I learned this morning that Cory got married at the end of July. This was approximately the date that his fiancee "Nadia," who was also carrying his child, told me they would wed when she contacted me last year.

…Only the chick Cory married is named Rhonda. I'll let you draw your own conclusions from that.

I wrote an email earlier that attempted to explain my feelings about this news. What I was best able to say was that I wasn't jealous or sad or even shocked. It just altered my perception of the world a bit, largely because some people from our pasts are meant to sit on shelves, never aging or changing from the way we used to see them.

And Cory was obviously one of those people for me. Along with the student teacher from my 11th grade English class and the guy from Oregon with whom I used to chat for hours on IRC, Cory was one of roughly five people who could be called upon to represent my adolescence. His role was that of a silly crush but also of someone who made me more selfless. I remember crying for him once because I thought he was given a shitty deal in life but still had the aura of someone who loved everything that life had to offer. Meanwhile, I seemed to have opportunity leaking out of every orifice of my body, and I was little more than a miserable troll.

If I could take Cory at age 16, lacquer him, and set him high on a shelf where he would be unreachable, I would. Because that was the Cory who touched me and changed the person who I am.

Cory at 22 is no longer that person. Sure, he's still interesting. For me, anyone who has lived on the street, dropped out of school, and served hard time has that to his advantage. But Cory at 22 lacks innocence. He is no longer someone who had to face unfortunate circumstances because he was born into them; he faces unfortunate circumstances because he made poor choices.

Is marrying this Rhonda chick a poor choice? I doubt it, but who am I to say? Certainly I am not a defining person in his life, the way he was in mine. And whether I, at 17, cry for his misfortune or I, at 24, shake my head at it, he'll never care or even know. So all I can say is, "Mazel tov."


The happy couple.

Cory was in my dream last night, which is quite strange, because I don't really think about him anymore. Ever since his girlfriend contacted me to tell me that my friendship was no longer a positive thing in his life, I let practically any care or concern that I had for him just slip away. I didn't need to involve myself in that situation, which is obviously something of a mess.

In addition to the girlfriend who probably felt threatened by me (or, at the very least, didn't want me in her life), Cory is back in prison after, presumably, breaking his parole. And this time, I don't think he's so innocent.

I continue to believe that he never sexually assaulted anyone, but he did fess up to other crimes like burglary, assault, and selling drugs. He's just bad news, and I thought I would give him hope and save his life, but I can't change his life story.

I remember that a couple of years ago, he asked me if I could believe he was in prison. "Me?" he asked incredulously. "Can you believe this happened to me?" I didn't answer him, but actually yes, I could.

In last night's dream, I must have been back in high school, because I was standing at a row of lockers, beside other students. I was getting books out and doing those things a person does at a locker. And then I saw his reflection in the shiny surface of my locker. And he was standing right behind me, and he may have said something to get my attention.

But I just ignored him and did everything I could reasonably do to keep from turning around and facing him. This seemed to be plenty in the dream, and I never had to meet the gaze of this Medusa.

Then I woke up to the sound of my alarm. I pressed the snooze button and tried to find my way back to this little story in my mind, but I couldn't. It's just as well, because he doesn't even merit that much of my energy anymore.

Leon e-mailed me on Friday to tell me that I had received a letter from Cory. I guess Leon knew I'd be anxious to read it, so he offered to open it and scan it for me. I asked him to just scan the envelope, which he did.



The first thing I noticed was that the handwriting didn't look at all like Cory's. I suppose his penmanship could have changed over time, but this particular handwriting seemed sloppier and less precise than his former handwriting, which was more deliberate and skilled. Considering that Cory is a graffiti artist and has probably trained himself to write in such a precise manner, I doubt he'd revert to old ways or somehow become sloppy for no reason at all.

The second thing I noticed was that he misspelled my last name. And we're not talking some little boo boo like leaving out the "u" or putting an "e" on the end. No, this misspelling seems so phonetically improbable that it was either misspelled on purpose as some sort of dialect joke or misspelled unintentionally by someone who doesn't really know my last name.

