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to say or how to say it, so I have put it off. Now I realize that I will never know exactly what to say or how to say it
.
    I am profoundly sorry for the loss of your son. He was a good friend to me, and I mean that. I wish I could have been the person who saved Thomas’s life that day, rather than a person who was with him when he died. It all
happened so fast. I guess you know that the rock is now off-limits, and that is good because it is dangerous and we never should have jumped from it
.
    People like to say that boys will be boys. But I have never liked that expression, because it sounds like an excuse. I have no excuse to offer you, just my heartfelt apology and my sympathy
.
    Most sincerely,
Alexander Stromm
    P.S. Please extend my sympathies to Trenton
.
    SUNDAY, OCTOBER 15, 8:48 P.M .
    Green Fields
    And Thomas was a good friend. The fact that he was an uncomplicated guy made him that way. You could argue with Thomas over the littlest stuff, and even if it snowballed into a fight, he wouldn’t hold it against you. Like a lot of people, he liked arguing for the sake of arguing. His father was a hotshot litigator, so he came by it honestly.
    Like I wrote in the essay, Thomas and I really did go down to the river to fish sometimes, and although we talked about doing it, we never brought along anything illegal (i.e., pot) when it was just the two of us. We played by the rules, and that was nice because we didn’t have to worry about Dean Mansfield jumping out of the bushes during one of his “nature walks,” as he calls them, although we call them “patrol strolls.” Thomas would pack us a lunch (peanut butter crackers, Snickers bars, a couple of apples), and I would take care of the bait. We didn’t fly-fish—too many trees—so I dugup worms and grubs in the early morning after a rain. Although I never told Thomas this, I felt like we were Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer before Injun Joe entered the picture.
    As far as Great American Novels go, put me down for
Huckleberry Finn
. It’s a hell of a lot better than
Moby-Dick
; I am having a hard time getting past the first chapter of that one. I read the library’s copy sometimes when I get writer’s block. Miss Dovecott says that schools don’t teach it anymore because there isn’t time enough during the academic year to cover all of the Greats. It makes her sad that such a fine novel collects dust on a shelf. It’s good for me, though, because a big book gives me something to hide behind.
    Green Fields Gone
    This afternoon in my room that I used to share with Clay, I copy the letter onto stationery with my name across the top, but what if it makes Mrs. Broughton cry? What if she and Mr. Broughton already hate me forever? I had not had the guts to offer them my condolences in person, and as soon as I drop the letter through the mail slot, I regret it.
    The Artists
    As I’m walking back from the post office, Miss Dovecott catches up with me. “Maybe you have a minute or two,” she says, pointing to a bench in the quadrangle. Another cold, hard bench. I feel sick to my stomach.
    “I’ll get straight to the point,” she says. The point is that she finds my writing exciting. My most recent essay revealed to her that of all the students she teaches, I am the most observant. I have the sensitivity of a person twice my age. Shebelieves that I feel things with my heart that I’m unable to put into words. She calls me a natural-born poet. As she says all of these things that no one has ever said to me before, she follows my eyes with hers, which are dark and deep like pockets.
    “You are on my side,” she says.
    “What side is that?” I ask.
    “The winning side,” she says, and smiles. “The team of artists.”
    “Who are we playing?”
    “The barbarians,” she says. “We are always playing them.”
    The Barbarians
    Glenn is waiting for me—in my room—when I return from the quadrangle. He is sitting at my desk, and the middle drawer is open.
    “You are