Sometimes, Sometimes

Dear Carolyn,

Another day, another dollar. Have I mentioned I hate high school? I keep my head down as much as I can, and having short hair helps, but some of the girls have recognized me, and I know that as soon as word gets out, some of the rugby players will have it out for me. I can see the way they look at me, betrayed and sad and a little star-struck. I’ve seen fans ask, on the internet, why my brothers and I don’t get back together.

They don’t know what betrayal is, do they? I spaced out in calculus today, wondering how much of what you told me was true. Is Carolyn even really your name? Were you really even from Nebraska? Obviously John wasn’t actually your foster-father, but...

It feels like my days pass in a haze of je m’en fiche and struggle. I just need to graduate, pass le bac, and go away. Do something. College, maybe? Who knows. I need to get out of this town, out of this life, find a place where no one will recognize me and where I’ll never hear your name.

Until then, homework calls.

Sometimes I still miss life on the road.



Bob closed his journal and shoved it into his bass drum, screwed the head back into place, and then headed downstairs to dinner.

Sometimes, in his dreams, Carolyn wrote back.