I decided that it was the latter, and then I searched online for him. His trouble with the law is well-documented on three major websites, and I visited them all. I found that--ha, ha!--he is back in prison. I think I gasped. I couldn't find why he was sent back to prison but the obvious guess is a parole violation.

I looked at the letter again and saw that it didn't have any indication that it had been sent from prison and instead had his home address. I wondered if he knew he was going back to jail and decided to catch up with me so he'd have a small amount of outside entertainment, and I was immediately insulted.

Ok, buddy, you don't remember me well enough to spell my name right and then you only write to me when you're locked up and clearly have nothing better to do with your time? On my walk home from work, I thought of ways to tell him off.

But then I got home and I opened the letter, and it wasn't from him. It was from his fiancee Nadia, and her letter basically said, "Look, bitch. Imma have Cory's baby and we're getting married so back off." She even went on to reference one of my letters in which I claimed that I saw him at the 4th of July celebration in Quincy and she wrote that it couldn't have been him "unless [she] was wrapped around him."

Ok, gotcha. Backing off. I'm fine with that. Just a little pizza, ice cream, and alcohol to soften the blow of second-hand rejection.

Of course, the more I think about the letter, the more I think that it sounds like any girlfriend's attempt to keep another girl away from her man. Feeling threatened? Tell the bitch you're pregnant! If that doesn't seem like enough, throw in marriage/engagement.

So I'm going to probably write two letters. The first goes to Cory, and in it I will tell him that I'm sorry if I made his fiancee feel threatened but, anyways, congratulations on the baby. The second goes to Nadia, and in it, I will tell her thank you for the head's up and yes, actually, there was a girl hanging all over Cory. I will then go on to describe a very unlikely combination of traits--so unlikely that it couldn't possibly describe Nadia. But I'll say, "That must have been you!" while she stews over it.

Because, yeah, sure, I'll back off. But that doesn't mean I have to stop being a bitch. Or that I can't stir the pot ever so slightly before I go.

I shot Cory a second letter, explaining how I think I gave him my wrong phone number. Leon said I'm like Jon Favreau in Swingers. You know, in the scene where he keeps getting cut off on the answering machine and keeps calling back. "Yeah, Cory, I didn't give you my correct phone number, so that must be why you haven't called." In another few days, I'll ask him if he's dialing the area code or not. I can keep this up for weeks.

Leon also said something about how I was mooning over Cory the other night, which caused me to lose sleep, and then Leon had to drive me to work the next day because I was running late.

This is all not true. I couldn't sleep Sunday night because I had taken a nap. Plus, changes in diet are affecting my sleep and everything else. That's just how it goes. If I had stuffed my face at a buffet, I'm sure I could've fallen asleep. As it was, the hunger (or lack of fullness) contributed to my anxiety, which is why I couldn't sleep.

"Yeah, but you were nervous," Leon said.

"I have an anxiety disorder!"

If he's jealous that I have put effort into my friendship with Cory, he shouldn't be. It's really no more effort than I've given to anyone else with whom I'm friends. It just feels different because he's male. I think Leon felt the same way about Dominic, up until good ol' Dom tied the knot. I could be wrong.

Whatever. There's always something. Leon knows how I feel, and that should be enough. Of course it's enough.

My cell number is Alp-Lady. I'm sure you needed to know that. Barry and I were fiddling around on Phone Spell.

My home phone number was something like "6655 Hat" and when I first typed in my cell number, it also ended in "hat." I thought to myself, "Gee, I didn't know that my phone numbers ended in the same three digits." And then I thought to myself, "Um, they don't."

That's when I realized that I had combined the two to make someone else's phone number. And this wouldn't be a big deal if I weren't 87.45% sure that I used this combination number when I wrote to Cory and asked him to call me.

So, you know, if I don't hear from him in the next day or two, that is going to be my excuse.

I also read all of his letters last night for the first time since we moved here. It made me hopeful that our friendship was (is?) stronger than I give it credit for. It also made me feel like a big idiot. I couldn't fall asleep after that.

