Jennifer—

I am well. I know you don’t really care, but I wanted to let you know just in case. The one you do care for, he is fine. He’s flirting outrageously with the girls here in Boston. You would have enjoyed being here with him, if only you weren’t on the other team. He probably would have talked to you, and I know how happy that makes you afterward. Right now, we’re on the bus heading back to our hotel, and he’s sitting in the back with his friends—I’ve decided to call them “the Juniors”—and he’s listening to music. I wonder what he’s listening to…from his Instagram I can tell he likes EDM, but who knows? Maybe I’ll scout his Spotify account later—just for you. I believe you can tell a lot about a person from what music he/she likes. In fact, my original assumption about you was based on the fact that you don’t really care for music.

But you don’t talk to me because my ramblings amuse you. I am your spy.

Until later,
Me.

Jennifer—

You’ll be green with envy. I heard him talking with his ex, and when we were at Shake Shack she rested her head on his shoulder. They’re pretty friendly now.

I don’t know why you even like him, Jen. He’s annoyingly perfect, you know. I overheard the chaperone talking about him the other day—she was so goddamn taken away. He’s brilliantly smart in almost everything—engineering, biology, physics, et cetera. He got a 5 in AP Chemistry, did you know that? I wish I was like him. And he’s kind, too. He was helping my friend with her chemistry homework—that’s how I found out his score—and apparently, he’s a candidate for the Human Niceness Award at our school, did you know? And he’s athletic. He does nearly every sport our school offers, except for basketball. That’s funny, isn’t it, that he doesn’t play the only sport that you do? He’s handsome—heck, his whole family is beautiful and perfect, haven’t you seen them in school? He’s funny. He’s outgoing, hardly awkward. It isn’t very fair. I can snap my fingers, and he’d have another friend. And you’re the only friend I have.

Soon,
Me.

Jennifer—

We have returned. The oddest thing happened on the plane home. He made a joke, and I don’t know if I was exhausted from the flight or a bit sad, but I laughed. No one from our school has made me laugh before.

He was sitting next to me on the plane, and he was asleep most of the time so I could look at him all I liked. He was dreaming; I could tell because his jaw would clench and unclench sometimes. His hair looks like it would be soft to the touch. Even when he sleeps he’s frustratingly perfect.

What are the chances—what is the genetic probability that such a perfect person could occur in this universe? I don’t know everything of course. There must be some way in which he isn’t perfect. But how would I know? He doesn’t know I exist. He hasn’t talked to me once, hasn’t acknowledged me once, even during our first competition together, he never noticed me—you know, it was the Geography Bee, and he was in eighth grade and I was in sixth. It’s been five years since. And the only knowledge I have of him is almost boring.

Jennifer, you do not understand.

Jennifer, he is more than a pretty face, and you should know this more than I do.

Jennifer, I don’t know if he’s a mystery or a god, and it bothers me that I don’t know.

Sincerely,
Me.

Jennifer—

I’m sorry if I made you angry, Your Highness. I had no right at all to subvert your authority by questioning your undying passion for him. To report for today, I must confess I could not find much. At tennis practice I’m more preoccupied with the tennis than with him, you understand. But it is strange—he talked to me today. I don’t think you’d care what we talked about. But I will tell you, I never had the opportunity to look him straight in the eyes until now, and I realized:

They are as dull a brown as my own.

Regards,
Me.

—By Rachel D., 15, Miami