Dear Britney,
I'm sorry for not writing the past month. I was so busy trying to finish everything I needed for the school year-end. Anyway, have you watched the news lately? NASA (the weather forecast in the Philippines) confirmed that today officially marks the start of summer 2017 here in the Philippines. How's the weather there?
By the way, today I'm packing for camp. Mom is sitting on my bed right now, watching me pack my clothes, like she's scared I'll sneak in a cigarette or marijuana. I usually pack enough clothes whenever I'm out of town, and this time, I planned to pack just enough clothes for the week. But mom insists I pack extra clothes, which makes me feel like she wants me to stay longer than a week, since mother is always right, I packed three more shirts and one pants.
Anyway, do you remember the last letter I wrote? About my friends planning to make me attend this stupid summer camp for my 17th birthday? Yep, that's why I'm packing today. Oh, and if you remember, I'm turning 17 in three days. I already planned to spend my birthday exclusively with mom, but my two good friends ruined it! And I still can't believe my mom agreed!
Ugh! I feel trapped.
"I know you're still mad at me," Mom says.
"I'm not. I'm just annoyed." I say.
"You have to learn how to interact with people. I remember when you were a kid, you liked entertaining people—you liked singing and dancing."
Why does mom worry just because I'm a social outcast? There are plenty of people out there who are introverts like me. Besides, my friend Zara is an introverted too. Yes, she's an introvert—you don't have to read that again! She knows how to socialize, but being in a crowded place makes her sick. She prefers reading and being alone in her room than going to a party. And guess what? Her mom doesn't worry about her.
I know what you're thinking, Brit—we're different. I just don't like being around people.
I roll my eyes and sit on my bed. "I was a kid. I didn't know the word shy back then—like Adam and Eve before eating the forbidden…"
Mom cuts me off. "Stop the nonsense, Elise. Why do you need seven pairs of pants? Just two and bring some denim shorts."
"You're the one who told me to pack an extra and I don't like wearing those! They're too short, and besides, two pairs of pants would be enough for a week!" I protest.
"That's why they call them shorts."
She puts denim shorts in my bag and a pair of white shorts, then picks out clothes I only wore once—a pink sleeveless top with a glittery heart in the middle. I remember it was a birthday present from someone I can't remember. She also packs a red dress I wore during her last recital.
…
I miss that day. It was two years ago, and you were there with me, watching mom take the stage while we sat in the audience. Mom was an excellent pianist but gave it up three years ago. She looked so happy and gorgeous. She wore her biggest smile during the entire performance, staring at dad. I never knew that would be just a memory someday.
…
I grab the heart shirt, but Mom resists.
"Mom, please no."
"It's a beautiful shirt."
"And the dress?" I ask.
"I think you'll need it."
"Why that dress? Where would I need that on an island?"
"It's a beautiful dress. Besides, honey, stop wearing the same clothes every day as if you have nothing else, okay?"
She leans her head on her shoulder, looking restless.
"It'll just be me in this house." she says.
"Mom, you're the one who forced me to go with my friends. Besides, it's just a week."
I roll my eyes and sit next to her. Mom kisses me on the forehead.
"You're growing up so fast."
I love my mom. It's been just the two of us since I was born. Not that I grew up without a dad – I do, but dad been working overseas. Sometimes I don't like her—she can't understand my sense of fashion. And I love my friends, but they're the ones who put me in a situation I can't bear to think about. I feel like dying just thinking about being around the gays for one effin' week! I don't understand why people love that gay band crying on the mic.
"I guess that's enough." Mom says.
"That's too much for a week. It feels like you don't want me to come home."
"It's better."
She leaves my room. Arya messages in our group chat, but I ignore it and lie on my bed. I wonder, why do they call their group 'The Pedal'? Of all the words they could choose, why pedals? Ugh! I hate pop music—most of the artists whine and cry, begging for love and sex. Or maybe The Pedal is just what I hate. I don't even like saying their group name out loud—even in my head.
Why doesn't 'Neck Deep' sound weird to me? Is there anyone with a neck that's deep? Or 'Pierce the Veil'—why would they pierce a veil? Or 'Panic! At the Disco'—why would people panic at a disco? Is there a bomb? Hmm… maybe I'm just being biased there, oops…
I miss having these kinds of arguments with you, Brit. You love country music so much that you almost know its history. You love every country musician, while I find them old-fashioned and too western. But you love the banjo, harmonica, and tambourine so much that you pleaded with your mom to buy you each of those instruments and learned to play them on the internet. Honestly, I thought you really didn't want to learn any instruments, but because I can play guitar and piano, you felt inferior. Don't be mad at my honesty. Besides, I envy your voice—you have better vocal quality than I do.
Okay, that's all for tonight. I'm tired.
Good night,
Elise