My stomach is in knots because I want him to call. He was all alone on the 4th of July--he needs someone. He needs a friend. These are some of the excuses that I make to justify why I contacted him again. The truth is that I need a friend probably a lot more than he does.

This morning I mailed a letter to Cory. I am so pathetic.

I saw Cory on the 4th of July. Emphasis on the saw. Past tense. Completely visual, completely passive.

He was wearing all black, which I loved. Amidst the sea of American flags, he was an oasis of cynicism--cynicism that I ascribed to him. His black stocking cap suggested that the color was chosen for fashion, not political statement. It was nearly 90 degrees outside, though, so it could go either way. He also had some facial hair, particularly hair on his chin. That's really all I noticed.

It was nearly dark, and Lacey and I were walking back to our seats after visiting the port-a-potties. We also had circled the crowd in the hopes of finding some other friends or other Quincyan oddities that only surface on the fourth of July.

I was holding a Smirnoff Ice that I had mistakenly purchased for Leon when he asked for something "fruity." He meant cherry coke; I thought he meant raspberry-flavored alcohol. It was my second trip to the port-a-potties, and I wasn't even tipsy.

And then we passed him. It was Cory. He walked by, one of the dozens of people in the crowd, just another face, but I noticed him. I turned with him as soon as he passed. At the time, it was so crowded that I didn't doubt for a moment that he didn't see me. But now I look back and think that I was so obvious, he must have noticed.

He was alone.

I stared at him as he walked away, and Lacey looked completely puzzled. I didn't know how to explain to her who Cory was, so I told her I'd be right back, handed her the Smirnoff Ice, and darted after him.

By then, it was dark, and finding someone dressed in all black was more than a little daunting. I turned in a circle and could only make out the hundreds of people wearing red, white, and blue. And then there was a bright shot in the sky, over the river. The fireworks were starting. I returned to Lacey, who was chatting on her cell phone.

"Where'd you go? Who was that?" she asked, after ending her call.

"No one, just an old friend that I haven't talked to in months."

The next day, Cory and I both had business at the courthouse. I was there to apply for a marriage license. He was there to be sentenced for shoplifting, and how that didn't break his parole is a wonder to me.

If I'd caught up with him, I don't know what I would have said. I think that very point--not my labored attempt to come up with an explanation for Lacey--was the real reason I failed to find him. Or the real reason I allowed him the ten seconds he needed to disappear back into the crowd.

Half of me wonders if it was really him. But the other half knows it was. Still, all of me wonders why he pops up at times that I try to define as meaningful. I realize that his only meaning in my life is meaning that I have given him and could easily take back. It just never seems that simple.

Jesus, I haven't had this much anxiety since staying with Leon's aunt Zelda and worrying that I was going to embarrass myself in front of her Hollywood friends. Actually, this might be worse. It's almost the first-day-of-a-new-job level of anxiety.

On Tuesday, I dropped into the mail a birthday card to Cory. We haven't kept in touch in the past several months, and I decided that this was not ideal. I didn't know if he was upset with me for being a little curt in my last letter or if he'd simply lost a way to contact me (quite possible, considering that I moved and the e-mail address I gave him wasn't valid). Also likely was him moving on and not wanting to be my friend any longer, but I hoped that he wouldn't shut me out.

It is now Friday and it is reasonable for me to believe that my card was delivered today. So, as the minutes pass and it gets closer to a time when he might be getting home from work, my heart thumps more and more. I want to hear my cell phone ring. I want to hear the chimes of a new e-mail. I want him to contact me and reassure me that he hasn't forgotten me. I really don't want to lose another friend.

I don't know why this matters enough for me to feel so anxious, but if he doesn't contact me, then I know it's over and that hurts. It took a lot of fucking guts for me to write to him last year, because it's rather unlike me to make much effort in a friendship. But I recognized that my life would feel more fulfilled, more enriched with him in it. If he doesn't call me, then I won't feel complete.

