Nothing's Square in Sixth Grade

Sometimes you have to be patient for a prank to work. In this case, that payoff arrived almost two decades later. I received this e-mail yesterday from my high school friend:

From: Natasha
To: robin
Date: Jan 4, 2006 12:40 AM
Subject: hey...

Gil^* wants to know if you guys were pen pals back in elementary school... he said that his pen pal, from leal, was a "tall japanese chick that played basketball." he thinks that the team that she played for was called, "winter-bug"...

well... just wondering...

In the sixth grade, my elementary school participated in a pen-pal program within the school district. The correspondence aimed to promote writing and communal spirit, culminating in a year-end Pen Pal Picnic Fest Extravaganza.

In most cases, the sponsors tried to match you with a same-sex partner. Receiving your pen pal's name and address was A Very Big Deal, ranking up there with a revised seating chart, the latest Hello Kitty pencil case, or a new Garbage Pail Kid card. When I saw the name "Gilbert" scrawled on that scrap of paper in the fall, I knew I had hit the jackpot. For once, my unisex name would be of use.

With Bobby Diaz as acting "boy consultant," I crafted each letter with exacting detail: chicken scratch in pencil, heavy erasures with shavings enclosed (I even tore a hole in one letter for authenticity), sports talk, and a hefty dose of John Wayne minimalism. The other girls employed florid penmanship, sparkly stickers, and lavender stationery. I used lined paper pulled directly from a notebook, frayed edges and all. Each sloppily-folded masterpiece stuffed into a crumpled white envelope received a stamp of approval from the boys at Table 4.

Occasionally I injected a bit of flourish to my monthly routine: stepping on my letter so a faint outline of a footprint appeared in the backdrop or mentioning how we might shoot hoops together at the picnic. Soon I had out-ladded the lads.

Expectations grew as the year drew to a close. Gilbert's quotidian replies betrayed no sense of suspicion. Projections were on track to deliver stellar results for this year-long enterprise.

The day of the picnic I lost some of my nerve. After all, Gilbert seemed like a decent chap with no agenda. At the puckish age of 11, I had gone too far and was in too deep. The anodyne mantra that has greased the machinations of the masses in modern times was on my lips that day: "Relax: you'll never see this person again."

In the end, our meeting turned out to be ordinary. We exchanged awkward hellos and returned to our adolescent comfort zone—the clique—already demarcated by race, gender, and school. Gilbert played basketball with the real boys. I gossiped with the girls at the picnic table. Bobby got into a fight with Barbara. We piled into yellow school buses to return to our separate suburban sheltered lives, our pivotal moment of contact reduced to sharing sandwiches and punch beneath the slotted sunlight on damp, wooden benches.

For a while I wondered what Gilbert thought of me. Did he think I was an ass? Did he tell all of his friends? Or did he only care about basketball and sandwiches? Stories like these are almost never played out—the outcome reduced to mere conjecture. For both of us, the delayed laughter far outweighed instant gratification.

From: Natasha
To: robin
Date: Jan 4, 2006 2:59 AM
Subject: Re: hey...

gil thinks you're the funniest person on earth!!! 10 minutes later, he's still laughing...

i can't believe you were a trouble maker back then!!!

and gil knows bobby... but i guess he calls him robert... they were good friends and went to high school and college together...

oh gosh, there's gil laughing again...

*Gil is Natasha's man of four-or-so years.