Skyler — Letter 4 of 7 — Do You Like Nice People

The writer is 21, a girl. Skyler doesn’t comb her hair & she grew breasts at 11.

I don’t know of any human who writes letters to trees like I do. I know it’s weird — but not in the way you think it’s weird. In my mind, it’s not weird to write letters to trees. But it sure is weird to write on paper that’s made from the murdered dead bodies of trees’ friends & neighbors. It’s like giving toys to babies made from the dead bodies of their baby sisters.

But we humans are weird. We like to talk to dead people. We like to fuck pretty people. We like people who are nice to us. We love animals in the morning & eat them at dinner. 

I’m alright with all the weirdness, but one — liking people who are nice to us. And now you think I’m weirder than you already thought I was. 

I’m.

After I got my period at 7, I grew firm breasts at 11. Since the arrival of my breasts, I have never met a boy who didn’t want to unpant me.

For the last 10 years, boys have been really nice to me. It makes sense to be nice to the girl if you want to see her naked.

I love that I get to make all the choices.

I get to choose who to geek out with, who to sneak out with. Who to stroll with, who to dope with. Who to hustle with, who to cuddle with. Who to take to Ted, who to take to Bed.

For most of my two decades of insignificant life, I really liked nice people. It’s much — for the lack of a better word — nicer to have someone put an arm around you & say “Don’t worry, love, you will always be a champion to me” every time, I lost a debating competition, fluffed the 200-meter sprint, missed out on the school badminton team & all but choked at the ballet championship. 

“Today, you disrespected your opponent & the sport you say you love,” said Chirag. He wasn’t my friend; I played badminton with him in high school. He wasn’t the best player, but he was solid & always made the school team. “That kid truly put you in your place.” I had been destroyed 21-7, 21-9 by Nisha, a rookie & three grades junior. Nisha took the final spot in the school team at my expense. Chirag was the only human who wasn’t nice to me after my unexpected & terrible loss. Most humans said things like “You will be back stronger next year.” — “Tough luck, Skyler. You’re still a superstar.” — “Shit happens, babe. Let’s get you into a hot dress & party till the sun’s out.”

Not only Chirag was the only one who was honest, he was also the only one who knew what the hell he was talking about. Everyone else was 100% nice & 100% phoney.

“You will be back stronger next year.” There was no next year. I was in Grade XII. This was my final chance to make the school team.

“Tough luck, Skyler. You’re still a superstar.” Am I? I just got ass-whipped by a fucking 9^th Grader because I didn’t bother training hard enough as I took her age & slender frame for granted. 

“Shit happens, babe. Let’s get you into a hot dress & party till the sun’s out.” I don’t have a hot dress. I wear grey tracksuits to parties & I don’t like to party till the sun comes out when I’m sad. I write poems & letters when I’m sad.

Nisha deserved to be on the team — I didn’t. Chirag, unlike everyone else, had the balls to call me out.

“I really do love baddy,” I said to Chirag two days later in the cafeteria. He didn’t say anything back. 

“Don’t take what you love for granted.” He said to me when we were waiting for the school bus to arrive. I blinked twice.

I was 17 then. 4 years have died since. I’ve not done anything of any significance in life & perhaps never will, but I don’t take things for granted. And I understand niceties are part of a civilized society & they make us feel good — I rather have someone tell me as they see it than try to spare me my feelings.

There are horrible people who say horrible things to & about people to make them feel like hell. There will always be those people. Chirag wasn’t one of them. Chirag wasn’t my friend & I haven’t spoken with him since we graduated high school. He never accepted my Facebook or Instagram request either. But his sharp words shaped me into a better person & were a lot more valuable to my character than all the beautifully supportive & templated prose I’ve heard for most of my life.

Now, I have to go & write a letter to this 77-year-old freckled tree that stands next to my college’s new academic block. She doesn’t look it, but her tree passport confirms she was born on 1^st April 1944. I will finish writing the letter before the sun sleeps & read it to her sitting next to her after the moon wakes up.

P.S. I know Chirag will never be my friend. And that’s alright. But if I were to ever play him in a baddy game, I will rip him to shreds because since that drubbing against Nisha, I’ve been training my ass off. Everyone in my college knows me as the Girl who even the Boys can’t beat at Baddy.