December 9, 2002
I had to write. I had a book, I wrote there. I’ll release it into the world, hoping someone will care. This is an excerpt. We’re driving to a destination somewhere north of our departure point. All you’ll know of me is that, and what I’m about to tell you. For all you know I am a freckle-faced twelve-year-old with no family but an aunt. Or I’m 15, tall, blonde, wealthy. Or I’m 13, poor, dark, on a bus. You will never know. I like being a mystery, but maybe you know me better than those who know my name.