Page 16 of The Alpha's Pen Pal

Seriously, though, I enjoyed reading about your siblings and friends. They sound wonderful. I hope someday I can maybe meet them. I mean, assuming you want to meet at some point.

Okay, now, my turn to answer the questions.

My birthday is on October 18th. That was their best guess at my birthday. It could be a few days before that or the day after. I am nine, as I’ve mentioned before, and in third grade. I’ve been at this school for a little over a year now, and I’m hoping I don’t have to leave it soon. I’m finally starting to make some friends. Well, one friend, but still that’s better than nothing, right? And it will be a nightmare to start all over again if I end up having to leave.

You’ll never believe this, but my favorite color is also white! It’s clean and perfect and simple. Who cares if it’s not really a color? Not me! Or you, obviously.

I don’t know what my favorite animal is. I’ll have to think more about that. But I do have to say, I love the way you described wolves. Most people think of them as scary, but the way you wrote about them made them seem so wonderful.

My favorite food is grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup. Simple food, I know, but there is something comforting about it. It’s my favorite to have on an especially cold, snowy day, or when I’m feeling a little sad and need something to warm up my insides. Pizza would be my second favorite, though, for sure. Or maybe ice cream.

My favorite sport is ballet. I have loved ballet ever since I was a little girl, and the family I was living with was watching “The Nutcracker” at Christmastime. I caught a quick glimpse of it before being sent back to my room to sleep.

I know, I know. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Haven, ballet isn’t a sport.” And maybe it isn’t. Or at least not a sport like the sports you play.

But I will tell you, it is hard work. Everything has to be so perfect and precise, but also must look elegant, graceful, and effortless. My dad says he thinks he wouldn’t last a full ballet class without collapsing, and he’s a former swimmer.

That leads me to your next question: my mom and dad. Jack and Shirley.

I’ll be honest, calling them Mom and Dad hasn’t been easy for me. After being shuffled around to so many homes, I stopped trying to call the foster parents “Mom and Dad.”

But Jack and Shirley have been… different. They wanted me to call them Mom and Dad from the very start, but I couldn’t. So I refused. I refused, and I refused to see that I was hurting them.

Because they actually want me. They want to take care of me, want to look after me, want me to be part of their family. I think… I think they may even be trying to adopt me. Dad has hinted at it, based on things he’s said to me, or questions he’s asked me.

That day I got your letter, the one where you asked me for a second chance? It kind of knocked some sense into me. There was no question in my mind, no doubt about giving you that chance. I knew right away that was what I wanted to do. And then I realized if I can give you a second chance, shouldn’t I be able to give them a first chance?

So after I had already written your letter, I decided to try calling them Mom and Dad instead of Jack and Shirley. And you know what? It felt good. It felt good to give them something after everything they have given to me.

That’s why, in that letter, I wrote Jack and Shirley first, and then Mom later.

Wow, that got intense. And long. Sorry about that. To wrap it up, yes, I celebrate Thanksgiving, and no, your school picture is not silly either. Hope to hear from you soon!

Your friend,

Haven

P.S. OH MY GOSH! I just got the most exciting news, and of course, you were the first person I thought to tell. My ballet teacher, Miss Rebekah, is recomending that I take aditional lessons including private lessons with her so that I can get better faster I am so excited I’ve never been told I was good at anything so to hear that she thinks I have a chance to be great at ballet with some extra training is just… wow I can’t even describe it! Just wanted to share.

WESLEY

I chuckled to myself as I finished reading Haven’s letter. There was excitement coming off the paper in her P.S.

She obviously wrote it hastily and after the rest of the letter had been written, because the writing wasn’t as neat and precise as her handwriting normally was. There were misspelled words, which wasn’t like her at all, and it was clear she wasn’t using a very sturdy surface because there were a couple spots where she poked a hole through the paper with her pen. I would guess she wrote the second part in the car, on her way home from her ballet class, and that’s where her mom or dad gave her the news.

I was surprised she didn’t want to rewrite the entire thing and just sent it this way, but it also made her seem more real, more human. I could almost picture her sitting there, tossing paper after paper away because of one tiny mistake, before checking over the finished product and giving it a nod of approval.

I could also imagine her furiously scribbling away, maybe even with her tongue sticking out of her mouth as she focused on getting her words out, too excited about what just happened to care about neatness and perfection, bursting at the seams to tellsomeoneher good news.

I had been catching glimpses of her personality through her letters, and under her guarded, cautious, perfectionist exterior was a funny, spirited human waiting to be let out. I hoped I could be someone who got to see that person in action. She said she wanted to meet my family and friends, and I hoped someday that would happen.

I set her newest letter with the others—inside a manila folder my dad gave me from his office—and I went out of my room to the kitchen, where my mom would be. We had cooks in the packhouse kitchen, but my mom liked to have small family meals with us from time to time. The rest of the packhouse residents were mainly warriors, anyway, since most of the families in our pack built or moved into houses elsewhere on our lands.

The smell of my mom’s famous homemade bolognese filled my nose, and my stomach growled in anticipation of dinner tonight. It was still hours before it was time to eat, but my mom made her spaghetti sauce as soon as the sun peeked over the horizon, so the tantalizing scent would always waft through the alpha suite all day, driving my dad, Sebastian, and me crazy.

“Smells delicious, as always, Mom,” I said as I walked up next to her at the stove.

She set her spoon down on the spoon rest and wiped her hands on her apron, an appreciative smile on her face as she turned to me.

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