A/N: I know I shouldn't be starting another fanfic, but this is based on Guitar Girl by Sarra Manning, so I have the plot and everything. If you read the book, you'll realize that a lot of this chapter, well prologue, is word for word from the book, but that's because it's setting the scene for the rest of the story. But through out this story there will be parts taken exactally from the original book. I figure if I use the plot and re-read the book chapter of it for every chapter of this I'd actually finish a story! there should be 19 chapters plus the pro and epi (aka prologue and epilogue) I hope you enjoy the fic. R&R please!!
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters you recognise, the personalities of the characters if you recognize them, or the plot. Wow, I'm an unfortunate bitch aren't I?
Guitar Girl
Prologue
Stacks upon stacks of parchment were in front of me, all neatly organized and filed. One file for every month I was in The Hormones. It's really odd, seeing an entire year of your life measured out in press cuttings, legal documents, and receipts from places like restaurants, hotels, and instrument shops.
I blindly reached for the closest folder, only to have a picture fall into my lap. I saw the six of us staring arrogantly because staring was uncool. It was one on the few Muggle photos we had of us. My hair had been died cherry red then, verses its natural reddish-orange. I looked much younger then. I was wearing jeans and a green halter top, a tiger lily pinned in my hair. Flowers, lilies especially, used to be my trademark, my thing. When we did gigs, fans would throw flower petals at me. Once in Birmingham, as I was walking off stage, I skidded on a big wet clump of petal mulch and slid right into the audience. James had to run to the lip of the stage and haul me out, while Sirius and Chrys nearly peed themselves laughing.
I looked to the photo again. Chrys, short for Chrysanthemum, was next to me, and arm slung around my shoulder indifferently. She's all hipbones with a platinum blond attitude, a diamond navel piercing gleaming in the light of the flash. I remember the waistline of Chrys' black trousers slowly inching down in between shots. "You've gotta show a bit of flesh," she told me, laughing, when I said you could see her knickers. There's Sirius, with his dark hair covering his gray eyes, looking seductive, as always. He's wearing his biker boots with his black skinny jeans and a purple fitted shirt. He claimed the shirt was to prove he was a 'man' not a 'queer' at the time. His flavour of the show probably didn't care though, as long as it would come off.
Then there's Rose, off to the side of the shot. Short, spiky hair that Chrys had bullied her into dyeing black, and a bright red bra visible through the thin white cotton of her shirt, which the stylist had bullied her into wearing, saying she'd look sexy. It didn't work. Rose could be cute on a good day, but never sexy. Remus was behind her. He always had to be in the back since he had scars littering his face and body. Remus had his shoulder length hair tied back, like always. I hear a rumour the other day that Remus had shaved his hair off, but that's like taking the peanut butter away from a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It's just not going to've happened.
And finally, there's James on my left, looking every bit of the rock star. He's wearing a Hawaiian shirt he found second-hand, hands in the pockets of his trousers, his shoulders hunched slightly to work the tortured-artist thing. His black hair is the usual mop-top riot style. He'd been experimenting with a mix of Brylcreem and coconut wax that month to get his hair to the desired level of messiness. Now, every time the scent of coconut reaches me, I think of James glooping it through his hair and begging Chrys until she pulled her fingers through his hair, her complaining of greasing up her fingers all the while. I'm starting to wish I hadn't looked at the photo; it's making me queasy thinking about it. My stomach's knotting and protesting against the memories of happier times. I rubbed my hand across it, trying to massage it and get it to behave.
I hear a polite cough from behind me. Apparently Lachlan, my lawyer, came back from the stationary cupboard where he'd been searching for me a notebook, since he figures a roll of parchment wouldn't be a smart thing to use, since Muggles will probably see it. He placed the composition book in front of me with a wide variety of pens, ink, and quills. And it wasn't the cheap pens like bics; it was the fancy felt tip ones. And the quills weren't the cheep owl quills; they were the expensive phoenix and miniature peacock quills. No wonder he charges so much. He patted me on the shoulder, gingerly.
"Nothing to worry about Lily," he assured me. "Just write everything down."
"Everything? I don't think I can remember that much," I sigh.
"These should jog your memory," Lachlan pointed out, gesturing to the parchment. "But you need to be thorough. Even little incidents and conversations that seem small and trivial might help your case."
I pulled a face and unwillingly nodded. I know that I'm being very difficult, but the last few months have been spent in denial. Now I'm going to have to relive all the betrayal and angst again. Not fair.
"Okay, I'll get busy with parchment and quill," I told Lachlan, trying to sound light and carefree.
"Good girl," he said, affectionately. "Don't skip bits, though. I'll be in my office if you need anything."
With another pat on my shoulder, he was gone. I opened the composition book and looked at the white paper with the blue and red lines crossing it. Resigned, I dipped my quill into ink and began to write:
My name is Lily Evans. I'm nineteen years old, and I'm being sued for £5,000,000 by my former record company...