I tracked evidence that pointed to her reciprocated affection-the number of weekends spent together, the fond remarks, the articulated assurance that I was her best friend. Love her though I did, my best friend oftentimes baffled and vexed me, and I’m certain that she felt similarly about me. I suspect that I reread it later in the summer and, in a fit of embarrassment, threw it away. Yet she never wrote to me once over those three weeks, and so I never sent her that roving, tome-like epistle. In the meantime, I dutifully wrote to her each day, my first letter swelling into a lengthy diaristic account of my Francophile experiences. I had forgotten to make note of my best friend’s home address, but assumed the issue would be resolved when she sent her first letter to me. Only one leniency forestalled total cultural isolation: We were permitted to write and receive letters in English. While enrolled, we were contractually bound to speak and read only French, and we consumed exclusively French media. The summer before my senior year of high school, I spent three weeks at a French immersion sleepaway camp.
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