Maybe it just would have been better to never know if that door was open or not. I Feel so unworthy now that I've tried to answer that question.

I went to the movies tonight with Amy, and we saw Welcome to Mooseport, which was okay, and Miracle, which I liked a lot. Afterwards, we visited Caroline, who was busy packing for tomorrow's flight to Mexico. Amy leaves Monday to go home to West Virginia.

Meanwhile, Leon and I still have several days before we take off for our spring break trip. It seems a long time from now, but I am awfully overwhelmed by everything that I have to do before then. As expected, I'm already behind a day on the little calendar that I made. I told myself that I'd do some cleaning today and almost did when I considered that Amy might want to come upstairs before or after the movies. I decided to just shrug it off. So pathetic.

I'm still high off of Cory's letter but trying to think of every potential negative outcome. There are many. But, of course, I've already written back.

Yesterday I received my response from Cory and I was utterly shocked by how fast the mail can work. Within four days, he received my letter, he wrote his, and it made it here. Impressive.

He actually wrote me two letters. The first (and the one I've scanned) pretty much expresses his shock of hearing from me. He said he wanted to get that one out ASAP so that I would know he received my letter. Later that night, he wrote a two-page letter that he intended to send separately, but he changed his mind. In essence, it's a three page letter.

To summarize what he wrote:
1. He absolutely cannot believe I contacted him.
2. It raised his spirits on his birthday.
3. Everyone (including his mother) has left him.
4. He earned his GED and is taking college courses.
5. He supposedly thought of me every day that he took his computer tech course, because we bonded in a computer class and while making a web site during study hall.
6. He's lonely but optimistic.
7. He swears that he isn't guilty and that he took the fall for someone else. (Leon said that he pretty much has to say that, whether it's true or not. I've believed for the past two years that he committed that ambiguous crime, and, while it's reassuring that he may be innocent, I've already come to understand that he did it. He doesn't need to lie to me.)

It made me feel good to know that I made his day/week/month, and some of what he wrote absolutely broke my heart--he has no home to return to once he's paroled. But I would be blind if I didn't see the similarities between him and my sister's abusive boyfriend Jeremiah (currently in jail). Put simply, neither has anyone or anything, and it tugs at one's heartstrings. I have my guard up in this respect (and in many others), but Cory has yet to ask me for anything. When I thought of potential responses to my letter, I imagined him telling me to fuck off. I imagined him asking for money. Nothing like that. He sounds incredibly grateful just to have someone to write to, when he assumed that he was dead to everyone.

He also sounds immeasurably more mature. I'll credit that to two years of prison, a degree, and the fact that he's no longer 16.

After receiving his letter, I also reevaluated what I hope to obtain from this exchange. In the most naive and optimistic part of my mind, I wish to regain a friendship that I used to cherish. I think that he would be any easy person to talk (write) to--that he won't judge.

I don't know. There's plenty to think about.

Here's the letter:

( I hope it's readable )

When I was a senior in high school, I was very infatuated with a guy named Cory. In the previous version of my web journal, I referred to him as "the sophomore," a not-so-subtle indication of our gap in age.

Tuesday he turned 20, and on Tuesday, he received a letter from me--our first real contact since high school.

Writing to him seemed like a monumental decision that I had considered for years. He had always represented some kind of alternate path--an exit sign, a back door--that I just wanted to know was there. On Sunday, I decided to see where that path led and wrote him a short letter.

I kept the letter simple and posed questions like "how are you?" I said I was nostalgic. I said I wanted to know that he's happy. I gave no indication that I hoped to gain anything from a dialogue with him, because I wasn't even sure why I wrote to him. The best reason I can offer is that I was curious.

A large part of my curiosity has to do with the fact that he is now incarcerated. He's been in prison for approximately two years, one third of his sentence. To me, his crimes were ambiguous. I think it was sexual assault, but that has too many connotations for me to know what precisely it means.

Had I written about this yesterday, I would be exploring why I'm digging up the past. But I've already received a letter from him, and that just changes everything.

Cory, the sophomore: