Hello,” I say. “I’m trying to reach someone with the first initial A.”
“Uh, my name is Annie,” she responds. “Who’s this?”
“I know this is going to sound weird, but did you lose a journal with a red cover?”
“Who is this?” she repeats.
James, I should say. But instead I say, “It’s the future.”
There’s a long pause during which she’s probably wondering who’s this weird kid calling her. Finally, she asks me the address written on the inside back cover, and I tell her.
“That’s my old address,” she says.
“Do you mind if I ask how old you are?”
“Nineteen,” she says.
“How old were you when you kept your journal?”
“Thirteen.”
“That’s how old I am,” I tell her.
“Thirteen seems like a long time ago,” she says.
“How are you?” I ask. “Are you happy?”
“Happy enough,” she answers.
“I mean, no one’s happy all the time, right?”
“You can say that again.”
“How are you, Dear Future?”
I want to tell her everything I’m worried about. I want to tell her about spacing out at school and how we had to move. I want to tell her that my dad is D-E-P-R-E-S-S-E-D. I want to ask her if everything will be OK. But I don’t know how to say what I really want to say.
“How are you?” she asks again.
“Some days are better than others.”
“Sounds familiar,” she says. “How’s today?”
I look at Mom, sitting cross-legged on the floor, absorbed in another book. She looks up, notices me, and touches her ear as if to say, “Hey, enough with the phone.” With my free hand, I raise my bag filled with books to show her. She smiles.
“Are you still there?” Annie asks.
“I’m here.”
“So, how’s today?”
“Today started off awful,” I reply. “But it’s better now.”
This isn’t going to be one of those stories about how two strangers become pen pals or best friends or anything like that. Annie thanks me for calling, gives me her new address, and asks if I wouldn’t mind mailing her the journal.
“Sometimes, I miss the past,” she says, “even if it wasn’t always easy.”