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Marcus was the kid in their delinquent crew. They called him Krispy Kreme because he was always blunted, or in other words “burnt to a crisp.” And also because in our school, having sex with girls was called “getting donuts,” the donut being a crude reference to the female genitalia, of course. Even at the tender age of fifteen, Marcus had already honed his stonah lovah man persona, as my friend Bridget puts it. He's never had a problem getting girls to fall for him.

I remember seeing Marcus hanging around Heath and his drug buddies, and he made me nervous because he was in our grade and yet seemed so much more experienced, which he was in every way. He never so much as blinked at Hope and me, and yet I found out from him later that he was paying more attention than I could have ever imagined, eavesdropping on our conversations through the thin wall that separated the siblings' bedrooms.

Then Heath died of a heroin overdose and everything changed. Hope's parents decided that she needed a change of scenery, and moved a thousand miles away to her grandmother's huge farmhouse in a tiny town in Tennessee. I was bereft. She was the only person who made Pineville tolerable, and I was left to stagger through the rest of my high school years stunned and alone. That is, until Marcus made his move.

The first time he spoke to me was outside our school counselor's office, where we'd been sent for separate juvenile infractions. I used to think that Marcus approached me in his sexy, serpentine way because he was bored and needed a challenge. Like, “Hey, can I use what I know to get in the goody-goody's pants?” He confessed as much to me one New Year's Eve when I had finally decided to indeed give up my virginity to him. But we didn't sleep together that night, and it was another year and a half before we did.

As the years have gone by, I've been startled by a revelation that a younger, callow Jessica wasn't capable of making: Marcus had lost someone, too. Heath was a friend to him as much as Hope was to me, after all. And Heath was gone forever. Perhaps, unbeknownst even to himself, Marcus wanted to get close to me as a way of remembering someone he cared about. Marcus was just another wandering soul, like me, missing his friend and trying to find solace in another.

And I hope he found it for a while.

But this isn't the story I meant to tell. The one I was thinking of is this:

The first time I became aware of Marcus Flutie, he was showing off in Hope's kitchen, trying to juggle a raw egg, a bowling pin, and a squeaky toy in the shape of a T-bone steak that belonged to the family dog, Dalí. I don't know if he was high or uncoordinated or both, but after one or two successful hand-to-hand tosses, the egg was sent flying through the air and landed with a smash on the floor. I remember watching this heavy-lidded, wild-haired boy stand there with his guilty hands thrust deep in his pockets. He didn't move as Hope knelt on the linoleum with a paper towel and cleaned up his mess.

I remember glaring at Marcus Flutie and thinking, “You are trouble.”

* * *

July 31st

Dear Hope,

Wow. The photos you sent truly capture your joie de vivre. (I wish I could have turned a more interesting phrase en français, but I'm having a hard enough time thinking in English lately.) Everything about France—the art, the food, the wine, the men—sounds awesome.

So you'll forgive me (again) for another lame-ass letter. My life isn't nearly as interesting as yours is right now, and all I really wanted to do here was thank you for sharing it with me.

Appreciatively yours,

J.

* * *

* * *

July 31st

Dear Marcus,

I wrote you a letter last month that never reached you. It's better that it didn't because I wrote about a lot of things that you don't need to know about.

I got your current address from your parents, so I know this one will arrive as it should.

The thing is, now that I know you'll get this, I'm not sure what to say. I don't know how