrets about them. And, for the most part, you do. You know John has given his girlfriend of a year, Lindsay an ultimatum: Put out by Junior Prom or he’s taking someone else. You know that Mitch owes his girlfriend, Dana almost $100 - money that she lent him to buy weed. You even know that Paul has been pressuring his girlfriend Linda to get engaged, because she’s supposed to go to Europe with her parents over summer break and he wants to be sure that she won’t cheat on him. And you know that she doesn’t think she is in love with him anyway, and probably will cheat on him in Europe. You laugh when they ask you what you know. Sometimes you raise your eyebrows and smile mischievously to mess with them.

One night you go with your friends to some party. Apparently, someone’s parents went out of town or something and everyone is in the house, getting drunk on cheap beer and dancing to crappy music. You are hanging out in the backyard, by your self, even though it’s early-March and you’re shivering in your coat. You are smoking a joint that you bought from one of your friends for a couple of dollars and sitting on a wooden bench swing. Looking up you notice that the moon is full. It crosses your mind that full moons can cause people to act crazy.

“Hey, Toby.”

Lindsay’s standing before you with a sad smile on her face, her cheeks are flushed from the cold and her dark hair is blowing back off her face. She’s mesmerizing and you stare at her too long, causing her to look down at her shoes, awkwardly.

“Hey . . . so you want to sit?” You are preparing yourself to hear all about a fight that she and John had, but something gives you a tiny glimmer of hope that it might be something else. Or maybe you’re just stoned.

She walks toward you tentatively and sits down beside you. She’s shivering in her sweater and you wonder where her coat is. Without thinking, you remove your own and place it over her shoulders. She smiles, making eye contact for what feels like minutes but is probably mere seconds.

“Thanks. I’m not sure where mine went. John took it from me when we got here. I’m quite sure he’s making out with Jamie Seidler right now in there.” She shrugs and lifts the corners of her mouth in an attempted smile.

You sit in silence for ten or, maybe, fifteen minutes. You swing on the bench a little and gaze up at the stars, wondering if there are any constellations visible. Eventually, Lindsay speaks again.

“I wish he were more like you.” Her voice is quiet, almost a whisper. You wonder if you heard her right.

"You like me, don't you, Toby?" She says it like she already knows the answer and for a minute you consider denying it.

"Yes." You nod a little as you say it.

Suddenly, Lindsay is moving closer to you on the bench. She stops when her lips are less than an inch from your's. You can feel her breath, warming your face. You can smell her shampoo. She smells like a girl - flowery and clean. It occurs to you that she is so close, if you exhaled your lips would be touching hers. She is waiting for you to kiss her. Instead, you stand.

"What's wrong, Toby? Are you worried about John? I told you, he's making out with Jamie."

You start to laugh, though there is nothing you find funny.

"No, it's just...I'm not that guy, Lindsay. I mean, yeah, I like you. Of course..." You shove your hands into your pockets, partly because they're freezing, partly because you don't want her to see that they are starting to shake.

"I'm just not the guy that you make out with to get back at your boyfriend. Or the one that you use to make yourself feel better. Come on, you know that's not me. No, I'm the other guy. The one you talk to about things. I'm that guy that listens and nods and goes home alone. So, sorry, but ...no."

You aren't sure what to do or say after your self-righteous little speech, so you walk back to the house. You go inside and search for someone who isn't drunk and you ask them to take you home. On Monday, Lindsay approaches you in the hallway to return your coat and you see John waiting for her. As they walk away he puts his arm around her. You know you did the right thing.

And, yet, you regret it. You really do. In fact, nearly 25 years later, after a marriage, a divorce, and a child, you still regret not kissing that girl on the bench swing under the full moon.

Pressing your face up against the window, you watch as houses fly by. You and your mother are riding silently in the car, on your way to Richie Thompson’s house for his tenth birthday party. You can barely breathe. Your nostrils are filled with the scent of your mother’s musky perfume and cigarette smoke. She is taking long drags and blowing the smoke toward the top of her window, which she has cracked about half an inch. You wonder why she bothered to crack it at all. Most of it blows right over to you. You pull at the red bow that your mother stuck to the top of Richie’s present, as you gather the courage to ask her the question that you have been wanting to ask her all week, since report cards were given out. You have been waiting for her to be alone. You have been waiting for a moment when she isn’t busy cooking or watching television or writing out bills . . . or, frequently, arguing with Jeff. And, here, in the car, seems to be the perfect time. So you take a deep breath and decide to go for it.

“Hey, Mom?”

She tilts her head in your direction, keeping her eyes on the road.

“Hey, Mikey?” She matches your tone exactly, which makes you smile.

“Remember how we talked about Magic Camp last year? You said that I couldn’t go because I got a C in Math, but that if I got good grades this year, I could go?”

You hear her sigh. She sounds tired, sad. “Yes, Mikey, I remember.”

“Well, it’s just that it’s time to sign up for this year’s camp and I figured that since I got straight ‘A’s . . . ” You stop talking as she pulls up in front of Richie’s house and puts the car in park. Your stomach drops when you see some of the kids from school running around the front yard. Richie, dressed as a cowboy, is chasing them with a toy gun.

“Here we are!” Your mother sings, leaning over to kiss you on the forehead and straighten the bow tie she insisted you wear.

“But . . . Magic Camp. Can I go? Please?”

“I don’t know, sweetie. I’m going to have to talk to Jeff about it. Honestly, I don’t think we can afford it. You know that they are cutting everyone’s hours at the diner and Jeff’s been wanting to get a new car. This one breaks down every other week, it seems.”

You are staring at her, willing her to look at you, which she seems oblivious to. She pushes the last of her cigarette through the window, letting it drop in the road. You blink your eyes, as if that will hold back the tears. Since you had first heard about Magic Camp from Steven Wilson last May, you thought of little else. It had become your sole reason for existing. You worked hard in school to get good grades, so that you could go to Magic Camp. You did all of your chores without complaining, and even, sometimes, did extra ones, so that you could go to Magic Camp. You fantasized about becoming a rich and famous magician, about having beautiful assistants, who let you cut them in half and make them disappear. You imagined wearing a sequined costume that made you look almost like a super hero. If you were rich and famous, you could buy a mansion and wouldn’t have to live with Jeff anymore. Then, maybe, your mother would decide that she loves you more than him and leave him to come live with you in your mansion. None of these things could possibly happen without Magic Camp, however.

“But . . . Mom.” You can feel the tears beginning to roll down your cheeks and it occurs to you that you simply cannot cry in front of Richie Thompson’s house. For your mother, it seems to be working, though. You see her expression soften.

“Look, baby, why don’t we talk about it later. I’ll talk to Jeff. Maybe I can convince him, ok? Just go have fun with your friends.”

Just the sound of his name makes your face burn. You know he won’t let you go.

“No. I want to go to magic camp. I need to. I don’t care about Jeff. I hate him. And I don’t even want to go to this stupid party. I just want to go to magic camp.”

Your mother digs through her purse before pulling out a wadded up tissue. She uses it to dab at your nose and wipe the tears away. Even through your anger at her, you wonder if it’s used, if she blew her nose with it. The thought makes you sick. She rests her hand on your cheek.

“Come on, Mikey. Give me a smile.”

You glare at her, giving her the meanest look you can conjure up. Then, pulling the door open, you step out of the car, taking Richie’s present with you. You realize that you don’t even know what it is. Your mother bought it and wrapped it without even showing you. You stand blinking at the edge of the yard, as your mother drives away.

Just then, Richie runs up to you and presses the metal toy gun directly between your eyes. Right before he pulls the trigger, causing it to make a loud, popping sound, you hear one of the other boys yell, “Look, it’s Michael! And look, he’s wearing a bow tie! What a nerd!” You drop the mystery present to the ground and race after the beat up green car that Jeff is so desperate to replace. You run and run, even as it becomes a tiny speck in the distance and the soles of your dress shoes slip occasionally on the gravel.