Letters from Rapunzel Chapter One 2:02 a.m. Dear Box #5667, Let me get right to the point. It's the middle of the night, I can't sleep, and YOU are the pea under my mattress. This letter's about my dad, Aaron Brogan. I found a piece of a letter he was going to mail you, torn up and stuck down the side of his chair. That's how I got your address (part of it, anyway--I couldn't find your name). I couldn't make sense of most of the letter, since it was only a piece, but the part I could read said: . . . You are the secret to my success as a poet and a human being. Writing these letters every day has helped me keep my heart open, to be willing to live, to keep the darkness . . . The rest was torn off. I wish I'd found it sooner. Maybe then I could've written you right away, and asked you how to save him. Because last week he fell victim to the Evil Spell again. The last time this happened, he had to be away for three days. This time, he's already been gone a week. And now my mom says it could be another month! So if you've been wondering why he hasn't written you, that's why. But please, please, don't give up on him. My mom says it's an illness, not an Evil Spell, but I know I'm right. Dads don't stop talking just because they're sick. Dads don't forget that their daughters are supposed to get off the bus at 3:05, and they don't sit in the house with the lights out and not answer the doorbell when it rings. Dads, at least my dad, are home every day to meet you and have popcorn and root beer. I have to get to sleep now, before Mom gets home from work. She's usually not this late, but I guess there was a baby rush. Her record's twelve babies in one night. I think that's why I'm an only child. Sincerely, Rapunzel P.S. That's not my real name. After all, I don't know your real name yet. And yes, I know Rapunzel didn't have a pea under her mattress. Wrong story. I'll explain tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll have lots of time to write. P.P.S. Tell me about you. How long have you been my dad's friend? Where did he meet you? Are you a poet too? 2:55 p.m. Monday (Day One of My Captivity) Dear Box #5667, As I told you last night, I have lots of time to write you today. Without my dad at home after school, my mom signed me up for the Homework Club, which isn't a club at all. It's two tables in the cafeteria. Oh, and one faded black and white sign that reads: Study Hall! It's where you want to be!!!! I'm sitting with my back to that sign right now, trying to avoid the wrath of the Homework Witch. (They call her the Homework Coach, but when I asked for notebook paper, she hissed and pointed to the propped-up sign at the end of the table that said, "Be prepared. Paper and pencils NOT provided.") That's why this letter's on the back of my math homework from last week. I hope you don't mind me writing you another letter even though I just wrote you last night and you haven't written me back yet. I know letter writing is supposed to be like Ping-Pong--back and forth, back and forth, back and forth--but you're my only chance at figuring out what to do. Mom says the Evil Spell is bad this time, except she doesn't call it that, of course. That's my name for it. She calls it "C.D." My mom likes to abbreviate things a lot. She leaves sticky notes on the dishwasher that say, "Plz unld. Thx!" One time, I saw her list for the store and it said, 2 pkg. t.p. lg. d.w. soap apls., prs., grps. VGTBLS!!! m&c lnch. mt. rtbr. 10 pr. ptyhs. (That last one's panty hose, in case you're wondering.) But anyway, I already knew the Evil Spell was worse this time, because yesterday, before my mom went to work, I asked her if I could call my dad, and she said, "His medication is making him sleep a lot," and I said, "I'll call when he's awake," and she said, "Be patient, honey," and I said, "He's still not talking, is he?" and then she didn't say anything, and I knew. She was going to be late for work, but I followed her to the car, and I said, "Does he have anything to write a letter with? I could send him paper and his blue pens and you could--" "He can't write you, honey," my mom said. "I'm sorry, but he just has to concentrate on getting better." I started to tell her it wasn't me he needed to write, it was you, and how you were the secret to his success, but then I realized I'd have to admit to reading a letter that didn't belong to me. And before I could think of any other way to tell her, she was pulling out of the driveway. But how will he escape from the Evil Spell if no one helps him? I can't do much, at least not while I'm locked up here in Homework Club. But here's my idea. I'll write you in his place, every day if you want me to. And you can write me back, and together we can rescue him. I think I'll be good at writing lots of letters, because it's just like talking. Everyone says I talk too much, but that's the beauty of letters, isn't it? I can talk all I want and you can listen to me how you please--all at once, or in little bits, or over and over if you really like what I'm saying. Just don't feel you . . . Letters from Rapunzel . Copyright © by Sara Holmes. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from Letters from Rapunzel by Sara Lewis Holmes All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
