lockwood post

The Letter: Caryn

Dear Evan Lockwood,
I can’t even believe I’m actually doing this, but hi! My name is Caryn Connors, and I’m a Sophmore at Harsing High, in Nebraska. I don’t know if you’ve ever been there before, but it’s really similar to a corn field; rolling hills of never ending crops. Anyways, enough about me, I wrote this to you, or your assistant, who ever reads it.

I really love you music, and just wanted to you know that. I’ve read that you’ve been considering ditching music, so you can focus on your acting, but I don’t think you should. My best friend Kennedy and I jam out to it in the car, and sometime cry about it too.

Not that we’re wimps though, especially not Kennedy. She’s one of the best cross country runners on the team!

“No, that sounds stupid.”, Caryn muttered, running a hand through her straw-colored hair. She floated her clicker over the text and deleted it, not wanting one of the best starts in their era to think that Nebraska was the last place he wanted to be.

What I mean is, we love your music. Not to mention our cheerleading squad, they cheer to ‘We are’. I think the chant goes “We are Spartans, we are proud, we don’t ever ba-a-ack down,” or something like that. I still like your version better though.

I hope stars like you know that you are loved by more people than you know, which includes us nobodies in Nebraska.

Caryn’s eyes bulged at the words on her laptop’s glowing screen, quickly backspacing the text, knowing she definitely didn’t want Evan Lockwood reading that, or even his assistant. Writing was her thing, but every time she thought about the way the star sang out each of his song’s beautiful lyrics, she couldn’t think at all.

Music has a way of speaking what we can’t say, but I really think you should keep it up. If you don’t want to do it for us, the fans, then do it for the girl who hears your song on the radio and listens, and decides to stop using her body as a sculpting black. Or the guy who just lost his fifth free throw in the game, but still strives to go on. If you can’t do it for them, then maybe you’re in the wrong industry, but I think  you are. You should keep going.

Sincerely,
Caryn Connors



The mouse cursor highlighted ‘print’, as she inhaled deeply. Did she really want to do this? There was no way he would actually read this himself, no way in the whole entire world. The idea that he even heard about it was an enticing thought, but almost a dangerous one. What if he didn’t want opinions on his music. What if he didn’t care?

Print.

“Only one thing to do now,” Caryn reassured herself, walking over to the small black canon printer, stationed in the corner of her room. The girl’s room wasn’t the biggest in the Connors house, not to say they had much to go on in the first place. It was a simple lifestyle, but she couldn't ask for much else. No, she didn’t need much else.

After the buzzing of ink being plastered on thin paper, she took the sheet in one hand, and the paper’s ticket to Lockwood in the other. Caryn hadn’t noticed her hands shaking slightly as she numbly folded the letter into the envelope.

Sloppily addressing it to the celebrity's home, or wherever his fanmail ended up, she exhaled. Had she been holding her breath? She couldn’t be sure, but she wasn’t going to think on it very long. Caryn was afraid that if she did think, the letter wouldn’t ever get sent.

Her dainty feet slipped down the stairs without as much as a sound, being extra careful to avoid waking her parents. The teenager didn’t know why, but she felt the need to hide her want to hear more of the boy’s voice from them. It was almost like a schoolgirl’s crush, and she didn’t want to risk it being exposed.

Slowing as she crossed the form of her sleeping cat, or rather her older sister’s, Caryn tried to avoid the squeaky floorboard, knowing if even the slightest bit of pressure would be applied, the whole bottom floor would be notified of her location.

Squeaaaak

Covering her mouth, the girl’s brown eyes snapped down to the bright yellow eyes of Gypsy, the large tabby. Once sighted, the cat began advancing towards Caryn, hissing. “No, no, good Gypsy, good girl, such a pretty girl shh,” the teenager whispered softly, extending a hand to the feline.

The ball of orange fur hardly noticed her words, as it lunged at her. “Gypsy, no!” she yelped, slipping backwards. Her head hit the wooden floor with a loud thump, as she tried blinking her eyes open. Caryn remembered why she hated that cat, it’s constant urge to try and kill her was getting a little old. She soon felt claws scratching their way up her legs, through her pajama bottoms.

“Bad cat!” She exclaimed, frantically getting to her feet. That was when she heard the dreadful sound of a body moving down to see what caused the noise. Kicking at the cat, Caryn slid behind the kitchen island, hoping that Gypsy wouldn’t follow.

“Gypsy, honey, are you okay?” a soft voice asked, purrs from the overly fed cat making Caryn clench her fists. Cassidy, her older, better, idealistic sister, had woken up. She had to make sure she didn’t see her, not at one in the morning, carrying a letter to the biggest teenage heartthrob her lifetime. “Here, how about you sleep with me?”

As the sound of footsteps faded into the stairwell, the girl poked her head out and observed her surroundings. The first floor was still as an unsettling silence floated about it, as Caryn dashed out of the door, quietly shutting it behind her. The girl creaked open the metal flap to the mailbox, trying to ignore the chill of the midnight air, her lack of footwear not assisting in the matter.

The white parcel fluttered out of her hands as it fell into the metal box, containing words she never thought she would have the courage to say, or write. Her eyes flicked around the silent night, before she ran back into the house, softly tiptoeing up the stairs. The deed was done.

p.s. caryn's name is pronounced [car-en]