notes.
And she's kind of a smartass.
I just came back to the bus to grab my phone, because I forgot it. It's sitting on my bunk with a sticky note stuck to it that reads: You forgot your phone. Again. It was dead. It's charged now. You're welcome.
I can't decide if I love it or hate it.
Pretty sure I hate it, which is why I've resorted to equal opportunity sticky note torture. Two can play at this game.
I turn the note over and write on the back: I didn't forget it. It's a cranky bastard when it doesn't get time to snuggle in my bunk. It was napping, not dead. I drop the note on her bunk before I leave.
Thursday, April 27
(Scout)
It's been one week.
I've discovered that Gustov drinks a lot.
He drinks all day long.
I thought it was all part of the rock star act, but I get the feeling now it's how he gets through the day, like he needs an aid to deal with reality. At first, I didn't like him. Now that's coupled with feeling a little sorry for him. For the most part, I try to avoid him. When I can't, I tolerate him. Although, I have to admit his sticky note replies are pretty witty. He's kind of a smartass, which is fine because smartass is my second language.
The rest of the guys, Franco, Jamie, and Robbie seem okay. I don't talk to anyone much. This isn't anything new. I've always been a loner. I try to keep to myself, but they're all polite. And sober most of the time, which is a bonus for intelligent conversation. I haven't watched any of their performances. I don't plan on it either. I sit on the bus reading while they're playing and when the chaos settles post-show, I go back in and play damage control if it's needed. It's usually not needed. The only thing I seem to run across is Gustov being pawed at by some overly enthusiastic groupie. He disappears into dark rooms with them every night.
Eight more weeks to go.
I've got this.
Friday, April 28
(Scout)
Now we're in Kansas City, Missouri. I've never been to the Midwest. It feels comforting and stable in a way I can't explain, like the people here have life figured out. No one's in a rush and that's nice. I wish I could live that way. My brain never turns off. Maybe that's what happens when you grow up in New York, in a city that never shuts down and reboots. Sometimes I wish I could turn my mind off altogether, but I can't. That's just stupid and unrealistic. Life is a fight. And I'm a fighter. And I'm good at fighting. I'm good at protecting myself when I have to.
I'm standing outside the bus when my cell phone rings.
"Hi, Jane," I answer with relief. It's been a few days since we talked last and I've been worried. I need to know she's okay.
"Hi, Scout." She sounds happy. It makes me glad, because it's rare that I hear genuine happiness in her voice.
"So, how's it going today? Anything exciting on tap?" I ask. It's how we always start off our conversations. Even though I don't want to be home, I still want to know what's going on. And that Jane's okay. So we talk every few days. I don't miss home, but I miss the feeling of home. I miss security, or the illusion of security. I'm a creature of habit. I miss having a routine.
"Paxton's home this weekend. We're going out to lunch in an hour. I'm meeting him at Pasqual's Deli." Now she sounds nervous. Maybe even scared. Paxton is her son, and they have an extremely strained relationship. He's seventeen. He's my cousin, and he and I grew up together. Even though there's a six-year age difference between us, we're close. He's my best friend. He goes to a year-round boarding school in Boston and he hates it, everything about it: the school, the spoiled kids he's surrounded by, the isolation. I don't blame him. It stifles him. It's changed him and stunted him socially and that breaks my heart. Basically, the school is an alternative parenting strategy. The school parents the kids so the parents don't have to be, you know, parents. Because, honestly, Jane can't parent at this point. And
And she's kind of a smartass.
I just came back to the bus to grab my phone, because I forgot it. It's sitting on my bunk with a sticky note stuck to it that reads: You forgot your phone. Again. It was dead. It's charged now. You're welcome.
I can't decide if I love it or hate it.
Pretty sure I hate it, which is why I've resorted to equal opportunity sticky note torture. Two can play at this game.
I turn the note over and write on the back: I didn't forget it. It's a cranky bastard when it doesn't get time to snuggle in my bunk. It was napping, not dead. I drop the note on her bunk before I leave.
Thursday, April 27
(Scout)
It's been one week.
I've discovered that Gustov drinks a lot.
He drinks all day long.
I thought it was all part of the rock star act, but I get the feeling now it's how he gets through the day, like he needs an aid to deal with reality. At first, I didn't like him. Now that's coupled with feeling a little sorry for him. For the most part, I try to avoid him. When I can't, I tolerate him. Although, I have to admit his sticky note replies are pretty witty. He's kind of a smartass, which is fine because smartass is my second language.
The rest of the guys, Franco, Jamie, and Robbie seem okay. I don't talk to anyone much. This isn't anything new. I've always been a loner. I try to keep to myself, but they're all polite. And sober most of the time, which is a bonus for intelligent conversation. I haven't watched any of their performances. I don't plan on it either. I sit on the bus reading while they're playing and when the chaos settles post-show, I go back in and play damage control if it's needed. It's usually not needed. The only thing I seem to run across is Gustov being pawed at by some overly enthusiastic groupie. He disappears into dark rooms with them every night.
Eight more weeks to go.
I've got this.
Friday, April 28
(Scout)
Now we're in Kansas City, Missouri. I've never been to the Midwest. It feels comforting and stable in a way I can't explain, like the people here have life figured out. No one's in a rush and that's nice. I wish I could live that way. My brain never turns off. Maybe that's what happens when you grow up in New York, in a city that never shuts down and reboots. Sometimes I wish I could turn my mind off altogether, but I can't. That's just stupid and unrealistic. Life is a fight. And I'm a fighter. And I'm good at fighting. I'm good at protecting myself when I have to.
I'm standing outside the bus when my cell phone rings.
"Hi, Jane," I answer with relief. It's been a few days since we talked last and I've been worried. I need to know she's okay.
"Hi, Scout." She sounds happy. It makes me glad, because it's rare that I hear genuine happiness in her voice.
"So, how's it going today? Anything exciting on tap?" I ask. It's how we always start off our conversations. Even though I don't want to be home, I still want to know what's going on. And that Jane's okay. So we talk every few days. I don't miss home, but I miss the feeling of home. I miss security, or the illusion of security. I'm a creature of habit. I miss having a routine.
"Paxton's home this weekend. We're going out to lunch in an hour. I'm meeting him at Pasqual's Deli." Now she sounds nervous. Maybe even scared. Paxton is her son, and they have an extremely strained relationship. He's seventeen. He's my cousin, and he and I grew up together. Even though there's a six-year age difference between us, we're close. He's my best friend. He goes to a year-round boarding school in Boston and he hates it, everything about it: the school, the spoiled kids he's surrounded by, the isolation. I don't blame him. It stifles him. It's changed him and stunted him socially and that breaks my heart. Basically, the school is an alternative parenting strategy. The school parents the kids so the parents don't have to be, you know, parents. Because, honestly, Jane can't parent at this point. And
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