Page 14 of The Alpha's Pen Pal

My birthday is September 4th, so I turned twelve a little over two months ago. I am in the sixth grade at my school, which goes to eighth grade. I know, usually schools stop at fifth or sixth grade, and then students go to middle school, but we’re a pretty small town, so ours goes to eighth, and then we’re bussed out to the nearest high school.

My favorite color is white. Yes, I realize white isn’t really a color, but it is my favorite.

My favorite animal is a wolf. They are strong, protective, loyal, and beautiful creatures.

My favorite food is pizza. Any kind of pizza. Except pizza with mushrooms. I hate mushrooms.

And my favorite sport is football or basketball. I also enjoy running and uh… I guess you could call it boxing? I know it sounds violent and unsafe, but I promise, I’m trained by professionals, and they make sure we’re safe the entire time we’re working out and sparring.

I also enjoy playing video games with my friends, listening to music, and believe it or not, but I enjoy reading. I actually really enjoy school, too. Don’t tell Reid, though.

I’m pretty sure that addresses all the questions you asked me. I know you said you want to know “everything” but I don’t think I’d ever be able to tell you everything about myself in one letter. But I’m guessing, over time, we’ll eventually learn everything about each other? Assuming we stay in touch, I mean.

By the way, I couldn’t help but notice that in your last letter, you first referred to your foster parents as “Jack” and “Shirley”, but then later, in your P.S., you wrote “Mom.”

Okay, wow, now that I’m writing this, I realize it’s honestly none of my business what you call them. I just noticed and wanted to ask, but you can ignore me. You don’t have to answer that question. Forget I asked.

Last thing: I’m sending you my school picture as well. It’s only fair, since you sent me yours, that I send you mine and show you what an actual silly school photo looks like. Because yours, my friend, is not silly. Mine, however, is.

When you get this letter, it will probably be almost Thanksgiving, so, Happy Thanksgiving.

Wait, do you celebrate Thanksgiving? I’m sorry if you don’t. If you do, well then, uh… Happy Thanksgiving!

Your Friend,

Wesley Stone

HAVEN

I folded the letter from Wesley, stuck it back into the envelope, and placed it into my dance bag. Then, I organized the purple floral stationery paper Mom helped me pick out and put my reply letter into one of the coordinating envelopes.

I was so excited when she took me to the store and let me pick out special paper, envelopes, and pens to use for my letters to Wesley. She knew how much I loved using nice pens, so having my own full set of colorful pens that was just mine was so exciting.

I had been so overwhelmed by the options in the store. She ended up letting me choose a few unique patterns of paper since I had trouble deciding between them. She also bought me a pocket dictionary and thesaurus, so I wouldn’t have to lug around the giant ones from our house.

Then, she took me to the post office, and bought me an entire roll of stamps so I could mail my letters to him without having to ask them for permission or help. I would still tell them if I sent one, of course, but the fact they felt I was mature enough to do it on my own made me smile.

I leaned against the mirrored wall of the empty dance studio room, stretching my legs out in front of me and pointing my feet in my pink ballet shoes. My mom was still talking with Miss Rebekah, my dance teacher. I was not sure what they were discussing—they were too quiet for me to hear them—but their faces were serious. I just hoped I was not in trouble for anything.

I hated getting into trouble. I tried to always be on my best behavior. I hated disappointing people, and felt guilty when I made even the smallest of mistakes.

I searched my brain while they talked, trying to remember if I had done something wrong during my ballet class, but I couldn’t think of anything.

I stood up, and they turned their eyes on me. But I ignored them and walked to the center of the room, turning to face the mirror, my eyes examining my reflection.

One thing I loved most about ballet was how precise everything had to be. The uniformity of seeing everyone in a black leotard, pink tights, and pink ballet shoes, all moving together in unison—it fueled the perfectionist inside me.

I loved how perfectly Mom could pull my hair back into a bun, somehow able to tame my wild, wavy-curly hair into a sleek, clean hairstyle. I loved how focused I had to be during class, making sure my every movement was precise yet fluid, strong yet smooth.

I placed my feet into fifth position, my arms moving from low fifth to first position, before I began practicing mypirouettes. I stretched all the way through my leg to the tips of my toes in mytendu, used mypliéto help me turn instead of using my arms to whip me around, and made sure my foot connected to my supporting leg when I brought it up topasséas I turned.

However, each time I attempted apirouette, I fell out of my turn before I even made it around one time. Even though I grew more and more frustrated with each turn, I continued to try. I didn’t let my frustration show, however. I just kept practicing.

I lost track of how many times I tried to complete a perfectly executed pirouette, when Miss Rebekah’s hands were on my arms from behind me as I was about to turn again.

“Hold your arms up from here,” she told me, tapping the underside of my upper arms. “Not from here,” she continued, touching the tops of my arms. “Relax your shoulders down and back instead of tensing them up and hunching forward.”

She moved next to me, showing me with her own body what she meant by her words. I imitated her movements, correcting my body to match hers.

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