Welcome to my 8-month project! I understand Author Notes are one of the most boring, irritating things, but I wish to inform you I will be listing Disclaimers and Easter Eggs for each chapter in each. Also: poll up on my profile.

This story is meant to show real problems our high-schoolers go through, and also to expose several parts of society that are little talked about: the asexual people/those who do not wish for relationships, the teenagers who are trying to be adults and grow up, and the young people who work hard with their talents. Featured in this story will be several types of physical-bordering-on sexual assault, a glossed-over featurette of a rape, small mentions of drugs, major sadness/stress and a suicide near the end. Rated T due to falling in-line with that rating's qualifications.

Everything has already been typed up, so you don't need to worry about this being discontinued. The original work, Grojband, which first aired on Cartoon Network, is unowned by me. Consider me a child building a sand castle on someone else's beach.

Special thanks to each of my beta readers Angelhunter1901, Clairvoyant Teen17, ElysiaWaterchild, Freelance360, Iconic Bubbles, Kamjie Celeek, Kid-of-Percabeth, L.E-Rae, Million Arthur The Yuri King, Miraculous Marauder, OnihumoExplosionsInc, Project-story-board, Silverskrill Elysia, SolsticeSummerMoon06, ThatRollingStone, TheGirlyDJ, Vartron, YouYou098, ZilverHope, elorlan, starspangledfeels, and thelegitlazycow2.0. I know, long list. These people are amazing. They were kind, honest, and gave useful tips and pointers. I've read a few of their stories as well, and I fully recommend each of them because they are all talented, spirited individuals. So grateful I could rely on each of them to pick out things to fix. Thanks you guys!

Understanding a problem can be related to receiving a breath of fresh air. Learning you have a problem is like losing the ability to breathe. The good news is this: One always follows the other in balance, and afterward you learn to use the air and sing.

Rachel without Jacob, Joseph, or Laban

My Saturday begins with the smell of bacon and eggs and the sound of gentle knocks at my white bedroom door. At some point in the night, half the pale sheets on my bed ended up on my threadbare carpet. A plush blanket which smells of popcorn squeezes my neck and tries to suffocate me for all I've ever done to it. I untwist it and toss it onto the floor with the rest of my sheets. At the end of the day, I'll throw them back onto the bed and bury myself into the mound.

"Yes?" I call to the person knocking. The door isn't locked, but if the person on the other side knows what's good for them, they won't come in. My room is strictly off-limits.

"Laney!" My mom calls from the other side. "It's time to get up! Come on, we have to get a move on!" A thought tickles in the back of my head. A desk worker in my head begins to work through a stack of paperwork, to try to find what I need to remember. I am too tired to care much. I try to reach the ground from my bed, but like every other day, my toes swing three or four inches from my musty carpet.

I love my carpet. It's filled with scraggles that tickle in-between my feet. Whenever I lay down on it, I can get up and there'll be a Laney-imprint. And it smells like petrichor, which I love.

My name is Laney. I'm fifteen, whiter than a wedding dress, and short. I have red hair and really dark green eyes. There's not a ton of stuff that makes me unique, but I am in a band with my three best friends: Kin, Kon, and Corey. I play tons of instruments but stick mostly to my bass. Sometimes I'll sing, but most of the time we let Corey, our main-man, rule.

My room is dusty. I haven't pulled back the curtains since summer began and that was almost three months ago. Clouds rise when I rush by too fast and the blue wall paint has cobwebs in the corners. I'm just too lazy to clean them out. The canopy over my bed is crooked but I can't bring myself to care. I run a hand through my wiry, tangled red hair and yawn. My breath jolts me straight from sleepwalker to half-awake. My breath could kill a goat. Heck, it could kill a decaying corpse twice over. I cover my mouth and open the door to my bedroom before I shut it behind me as fast as I can. My bedroom door is covered in layers of cheap black-and-yellow police tape that I hung up years ago. There's also a large red KEEP OUT sign and a hook where my mother puts things she wants put in my room.

I rush into the bathroom, brush my teeth, and manage to not trip as I walk down the stairs to the hallway. I forget to miss the stair that squeaks, and a sound rings out that makes me cringe. Okay, okay, I'm awake.

"Stair Laney!" Mom calls to remind me from the kitchen.

