False Pretenses
S H A N E x M I T C H I E
a collaboration between:
valele
DramaticStarlet
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chapter one
written by valele
"Mom, I don't want to go. Why are you making me?" I complained as I glared at my mother. She'd been depressed for the last couple of weeks because her show closed, and she couldn't do another because she'd gotten a cold during audition season and didn't try out for any shows. So the genius had gone out and gotten herself a job at Camp Rock, teaching musical theatre, and since I was just so talented (insert rolling eyes here), I had to go with her.
"Shane, come on! You have to come with me; you'd just have so much fun! And you could make some friends and all. You know how I hate to see you all lonely and sitting at home, doing nothing all day," she said, turning on her actress charm.
"Why can't I just stay with Dad?" I asked. I realized immediately that that might not be a good idea. My dad isn't very responsible.
"I am not leaving you with that irresponsible fool! What for? So he can take you out to parties with all his supermodel girlfriends?" I have to admit she has a point. I'm not much of a party guy, really. "Now, go on and start packing. We leave tomorrow first thing," she said, pushing me towards my room in our New York flat.
"What?" I exclaimed, surprised. "We leave tomorrow?"
"Yes, that's what I said. Now go pack!" I glared at her, but I went to my room and took out a suitcase and got started on packing. If I knew one thing, it's that it would take me a while to finish packing. I'm just too OCD.
After half an hour of folding and re-folding shirts and putting them into my suitcase carefully, my mom popped into my room. "How about some Chinese?" she asked, and I groaned.
"Not Chinese again," I said. "Here, finish packing for me, and I'll make us something."
She nodded and walked in, while I walked past her on my way to the kitchen. I did actually enjoy cooking, so I didn't mind doing this for her. This way, we didn't have to eat Chinese for the third night in a row. You get tired of it, trust me.
I went up to my room twenty minutes later. The spaghetti was almost done, and the salad just needed the dressing. I walked into my room, only to see my mom, holding about three shirts, and my suitcase, the clothes in it all crumpled up and not folded correctly. "I knew I shouldn't have asked you," I said calmly. My mom was like this, and you got used to it, so I just ignored it and folded everything up correctly. I love my mom, but the woman cannot fold a shirt to save her life.
"Sorry, Shane," she said, looking apologetic. The thing with my mom is that even if she's careless and scatterbrained, she always, always feels bad. You can't hate her when she makes puppy-dog eyes at you.
"Don't worry about it, Mom," I said. "Why don't you go downstairs and set the table?"
"Sure thing, sweetie!" she exclaimed, all trace of regret gone.
--
The next day, I woke up to my alarm, bright and early, at six in the morning. I dragged myself to my mom's room, not looking forward to waking her. She wasn't pleasant at all in the morning.
And of course, she didn't set her alarm, which is why I'm glad I did. I walked into her room, only to find her bed empty and made, a packed suitcase on it, and the sun shining through the window. "Mom?" I called out.
"In here, honey," she called from the bathroom. I followed her voice there, and saw her dressed and putting her make-up on.
"How on Earth did you get up before me?" I asked.
"Well, I was just so excited, I couldn't sleep!" she exclaimed. I shook off the confusion and left the room, heading to the kitchen.
After making breakfast, I took a shower, while my mom called our driver and the concierge to get help with our suitcases. Or more accurately, my one suitcase and her five, huge ones.
"Mom, why are you bringing so much stuff?" I asked. "It's only four weeks!"
"Exactly," she said, barely paying attention to me. She was too busy overlooking the transporting of her suitcases into the car. We were standing on the sidewalk outside our building while the concierge and the driver put our things in the car. I felt bad they had to do it all by themselves, so I tried to help, but they told me not to worry.
"So what exactly am I doing at Camp Rock, anyway?" I asked, looking at my mom warily. I always felt like I had to watch her when we were outside or she'd walk straight into the New York traffic, and she probably would.
How did I end up as the responsible adult, anyway? It's a good question. My mom's always been like this, she's always needed someone to take care of her. Back when she and my dad were still married, he took care of her, but then he went through this mid-life crisis and started going out to parties and dong all these weird things. I was pretty young then, so I'm not quite clear on what happened, but I know my dad cheated on my mom.
A shriek brought me back to reality. My mom was standing impossibly close to the street, looking down at something, I don't know what. I walked over to her, and saw what she had shrieked for. Somehow, her sunglasses had ended up in a puddle on the street, and of course, my mother, the eternal drama queen, had to scream about it.
"Mom, they're just sunglasses," I said, and she gasped at me.
"They are not just sunglasses, they're very expensive Chanel sunglasses!" she exclaimed.
"Mom, you've got like twenty pairs," I told her. "You'll live."
She scowled at me, but she knew I was right. We got in the car, and just like that, we were off to Camp Rock.
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I think it sucks! Yay for me!
(Katie's Note: It does not suck. She needs to stop saying that! Leave nice reviews and inform her that it most definitely does not suck. Okay? Okay!)