Synopsis: A precocious 7-year-old boy drafts a letter to his frenemy the day before he moves out of state.
In 18 hours you will leave Vermont. Your family's U-haul is packed and padlocked, hedges trimmed, grass mowed for the new owners. Once again, your dad's assiduousness on display, a trait that has surely won him favor with the neighborhood association over the years.
In 17 hours you will receive this letter. It will crush your world and for that I am not sorry. After reading it, you'll have 1 hour in which to pummel me. But, you won't. You're not clever enough to pull it off. So, time will run out and your dad, incredibly prompt as he is, will angrily usher you into your crappy Taurus wagon, tears of frustration trickling down your girlish face. Tears? Yes, read on.
Let it be known that I was never your friend. I spoke nicely to you, surrendered my toys (and the occasional hotdog, Twinkie) and placated you so as not to get punched too often. My doctor says I'm slightly anemic - that is why I bruise easily. But understand, what I lack in constitution, I make up for in survival skills. You would know this if you punched less, talked more.
We may both be in the 2nd grade, but you are 50% heavier, two years older and ten inches taller than me. I know your mom says you were slow to mature. I know you interpret this in a Tortoise vs. Hare sort of way, but I'm here to inform you that your failure to timely advance to the 4th grade is because you are stupid. I'm not calling you stupid to insult, I'm above pettiness. I'm calling you stupid to point out the fact that you're broadly low-functioning, face a blight of career opportunities and are probably still trying to calculate how much I weigh based on the aforementioned 50%. Google "Algebra" (my parents are teaching me this because I'm not stupid). The only race you may win is first to heart disease as my doctor recently informed me that a hotdog-based diet is a quick path to a coronary.
The role of toady was one I never aspired to. In your absence, I will be able to clean up my image at Alfred S. Higgens Elementary. It will not be easy, but I have the determination and authenticity of character to repair relations with the kids you constantly terrorized (and had me terrorize). I won't take the easy path by blaming you. To each kid I will own up to my involvement, apologize and make amends. By being unexpectedly genuine and candid I will earn levels of trust that would have been unattainable without your constant brutality. So, thank you for that. I will forward pictures of me getting along swimmingly with the formerly oppressed at their respective birthday parties. I will request an extra piece of cake and eat it on your behalf, continually re-celebrating your departure in a jovial venue.
Remember that time when you ripped the head off Jenny's dolly just to watch her cry? How you threatened me, told me if I didn't hold her in place, force her to watch, you'd smack me in the nuts with your protractor? Or that that time when you forced me to eat that petrified dog turd, said if I didn't you'd smack me in the nuts with your Trapper Keeper? Or how about that time, my mom finally gave me ice cream money, and you decorated my sundae with boogers, said if I told you'd smack me in the nuts with your lunchbox? My compliance with your demands had nothing to do with earning your respect. My entire motivation was a desire to protect my future progeny from genetic mutation caused by early blunt force trauma.
I think you'd be interested to know I've been getting a head-start on my music career. My plan is to become a recorder soloist (again, you'd know this if not so focused on my genitalia). Emerging musical trends seem to favor basic melodies, perhaps a response to the chaos of our times. In anticipation of this trend, I've developed my first composition entitled "Jimmy is a Sack of Crap". It sounds like Hot Cross Buns except that one part where you bang on the "G" four times in a row, I'll bang on it six time while Jenny (btw, I helped her reattach her dolly's head) sings background, harmonizing with my sweet melody about how much of a sack of crap you are. I will put my neck-strap on. I will stand up very straight (so that air gets through my lungs easily). I will clench my trusty instrument (steady, deep breath). I will upload the performance to Dtube.
I will end here because, SURPRISE!... you have about 2 minutes left before your family departs (I've been studying how long it takes you to read "See Spot Run" in class and calibrated this letter's length and complexity to arrive at this specific point). I must admit though, I hope you come looking for me, delay the family's departure by a few minutes. If I am blessed by your intemperate response to this letter, then I thank you in advance for permitting me to watch your dad slap the crap out of you. Please know I'll be watching the drama unfold as I stroke your lucky rabbit's foot (I stole it last week) while eating a Twinkie perched in an elevated, clandestine location. I will record your tantrum with my mom's phone, append it to my musical composition and share it broadly around Alfred S. Higgens Elementary cementing your legacy as the moronic crybaby that was kicked out of Vermont due to a virulent (and potentially deadly) version of lice (I began seeding the rumor last week).
This Cake's For You,
- all story images are taken from either pixabay.com or google images (licensed for reuse) and are free to use under creative commons
- original story - content belongs to Daniel Shortell