"Sorry, Mom!" I yell back.

I stumble into the kitchen and fall into my chair at the bar. Dad opens his mouth to reprimand me, but Mom pinches her lips and glares. He snaps his mouth shut; that's strange. Dad shrugs off my entrance and goes back to his coffee. Mom pushes a plate towards me and plops down a mug of coffee. "Thanks, Mom," I say as I pick up the mug. She never adds the creamer or sugar, but she makes me a mug of coffee every morning. Most of the time it's her and me. Dad does these on-again, off-again diets. He'll decide it's healthier for him to not drink coffee, then have a mug anyway. Unlike most kids' mothers, it's my father who likes to budget, clean, and keep track of his pounds.

Mom's more chill than most kids my age. She takes whatever life wants to throw at her and handles it all with an air of "bring-it-on." In her twenties, she played the clarinet in a jazz band and traveled the eastern United States. But before the group could hit big money, she decided she didn't like jazz and quit. She sold her clarinet and started a flower shop, which she also later sold.

She met Dad in a church choir before they both decided they hated church. They were in Louisiana at the time, but Dad wanted to go to California and Oregon, and Mom wanted to get out and go places. A giant road-trip began and ended when they fell in love somewhere around Kansas. They got through Mormon Utah and decided to get married in Las Vegas.

Dad decided he didn't want to go to California and Mom agreed, so they plopped their butts in Vegas and both got jobs. Mom ran someone else's casino for them and Dad got hired on in a music company as a talent scout. After being stable for about two years, Dad's work started to move him places. Mom quit her job and went with him on all sorts of adventures.

They lived in South America, New York, England and even a place called Turkmenistan while Dad traveled with his company. The traveling only stopped when Dad slipped down a set of concrete stairs and broke his back. Since they were in Peaceville at the time, Mom and Dad both said: "What the hell" and got Canadian citizenship. Here they settled and here they stayed. Dad stayed with his company but moved to a more stable branch. Mom took up dozens of new skills and turned this house into our home. Filled with treats, pictures, and lights. It always smells like apples here because that's her favorite scent. And after all that, she started a second business.

I was born at the start of my Mom's golden years. She never gave motherhood a thought before she got pregnant. I sometimes doubt if she knew she was pregnant. It could be she never noticed any difference until she was in the hospital and someone put me in her arms. Even then, things never clicked. Mom is a great mom and an even better multitasker. She has her business, is on the PTA and City Council, and even writes newspaper articles sometimes. But it has always been clear this is not her stronghold. She works hard to keep business separate from home, separate from hobbies. I've never seen her work at home. She's also content to back off and let me do my own thing. I can do whatever the bloody hell I want so long as I didn't do any illegal stuff. Dad isn't half as laid-back as Mom, but he also isn't home a lot so it's fine. Kin and Kon's mom is similar to mine, but her entire world revolves around her sons and their older sister. Karen is so old I've never met her. She's off at college and comes around when the winter breaks start. Medical student. Corey is, of course, adopted along with his older sister Trina, so we all come from different starts.

My brain starts to kick into action around my fourth bite of oatmeal. The tickle in the back of my head picks up again. I start to notice things. Dad wears a nice light-blue button-down with a navy tie. His car keys swing from the pocket of his nicest jeans. His black hair, thicker when I was young, has been combed to the texture of silk. Mom's red hair hangs down in soft curls with a little braid across the top of her head. She wears a blue leather jacket that stops at her rib cage and she's tied a blue ribbon at an angle across her neck. She also wears blue jeans from some fancy store.

It's a Saturday in early September. Peaceville lies asleep to recover from the tremendous effort of sending their kids back to school. I can't imagine why they're dressed this nice.

The office clerk passes a note under the door between the two parts of my brain: conscious and subconscious.

Mom strolls back into the room. She's taller than dad because of the plastic blue wedges she wears.

"Laney, I hung your outfit on your door, would you like me to do your makeup or are you going without any today?" Mom asks as she picks up the egg pan and fills up the sink with dirty dishes and hot water.

"Mom," I groan as the pieces click. I sound like a piece of my soul has died. "It's portrait day?"

