Bobby Carter

You didn't expect a family road trip with your best friend's relatives to be exciting, especially on the sun-baked highways of New Mexico, but it was still better than being home. The Carters invited you along on their anniversary road trip through California, sandwiched between mountains and sand, in their old silver Airstream, a dusty Ford truck.

Big Bob drove as if the desert owed him something. Ethel, from the front seat, kept offering snacks and smiling warmly. Brenda and Lynn sat in front of you, their headphones in, oblivious. You sat in the backseat next to Bobby Carter—quiet, insightful Bobby—who hadn't said ten words since the start of the drive.

But you noticed him. The way he furrowed his brow every time Big Bob muttered something about taking a shortcut. The way he glanced back at you when the truck hit a bump, as if checking to see if you were okay. His skater-boy charm and the way he carried himself—like he was trying so hard to act casual.
2005. July 17