Dispatch by Bentley Little

realized, though, that I could use her feelings for me to get what I wanted, to push her in a direction I wanted her to go.
    And our relationship changed. Just like that. One moment I was in thrall to our epistolary association, a slave to my desire to write and read my pen pal's letters, and the next I was in charge, calling the shots, and those emotions that had held sway were now under my complete control.
    I was curious about sex, and I took the opportunity to bring up the subject, playing up my fake relationship experience, lying about things I'd never done and didn't know how to do, writing that I wanted to do them with her. Since we loved each other, I stressed, it wasn't wrong. It was natural, beautiful.
    She wrote back the same.
    Our letters from then on were nasty.
    They weren't pornographic in an adult way. But for two kids our ages with our complete lack of experience, they were pretty down and dirty.
    I finally convinced her to send me a picture of herself without any clothes on. She took it herself, standing in front of a mirror in the bathroom. Behind her was a narrow shower stall, to the right a simple silver towel rack attached to a plain white wall. Kyoko herself stood center frame, the camera blocking all of her face save her mouth and forehead. She looked nervous, and she hadn't been brave enough to take off all of her clothes; she'd simply pulled down her dress and underwear, which were bunched around her knees. I could see what I wanted to see, though.
    The good parts.
    I didn't write back immediately. I'm not sure why. I did look at the picture at night while I rubbed myself in my bed, and I could not stop thinking about it all the next day and Monday at school, but I guess I was a little hurt that she hadn't asked for a similar photo. I probably wouldn't have sent one—but it would have been nice to be asked.
    Maybe I also wanted to assert my newfound power a little bit by making her wait for communication from me.
    Whatever the reason, I held off for a week, then sat down long after everyone else in the house was asleep, took off my pajamas and underwear and wrote Kyoko my most graphic letter yet. I played with myself afterward, looking at her photo.
    The next letter I received was from her father—only it was addressed not to me but to my parents. I recognized the envelope and intercepted it, thinking at first that it was for me from Kyoko. But the dark harsh letters of an unfamiliar hand tipped me off that this was something different, and with pounding heart I brought it to my room, shut the door and carefully opened the envelope, taking out the colorless stationery.
    Her father had found and read my letters.
    And Kyoko had broken down and confessed all.
    The missive was in broken English and hard to understand, but the gist of it was that I had shamed his family and turned his daughter into a whore who would never be able to marry a boy from a good family because she had been ruined by me. Mr. Yoshizumi berated my parents for raising a boy of such low moral character and demanded that they punish me for the unforgivable way I'd corrupted his daughter.
    He'd also sent a letter to Miss Nakamoto.
    My mouth went dry.
    I read the words again to make sure I understood the fractured English. I write explain to honorable teacher Nakamoto no more pen pal. There was no mistaking the meaning. My eyes moved up to the middle of the letter. You punish boy for bad character and moral your duty as parent.
    Well, that was never going to happen. My heart was pounding as I ripped his letter into confetti-sized pieces, then placed the pieces in a Kleenex I took from the box on my desk. I wrapped up the tissue, brought it into the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet. What would happen now? I wondered. Would Miss Nakamoto tell the principal? Would she or the principal call my parents? Would I be suspended from school? Would I be arrested? Anything was possible, and I just hoped that Kyoko's father didn't know Miss