Portrait day is the day our relatives flock to have their likenesses captured in photos. Mom says it's her duty to make sure she records our existence in visual likenesses. Every year she arranges a Facebook event before she prods Dad and me to the car for the family photo shoot. It arrives weeks later in a beautiful frame on a pretty canvas; photoshopped for our convenience.

Pictures aren't the worst experience on the planet, but the relatives who plan their vacations to Canada around this event are. My great aunts are bad in particular. They pinch my cheeks and try to wipe the makeup off my eyes.

Mom looks at me in sympathy. "I'm sorry love." She says. If I sound like my soul's died, she sounds like she kicked a puppy. "But we gotta do it. M'kay?" I nod with solemn attitude and finish my breakfast. Mom whisks it away before I can carry it to the sink, so I wipe down the counter before I climb up the stairs.

On my door hangs an outfit. For once it doesn't burn out my eyes. In previous years it was itchy sweaters and a plaited skirt, but this year Mom's found a shirt with the word 'No!' on it. There's a vinyl skirt, with scary black lace tights attached underneath. Once I stand in front of the mirror with it on, I decide it doesn't look too bad either.

Mom knocks on the door and asks if I'd like a dark blue choker she got from her store. After helping me put it on, she also does my makeup. Blue shadows around my eyes and eyeliner on the top lids. I look in the mirror and try to push out my chest. I still look like a boy. No hips, no butt, no boobs. Flat as a board, pencil straight, up and down.

Mom notices me looking, and smiles. "You look good no matter how you're built." I shrug and duck my head to hide the pink which creeps into my cheeks, but mutter: "Thanks, Mom."

Mom isn't a Victoria's Secret model by any stretch of the imagination, but she does have a pretty face. Me? I can't say the same. My looks come from Dad.

At 9:09, Mom shuts off all the lights and pulls all the blinds shut. It's her subtle signal to Dad and me to head out to the car. She locks all the doors and leaves the front door for Dad to close. When I clamber into the car, she turns and stares until I grab my seat-belt and click it into place. I give her a double thumbs-up and she returns the sign with a smile. Dad climbs in after a few minutes of delay and turns the key in the ignition. Mom's Jazz station comes on, but she pressed a few buttons and slid our band's CD into the disk slot.

"Yes!" I pump my fists and start to move to the beat of the first song. In front of me, mom does the same. Dad watches us both with a skeptical eye. Mom leans over and nudges him before she reaches up and puts her hands in her earrings. She has this favorite pair of great huge gold loop earrings. They're so big she can loop her hands through them and wear them as bracelets when her ears start to hurt. Her red hair, thin and wiry like mine, bunches up in her hands but never tangles. She rolls down her window as she pulls her hands back down, and the rest follow as Dad takes a hint. The wind cuts through his dark hair and his square glasses slide up a few inches. It rushes through our hair and makes us all look like wind-blown celebrities. The music soars louder and louder because Mom, like me, loves the idea of no thoughts when there's a beat.

Corey's smooth voice seems to click with the atmosphere in the car. He plays low chords which makes your hairs stand on end. I smile. His voice is one of my favorite sounds. There's a pause, and then screams come through the speakers. I pick out my own voice for a second before it cuts off and the song ends. Mom smiles in her rear-view mirror.

"What a beautiful song Laney!" She calls. I give her another double thumbs-up and she returns it again with a bright smile. Dad smiles back and says: "Great job with the band Laney. You look nice today, by the way." It's his way to say "you look decent today, and not like you were born in a Goth shop.

It takes about an hour before we make it to the little country lane where we always have our family photos taken. Cars are already lined up alongside the road, relatives scattered to and fro. Most of them wear tacky pink or white, which looks dumb since our entire family tree is white as paper. Besides, red and black are the only hair colors which exist in our gene-pool. Except for five or six brunettes.

Dad stops the car and opens the door for both mom and me. She smiles and kisses his cheek, I thank him. No sooner has Mom taken two steps out, a flock of red-headed relatives comes over to talk to her.

Mom and Dad both come from large, noisy families. Filled to the brim with whiny children and toddlers. Mom isn't ignorant to children, but they've never been second nature to her. No wonder she high-tailed it out to her jazz band thirteen hours after she was 16. Her parents had thirteen children plus her, and they lived in a five-bedroom house. She shared a room with her two sisters and fell asleep every night as she heard them stalk boys.

