Penpal Book Explained Novels & Stories

Dear Pen pal, Hello. My name is Wesley. I am 12 years old, and I am in 6th grade at Crescent Lake Elementary in Northern California. I’ll be honest, I am only writing this letter because my teacher said we have to. She said if we don’t, we’ll get an F, and I am not about to fail an assignment and ruin my track record of perfect grades. Plus, my dad would probably ground me or something. Anyway, I don’t really want a pen pal. I have friends here at school already, so why would I need to make friends with somebody who doesn’t even live here, someone who I’ll never actually meet?

“Last year, our book club was a flop—too many kids didn’t want to do their assigned reading, feeling like it was too much like work.” Alanna turned to me then. “Thoughts, Luna Hannah?” Suddenly, my eyes widened slightly, and once again, I was transported back to those two years that Noah had conveniently forgotten—the two years that I had written until my hand cramped, my fingers stained with ink. “What about… a penpal program?” I breathed before I could stop myself. The other Lunas murmured and nodded in agreement, jotting the idea down in their notebooks. They were oblivious to my emotional strife—all except for Alanna, who seemed to eye me for a moment before suddenly closing her notebook

What could be more appropriately descriptive of a storm this magnitude than Weightlifting 101, Swimming for Dummies, Complete Idiot’s Guide to Submerged Motorcycle Repair, Shirtless Tanning and Mudpack The-Easy-Way. And the list continues...

“Lorenzo... Rom—” Before I can finish, a small voice pipes up from behind me. “That’s me.” I turn and find a boy standing by the hallway, holding a sketchpad. His dark brown eyes study me curiously, his hair tousled like he’s just woken up from a nap. He’s probably around six or seven. I smile gently. “Hi, Bryan. I’m Penelope.” He shuffles closer, still clutching his sketchpad. “Are you the girl who makes pretty necklaces?”

Apart from the size being thrice smaller compared to our previous apartment, the room only had one small window and doesn't have AC. So before Penelope's forehead could produce sweat, we started studying the book. The book had almost a thousand pages. What I proposed to maximize our scanning was we equally divided the number of pages. For the first half of the book, Penelope took a look at them while the rest were mine. We studied and read every image and word written on every page. We still don't know what exactly we are looking for but as long as it has something to do with the creation of the cure to get rid of Karen's monster without killing her human side.

"After we talked about what I wanted to be as a kid. I can't be a veterinarian, but I can do something meaningful so I read to kids." "Timothy," Penelope says softly. "That's actually really sweet." "Want to help?" I ask. "We could read together." She agrees. We spend the next two hours reading picture books to a group of wolf pups whose parents are working. Penelope is amazing with them, patient and funny and kind. Watching her with those kids, I see our future. Children of our own someday. "That was fun," Penelope says as we're leaving. "Can I come back next week?"

******************************************* FROM PENCILS TO YOU Please guys, do let me know that you're enjoying this book in the comment section. By the way, who do you think is more manipulative; Abigail or Matilda?

It just quieted, until it became something softer, harder to recognize. A week into my solitude, a small package arrived at my doorstep. No sender’s name, just my address written neatly across the front. Inside was a fountain pen. The same kind I lost years ago, the same brand Joaquin once said was his favorite. There was no note. No explanation. But I didn’t need one. I knew it was from him. And that tiny gesture undid me more than any apology could have. That night, I sat at my desk, staring at the blank page on my screen. My fingers hovered over the keys. The cursor blinked, waiting.