The first year she went to camp, all of eleven years old and still shy around kids she did not know, Spencer Carlin got teased about her first name.

'It's a boy's name. Are you really a boy?' hit her ears and it sounded like a ruler's slap to the wrist.

Usually Glen got that, due to muddy feet along the newly carpeted floors of the den or because he would put a toad in Sister Anne's desk or every time he 'accidentally' took the Lord's name in vain… but Spencer never had anyone say a thing about her name.

Every aunt or uncle's sweet coo, pinched cheeks and too much candy – and they didn't mention her name. Every girl she grew up with, white dresses in the sunlit church yard – and they didn't treat her differently because of her name.

But during that first year of camp, with her leather-bound bible of red and her twice-combed blonde hair and taunting underneath batting eyelashes, Spencer Carlin learned so much more about life than God ever taught her.

*

It was before their hour at the lake and after morning mass, some little thing wedged between their usual summer days.

Amanda, Mandy for short (it's what she told all of them to call her), with her auburn pigtails and confident smile, purposefully strode up to the old wooden stage and pulpit.

And every girl was silent, from Susanne – plump and sufferer of many arrows – to Pauline, leader of each dinner prayer and seller of hidden cigarettes.

Spencer, too, at her table with some other girls – outsiders for some reason or another, whether her unusual name like a scarlet 'A' on her chest or Megan (drunk father and absent mother) or Patricia (family of lapsed Catholics now trying to make good) or any of the others with their 'issues of faith', as they were called – Spencer was quiet and waiting for Mandy to speak.

"We are starting up a pen-pal program with other girls across the globe! It is a way to share the glory of Christ and to experience a whole other culture!" Mandy smiled out to all of them, face filled with eagerness and it caught on like wildfire.

Because if Mandy liked it, surely it was good and it was right to be excited.

And so every girl grinned, murmured happily and clapped their hands.

Patricia snorted, milk on her lips, and Spencer kept her blue eyes averted – not wanting to be associated with a disrupter of this moment that seemed so important to everyone here.

She didn't want to be the odd one out this time. Six years of being shunned has dragged her from pleasant child to almost reclusive teenager and so she clapped, too. She smiled until her cheeks hurt with the effort.

"Great. More talking about Jesus Christ."

Megan's voice was soft, but her words were always harsh. Spencer supposed it was because of an alcoholic father. Surely what the man said was like the edge of glass and there was no mother around to guide Megan, to tell her proper manners from rude ones.

"Carlin seems pleased."

And Patricia, lips now a perfect red, likes to bait other girls – to get them into trouble, to amuse herself – and Spencer refuses to jump to on this particular worm.

They might be lumped together, but they are far apart.

Patricia doesn't want to be a servant of God. Megan doesn't want to follow rules.

But Spencer Carlin just wants to be like everyone else.

In magazines, the ones that Spencer reads when she is back home and lying on her bed, are the countries that she imagines writing to – some girl in Peru or Africa, perhaps godless but certainly interesting – and she is pleased.

It could be fun. It could teach me a lot. I could have a friend from another place, far from Ohio, and that would be… nice.

*

You let your hand go into a velvet bag and pull out yellow strips of paper, each piece holding the name of some girl and her mailing address.

And you hope for something bigger than California.

And then you feel guilty for wanting something more than this 'Kyla Davies, 2464 Pinewood Drive, Hollywood, CA 90078'.

Other girls scream about Canada or England.

Patricia throws her pen-pal slip of paper away and Megan talks incessantly about her girl's name (Babalona Bruno), saying she might be the daughter of mobsters. How Megan knows about such things is a mystery to Spencer and so she tunes the both of them out.

And she brings up pens and paper, trying to be enthused by writing someone who lives in Hollywood.

The land of movies might be interesting to some girls, but Spencer had her 'interest' cut short by her mother.

'Full of degeneracy and absolutely against the word of the Bible. Neither you or Glen is aloud near one of those houses… and Glen, you better not test my patience!' was Paula Carlin's decree and, as far as Spencer was concerned, it might as well have been from a voice on high.

Glen never listened, sneaking around to see films and telling Spencer to not breathe a word.

She was afraid of being caught, her mother's punishment being worse than self-recrimination.

But, deep past her recited scripture and her pious gaze and her fearful walk, Spencer did everything in her power to not betray her brother.

Because she loved him, to be sure… but also, she envied him.

Her pen is stuck at 'Dear Kyla…' when Lisa busts in, hurriedly whispering in Megan's ear and then running out again.

"What's that about?" Patricia asks and Megan grins wildly at them, dropping down to the floor and pulling up the fourth wooden plank at the edge. It is secret spot – for smokes, for candy, for records that the sisters would not condone.

And Patricia shuts the door, then the windows.

And Spencer sits still, anxious for so many reasons… until Megan pulls out a 45, placing it gently on the record player and shoving aside the children's hymns.

"They'll be on the television tonight, during the newsreel!"

Megan gushes and the girl doesn't usually do that, but it is to be expected.

Even Patricia loses some of her acerbic nature.

Even Spencer breaks a rule once in a while.

The Beatles have turned many a good girl and, while Spencer is sure of her path as a righteous young lady… she sings softly along with her two cabin mates, finding the words to start off her letter as well.

'Dear Kyla,

I am glad to write to you and hope to talk with you about many interesting things.

I live in Ohio and am seventeen. I have a brother named Glen.

I go to Beaumont, a Catholic school for girls.

What about you?

Sincerely,

Spencer Carlin

Ps – Do you like The Beatles?

/ / /

TBC