Dad's family is the runner-up in siblings, but the king of cousins. Between all his aunts and uncles, he has fifty-two cousins. There must be at least a hundred people here. It's good this photographer has worked with us for years and has long since begun to expect this. As three boys walk up in brown button-downs and slacks, I take a detour around mom. I cut through a group of aunts who bicker about the United States, and thread my way out of the crowd. Boy, was I glad I didn't live in the States. In a corner of the park is a bench, near a trail where people like to hike on days my family doesn't show up to take photos. I plop down and take out my cell phone. I text the band's group chat: "Wassup guys?"

Corey's icon blinks down to read mine, then "Nm, where u at?" appears on the screen. I sigh.

"Stuck large-scale family reunion. Sorry, will miss band practice."

Kin and Kon's icons both blink down at the same time before Kon says: "I didn't know you had a family?"

I stare in disbelief at the screen until Kin says: "Of course she has a family! What, did you think the universe willed her into existence?!"

I decide to chime in: "Ya Kon, only about five thousand people on each side. My dad has 52 cousins!" Kin, Kon, and Corey's new messages all come through at the same time:

'o'

A shadow falls over my lap as Corey starts to type something. Kon has already begun to defend himself. "Well, I know she has a mom and dad, but I kinda thought... the universe announced, 'Let there be Laney's parents." I roll my eyes and glance up to see the newcomer.

The shadow belongs to a teenager who looks much older than me. She's blonde and slender, and so tall her shadow already touches my arms though she's a few feet away. She's locked giant, pink, preppy heels in place over her toes, and she walks like they are tennis shoes. A pink shirt crosses her shoulders and dips down across her chest. She wears bling shorts which end about two inches past her knees.

If my great aunt sees her, she'll die of a heart attack. The newcomer is as pasty white as the rest of my family, but the gold shine of her hair forces her to stand out. She wears a ton of makeup, but I could rival her if today were any other day.

The girl nods at the spot on the bench next to me. "Is this seat taken?" She asks. Her voice sounds like Snow White's from the old movie. High pitched, like a chirp. I shake my head yes and the newcomer sits down. She crosses her legs and I can't help but stare at the pink spikes which adorn the bottom of her shoes. There's a laptop under the crook of the girl's arm. She pulls it out and opens the top. A word document is already open on the screen.

"What's your name?" The stranger asks as she starts to type up another paragraph. I don't see the words, but I do see the page number.

"Three-hundred-and-eighteen pages!" I gasp. The stranger glances over with lazy eyes.

"That's quite the name, isn't it?" I return to earth, flustered.

"Oh, um, no. Sorry, I'm Laney." I hold out my hand, and the stranger takes it with a smile.

"Well hello Laney, I'm Rachel."

Rachel looks like a movie star. She's the prettiest girl I've had seen outside of a magazine. Even Trina can't compare. Rachel's let her blonde hair loose around her shoulders, where it sways and bobs. She has green eyes, one more trait I've never seen in my family. A splatter of freckles decorates her cheekbones. She wears a coat of lip gloss, and she gives off an aura which tells everyone she's nice, confident, and sassy.

Rachel turns back to her computer screen. She doesn't type right, I notice. She chicken-scratches her way across the keyboard.

"I'm to stay in Peaceville for a while – Do you live around here? Or are you here for pictures?" Rachel asks. Her eyes remain on the keyboard as she types. Red, zig-zag error lines appear onscreen.

"Naw, we live here. My family kind of hosts the whole thing." I respond as I glance back at my phone screen. No one has sent any messages, and now the chat is dead. They haven't been online for two minutes. I sigh and close my eyes as I lean back onto the bench.

"Oh, so are you the Penns? Or do you know of them?"

"Yeah, my family," I reply with my eyes still closed.

"Okay, cool. I'm with you guys then."

Her comment garners my attention. I open my eyes. "What?"

"Well, I can't be sure, my dad arranged it all, but yeah. He told me I'd be hanging with the Penns for a few months." Rachel informs me. My head starts to spin. Did I miss the memo? I go back through my memory with a fine-toothed comb. Mom changed the sheets in the guest room last laundry day. She bought extra groceries and last night I heard her vacuum. It isn't a big deal because Mom tends to tire of her office, so she'll sometimes adopt the guest room for a while. It doesn't happen often, but when it does Mom leaves fruit and drinks out for herself to nip off while she works. I was always away at school or with the band. She doesn't do work when I'm around.

