Page 13 of The Commons

She halts mid-step. “What promise?”

“Promise to call me once every week?” I lean forward, fidgeting with my fingers.

“I can only do it once every month. That is the rule in The Comm—” Her voice breaks.

“It’s okay. When you become the leader of our planet, it will all be worth it. For me, anyway, because maybe you won’t have time to destroy my sleeping patterns.”

Levon chuckles, sniffling. Tears swell in her eyes.

I stare at her, like one does a hero. I run to her, and she hugs me tightly, like one does a child.

“I do love you. More than you will ever know. You have nothing to be worried about. I can take care of myself. And so can you. Don’t date any stupid rich boys and you better ace your junior year competitions. Deal?” she says as her voice continues to crack.

“Deal.” I stretch out my hands to grab hers. She rolls her eyes, squeezing my hands.

“Okay, this little exchange of feelings never happened. I expect you to be the valedictorian your senior year, like me. No slip-ups. That way, you can still get into a top school. I also expect you to figure out what you want to do with your life and what college you plan to go to. Or are you saying that I’ve failed?” She raises my chin with her finger, staring into the depths of my soul.

“What?”

“As your big sister, I’ve taught you to be brave and strong. And to never give up, not even in my absence, so don’t disappoint me.” She wraps her hands around my head, caressing my hair.

I swallow hard and barely manage to control my emotions.

“Good. I will talk to you in a month. Now stay here, do not leave your room. I’m gonna go, got it?” She lets go of me.

I inhale and exhale. “Got it.”

She leaves my room and closes the door.

I run to my window and roll up my blinds, waiting to see her one last time. All I see is New York City buildings, like military robots in the night, with lights that do not have an off switch.

I wait, and wait, and wait. Levon finally emerges.

I look to see her face. Her expression is cold with a blank stare, but it is not the coldness I am familiar with. It is the kind of coldness that breaks into my bones, shatters my heart, and leaves me feeling utterly powerless. She walks alongside my parents, who are both on their phones, so I peer closer, praying for a smile, a wave… a last second of warmth.

Nothing. She enters the car and they’re gone. I should have listened to her. I shouldn’t have looked.

Levon is gone. I feel abandoned.

Pillow on my face, my skin dampens as the ocean breaks free from my eyes. Wave after wave. No one checks on me. For the first time in eleven years, not my sister.

One Year Later.

Snow embellished envelopes lie open on my lap on the sunniest day of all, flapping their wings back and forth like the graceful birds above that perch on my windows. Then they peck. Yes, still the envelopes, not the redbirds singing the same tune in front of me. No, not them. But my envelopes. Yes, the paper made from trees.

Yes, I hate them. My mind, my hands, my eyes. Even my nose despises the smell of them, the smell of the flagrant message that lies within them. And I wish I could say it is just my opinion. But it’s not just me. Other people hate them too. Like the numerous librarians who were terrified to hand me these antique letters. Like the skeptical schoolmates I collected them from, who also have siblings sentenced to life at The Commons. And like my homeless friends on New York streets, who I convinced to pay in exchange for their collection of trashed and lost Common Letters.

My body despises them. It shrieks because it is afraid of how sick and frail it could become should it get into closer proximity to the contents of these letters. Still yet, my mind cannot help but envision them. Nonstop, it sees them, hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of papers flying around in my thoughts with a mind of their own. And my heart is an even greater affair, for it has planted trees of them, sided with its descendants, and made roots and foundations that long to uncover their deepest and darkest secrets.

I should not open these letters. But why is my hand betraying me? Why are my hands the enemy of my sanity? Before I can object to their action, my eyes are reading the words inside them, one after the other. My eyes outrun my mind, reading everything these letters contain. And what do they hold? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Another pack of useless letters from The Commons Alumni praising the school for its success and saying nothing about the actual experience of being in such a school. Urgh! I really thought this time, I was going to find the evidence I need to fuel my worries about The Commons.

I’ve been complicit in tree killing for a year now, finding countless flyers and letters on The Commons and tearing them into pieces in anger. Since Levon left, it has been a blur. I remember doing only two things. Waiting for Levon’s next call—it’s a good thing I can see her when we talk so I know she’s doing okay—and waiting for a clue about what is happening to her there. I basically live for one day every month—the day I get to speak to her.

When I’m not studying or waiting, I focus on reading inspirational novels, self-help books, and things of that sort that interest me and spark my emotions to be positive.

However, I cannot help but read about The Commons. The more I read, the more skeptical I become. The more skeptical I become, the more questions I ask Levon. She says The Commons is off topic and I try to respect that, but my lips, like my hands, often betray me. The more questions I ask Levon, the more she pulls away from me, more and more lately with every phone conversation.

“So, I’m sorry I keep asking questions. It’s because I’m worried about you⁠—”