Young Writers Society

Tish’s letter arrives the day before I’m due to go back to school. Every day since I sent my own letter, I’ve checked the letterbox almost compulsively, waiting to see if there’s any reply.

I’m not sure why I don’t just call her. In the week since I’d first had the idea to write to Tish, I’d started doubting whether sending letters was the amazing concept that I’d thought it was when I found the stationery set. Aside from in that very first week of living here, when the internet was still yet to be set up, there was nothing stopping me from sending her an email that said exactly what I’d told her in the letter, without the days of waiting for it to be sent and read and replied to. By the time a week had passed from originally setting pen to paper, I was half hoping that it had gotten lost in the post somewhere. Then I could send her a message and we’d get back in contact the way most people would.

Now, as I open the letterbox and see an envelope with my name on it, I realise that today was the first day I haven’t rushed to the letterbox at the sound of the postman going past. The only reason I’d come out here was because Evie was expecting something and sh’ed made me go and look. Nerves probably, with the prospect of school tomorrow. It seems to be the only thing with the ability to trump thinking about the letter I sent, and the guilt that I hadn’t gotten into contact with her before now. First day of school jitters are infinitely preferable to the way my stomach sinks whenever I look at all those unanswered texts.

On the back verandah, there’s an old swing couch contraption that the old owners of the house left behind. I curl up on one of the musty cushions to read Tish’s letter, the gentle movements of the seat under my weight taking me back to all those afternoons spent at Tish’s place where we’d play on the tyre swing suspended from a branch of the big jacarandah tree in her family’s backyard. When we’d first become friends in grade two we’d both fitted on there, and as I sit looking out at an unfamiliar and too-small backyard, I remember how we used to try to make the swing go as high as we could with only the movements of our legs. Squashed in the middle of that ancient tyre, we never managed to get any real momentum going, just a tiny back and forth, like a tree swaying in a breeze.

I drop my feet to the ground, stopping the movement of the couch. I’m sure there must be a proper name for the thing I’m sitting on, but I can’t think of it.

I open the letter carefully, mostly for Tish’s sake. She always used to open presents and envelopes so carefully, taking her time to make sure that she didn’t make the even tiniest tear in the paper. I can almost hear the sound of her voice saying Don’t rip it! as I push my nail under the seal, a sentence that I associate with birthday parties almost as much as happy birthday and thanks for coming.

As I’m pulling the letter out of envelope, the messy scrawl of Tish’s handwriting visible on the other side of the sheet of paper, I’m distracted by the slamming of the screen door to my left. I look over to see my sister, who returns my glance. She doesn’t look angry, so I’m guessing that the slamming door is more a consequence of Evie’s chronic loudness than anything else.

“Dad says we’ve got to walk to school tomorrow,” she says. “He said that you already knew but to tell you anyway, cos you still have to get your books and stuff organised.”

“I’ve already packed everything,” I reply. “Have you?”

Evie shrugs. “Mostly.”

She comes over to sit beside me, and the couch swing rocks backwards as she lands heavily. I’d never call my sister the queen of subtlety – she’s too loud and sudden and present to ever be called that. But she’s not always forthcoming, and her sitting silently beside me makes me worry. She pulls at the frayed edges of her denim shorts, twisting the thread between her fingers. Aside from that she’s still.

“What’s up, Eves?” I ask, nudging her arm gently.

She looks over at me, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She frowns, then says, “Nothing much.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” she says, and falls quiet. After a moment’s pause, she adds, “Just not sure what to expect tomorrow.”

“Me too,” I say. “But school’s school, I guess. Might be a bit bigger, but it’s still the same thing, right?”

I’m surprised by how convincing I can make myself sound. I’ve been running those words my head ever since we moved, trying to make myself believe them. Maybe I’m finally getting there.

“Guess so.” She doesn’t look much happier, but she gets up anyway and says, “I better go finish getting my stuff ready, I s’pose.”

“Good idea,” I say. She gives me a thin smile and walks back into the house, closing the door just as loudly as when she’d come out.

With Evie gone, I remember that I’m still holding Tish’s letter. I unfold it hastily, and then I begin to read.