"Oh," I say with a rush of air. Rachel glances my way.

"Oh? Did – did you not know?"

I shake my head no in response. Why did I not know? The girl's cheeks turn from pink to red.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't realize…." She trails off and turns back to her computer. An awkward silence forms for a few seconds. I shrug after a few seconds.

"It's whatever." I murmur. It isn't like I'm home a lot anyway, with the band and school and such. But do I want to have a stranger in my home? She doesn't know any of the unspoken family rules; what if she goes in my room?

I shudder and make a mental note to educate Rachel A.S.A.P.

"There you are!" A voice comes. Both Rachel and I look up to see Mom appear. I open my mouth to respond, but mom goes straight to Rachel and puts two hands on her shoulders. Rejection fills me.

"Hello Rachel, it's nice to meet you!" She greets her. So, it's true. I muse. A stranger from someone else's family will stay with us. Now the question is: how long? Mom turns and notices me.

"Laney." She says in a delicate voice like she's afraid I'll break her, or she'll break me. "This is your Dad's cousin's daughter. Do you know Uncle Matthew?" I shake my head.

"Well, he's your Grandfather's brother Will's son. And then Matthew is Rachel's dad here. She's arranged to stay with us for a while."

I nod with a sigh. "Yeah, I know. Anyone else I should be aware of?" Mom shakes her head and looks apprehensive.

"We've set up the spare bedroom for Rachel. You haven't met her before because her parents lived in…" She trails off in thought. "Where was it? Guatemala? Cuba?"

"Honduras," Rachel informs us with a hushed tone.

"Yes, right, Honduras for a few years. She was born in California and resided in Utah for a while. They went south when she was ten to Central America and now she's…" She looks back at Rachel.

"Seventeen," Rachel says. I blink in surprise. She looks twenty.

"Dancing Queen," I say to cover my shock.

"Magic outside of Hogwarts." She smiles a little.

"What?" I ask. Rachel's shoulders slump. Did I miss a cue?

"Anyway…" Mom jumps back in. "She's come over from Europe with her father to see Canada and slow down for a little bit. So, her Dad gave your dad a call and now here we are." I nod and pretend I already know all this and the action takes some wind out of her. She must be nervous. She's not always so much of a talker.

Mom brushes her red locks along the side of her face and sighs. "Um, it's time for pictures Laney." I nod and tuck my phone down the front of my shirt. Mom stares but doesn't say a word. Rachel snorts, and I see her stuff away a smile as she turns back to her laptop. Anger rushes through me. Who is this girl, to surge into my life? Mom pats Rachel's shoulder and we turn away together. Didn't mom see her laugh at me?

I walk with Mom to find Dad. He's surrounded by brothers and cousins. He looks annoyed and doesn't complain at all when Mom pulls him out from under his cousin Neil's arm. Dad's cousins come in all shapes and sizes, the oldest fifty-seven and the youngest two. It looks like he'll have a new one soon though. One of his aunts, who is twenty-seven and has nine children (I'll let you do the math.) has a big, round belly. She pats it and talks to it. It's weird.

We battle our way through my aunts. Some of them pinch my cheeks though Mom tries her best to protect me. The photographer arranges us to his fancy and takes thousands of photos of us. My aunts stand behind him as he works. They screech at me to smile and tell me I look too pale. It sucks.

He waves to the side at last, and I heave a sigh of relief.

As I walk past, someone grabs my arm and hauls me up to their eyes to inspect me. My great-Aunt Bessie. She scowls at my face and says: "Laney, I don't mean to prod, but why do you wear so much makeup?" I sigh.

"Nice to see you too, Aunt Bessie."

"Now watch your tone young lady. You don't need to be so rude. And good heavens girl, your makeup!" She shakes her head in disapproval. Her two chins wobble. "You look like a prostitute with all that gunk on your face." She growls.

"Mom!" I call, but she's up ahead, where it looks like she's stuck in a conversation with my aunts. She can't hear me. My toes wave off the ground. Bessie lifts me up with one hand, a feat for an 80-year-old lady and tries to rub my face.

