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you’re afraid to say them,” he replied simply. “Write what you feel. Just be open and honest with me. Do you think you can do that?”
    I wasn’t prepared for such raw honesty, and it shocked me. I turned from him to stare straight ahead through the windshield, dumbstruck. That was it? He wanted me to just write down what I felt about him? What did that mean? What would I write? What could I write? Surely not the truth!
    Realizing that time only stood still in my head, I finally managed a response.
    “Yeah,” I said quietly. “I think I can handle that. Is that it?”
    Mr. Stevens smiled, and I thought I saw a hint of relief in his eyes, as if a heavy weight had been lifted off his shoulders. The tension around his mouth and eyes eased a bit, and his shoulders dropped. The light turned green and we continued on our way without speaking again. When we pulled up next to the curb at Liz’s house, I gathered my swim bag and school books. I could feel Mr. Stevens’ gaze lingering on my every move, and wondered if he’d say anything else. I slid out of the truck without a word, though, and turned back to wave. Mr. Stevens’ eyes locked with mine, and I was taken aback by the intensity and tenderness in his eyes. He hadn’t said anything when I left the truck, but his eyes left little doubt in my mind. I had been right the first time – he wanted my letter to say what he felt in his own heart.
    This relationship wasn’t only playing out in my mind.
    I practically pranced to the front door, my heart hammering away in my chest, and rapped smartly on the window pane. Just wait until Liz heard about this !
    ***
    Liz was lying cozily on her bed in her flannel pajamas, despite the heat of the day, recovering from her throat infection. Her face lit up when she saw me walk through her bedroom door. I rushed in without thinking and tripped over a pile of her clothes on the floor in my excitement. Before I knew it, I was bouncing up and down on her bed and making her laugh out loud.
    “Doesn’t your mom make you clean this place up?” I complained, although I couldn’t quite muster annoyance. “You’ve got crap all over the floor. I can barely make out the color of the carpet!”
    “No one’s as anally retentive as you are, Isabel,” Liz countered with a hoarse voice, “Some of us are normal.”
    I told her about the events of the day and the ride home, in specific detail, and went on to tell her what I thought the whole day might mean. We spent much of the afternoon talking about the letter I would write to Mr. Stevens and going through the possible formats. I wanted to take a more reserved approach, hinting at my feelings and leaving the door open for Mr. Stevens to respond. I mean, what if his intentions were totally innocent and he just wanted me to share my feelings about school, friends, and teenage difficulties? If I poured out my true feelings and he didn’t share them, I would be humiliated. Liz said that she didn’t think his intentions were innocent.
    “Teachers don’t just randomly ask students to write them letters and tell them what they’re feeling,” she replied quickly. “If you were having problems, then sure. If you were on drugs or skipping out on school or your mom and dad were going through a separation, maybe. But you’re a great student and you’re on your way to college. Your family life is terrific. What on earth would he want you to write about other than your feelings for him ?” She paused for a moment, letting that sink in. “You should be completely honest with him,” she finally concluded. “The only way you’re going to make anything happen is by telling him how you feel.”
    I listened carefully and reluctantly agreed. Liz was right, after all – if I wanted something to happen, I had to tell him so. He wasn’t going to guess it. Knowing that, though, didn’t make it any easier.
    ***
    I spent hours composing the letter later that evening. I had eaten two ham and