A Modern Love Letter
I am such a voracious reader that my mother has remarked, “Isabella Sanchez, you’d read anything, including the dictionary!” Of course I’ve perused the occasional dictionary, but I much prefer the gripping suspense of mystery novels. And though I don’t like to gloat, I must admit that I usually solve the mystery before the fictional detective synthesizes the clues into a plausible theory. Strolling home from the library with yet another satchel full of paperbacks, I lament that nothing in my life exhilarates me as much as unraveling intricate mysteries. When ominous clouds obscure the sun and lightning electrifies the atmosphere, I imagine my favorite literary detective rubbing her hands together, anticipating her latest case, and saying, “Oh, what a dark and eerie afternoon!” Then I remember that here in Hialeah, Florida, tropical thunderstorms occur daily and mysteries are as rare as a dry day. As it begins to sprinkle, I sprint the last few blocks home.
I reach the front porch just in time to avoid the deluge and, gasping for breath, inhale the mouthwatering aroma of ropa vieja wafting through the open windows; Abuela María is cooking my favorite meal from her native Cuba—a savory concoction of stewed beef and vegetables. When I open the screen door, a small, cream-colored envelope tumbles to the ground. I bend to retrieve it, surprised to see “My Bella” scrawled ornately across the front. Lots of people call me Bella but “my Bella”? Donning my detective’s cap, I consider that this might be a prank and scan my surroundings surreptitiously but spy no onlookers. Still, I step inside before carefully opening the envelope, revealing a single sheet of thick, old-fashioned stationery—the kind I’ve seen only in my abuela’s antique desk. There on the creamy page, written in the same script, is the message, “I’ve finally found you!”
I have no clue what the letter means or who might have written it. No one handwrites letters anymore, except for my abuela; even my mom texts or e-mails her friends. So who could have composed this, going to the trouble of writing a letter—in cursive, no less—and hand delivering it? Perhaps Graciela, my best friend, is having fun at my expense, but I doubt it; she is rather humorless. I flush as I realize that someone may actually admire me from afar, and my mind immediately conjures an image of shy, bookish Mateo, who works at the library, where I see him frequently. Just recently he smiled at me, and I ponder whether he’s working up the courage to talk to me, penning a letter as a more comfortable, more romantic means of expressing his feelings. I need additional clues to solve this mystery, so I conceal the note in my bag until I can study it secretly.
The following day, I hasten to the library with a singular objective: to collect a sample of Mateo’s handwriting. But when Mateo catches me shadowing him, we stare at each other, embarrassment coloring our cheeks. Stammering and blushing, I rush home only to discover my next clue. I step inside to open the envelope and am again overwhelmed by the message on the page, which praises my “lovely brown eyes” and “glorious long hair.” While I do have long hair, no one has ever described it as glorious before. Just then, my mother surprises me by coming home early from work. “What’s that, Bella?” she inquires, inclining her head toward the note. Although I try stashing it in my bag, she deftly snatches it from my hands and reads the message. Frowning, she says, “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend, Bella.”
“Me neither,” I admit before adding, “We’d better tell Abuela, too; she loves drama.”
After I tell my tale, my mom says, “You do have lovely eyes, Bella, but I’m calling the police because mystery stalkers are not welcome here.”
“Don’t be too hasty, dear,” Abuela interrupts. “I never told you about Alejandro, did I?”
I listen intently as Abuela recounts the story of the first love letter she ever received in her homeland of Cuba, a declaration of love from Alejandro, the sweetest, cutest boy she’d known. “I couldn’t believe my luck when he wrote to me, of all the girls in our neighborhood,” she recalls with a melancholy smile. Before she could muster the courage to reply, however, her family abruptly fled Cuba. “Those were difficult and dangerous times; we abandoned everything and started over. I was never able to say goodbye or let him know I cared for him, too.”
How does the complicating incident function in this story?
It introduces the central conflict in the story: Isabella's quest to determine the writer of the love letters.
It resolves the conflict between Abuela and Bella's mother over what they should do about the love letters.
It serves as a turning point in the story.
It establishes when and where the story takes place and introduces readers to the main character: Isabella.