"Aunt Bessie!" I squirm. Someone else grabs my arms and hoists me out from Aunt Bessie's grip.

"Bes, I tell you every year to leave the poor girl alone," Dad says as he smooths over my clothes. "You shouldn't nag her so much." Beside him is Rachel, who glares slits at Aunt Bessie.

"You're her father! You ought to make sure she doesn't leave the house inappropriate! Girls like her are supposed to set examples for the young men." I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I like the way I am, but dear-old-Aunt Bess is still stuck in the stone ages.

"Who says her outfit's for any boy?" Rachel asks, tone clipped and words brittle. Her words mislead since I do pine after Corey, but how is she supposed to know? Aunt Bess turns her eyes to her and almost dies of a heart attack. As I predicted.

"Oh, my goodness-gracious what are you wearing? You might as well walk around in your underwear for all the world can see." Aunt Bess exclaims. Rachel folds her arms across her torso, which doesn't work out well for her since her shirt rides lower as she does.

"I ought to." She says. "And I'd do it where you could see it too, you old cow." I sputter with laughter, and Aunt Bessie turns a cool shade of orange. She's so old, she doesn't go red anymore. Orange is the most scarlet she can blush. Sure, it was mean of Rachel, but it was funny too.

"Now… now!" Aunt Bess says in a strangled tone like she has someone who presses down on her voice box. "Now, how can you expect to become a respectable lady if you talk like such? With a nice circle of friends and a family?"

Rachel rolls her eyes. "I have a family. They're a little spread out, but my family still."

Bess performs an excellent rendition of the adult sigh. "I meant a husband, children, young ones. You don't understand now, but the same boys you chase now will one day want to marry you. You must leave some to the imagination!" She wraps her arms around Rachel's shoulders. She looks like a peachy bat which hangs off Rachel.

Rachel sighs. "No, I'm not interested in marriage. It's not for me."

One surprise after another. I've never met a relative like Rachel before. For one, her appearance. Blonde, tall, thick hair, green eyes, and curvy. And the way she carries her laptop around, with its million-page word document. No one in my family writes. You could say word brains never found their way to us. Mom kept a journal for five days in her teens, and it's so ineligible you can't read it now. She did publish two books, but they never took off. And now… shouldn't she want a husband? Marriage, a family? She doesn't care? Everyone I know wants marriage… at least someday. Even Corey, Kin and Kon talk about the big "One Day". I've never met someone who remarked: "No, not for me."

It looks like neither has Aunt Bess. She goes chalk-white, sputtering. "Why - What! But that!" I sense a small explosion and take Rachel's arm to pull her away. Dad watches us go with wide eyes. My mind still struggles to make sense of Rachel's words.

She must have meant right now, at the moment. It's not a priority. She must want to just hang out. Will she attend school with me? If so, she could date the better half of the high school before Winter Break. I wince at the thought. I've never been on a date before.

"Well," I try and make conversation after several minutes in silence. "You know how to start a party."

"I couldn't stand by and watch her pick on you."

"Yeah, she does it a lot," I answer. I trip over a purse another cousin has left on the ground. Rachel steps over it.

"How long do these things usually last?" She asks. I shrug.

"Two or three hours-" She winces. "At the least" I continue. She sucks in a breath.

"Ouch. Think your mom would mind if we left?"

I shrug. "She wouldn't mind, but I don't have a car and I don't quite have my license yet."

"I do. Have a car and a license, I mean." She laughs. "Course it's not a Canadian or American license, but I'm sure they'll understand. After all, I arrived here this morning." She laughs. Even her laugh is pretty, like bells.

"How do you already have a car?"

"We purchased it ahead of time. I wasn't sure how big Peaceville was." Rachel tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder and turns to me. "Do you want to ask your mom? We can go somewhere and then see if I can obtain a Canadian license? I'll even pay for food."

She itches to leave this crowd. She's as awkward as I am in a scene like this. I watch her tap her foot, and then I pull my phone out of my shirt. I text mom, and as usual, don't have to wait long. She responds with a simple thumbs-up emoji, and I tuck my phone back down my shirt.

"She said yes," I tell Rachel. Rachel pumps her fist into the air to revel her simple victory before she pulls some keys out of her front pocket. A piece of what looks like a homemade friendship bracelet is on it. Purple.

We cross the field in seconds, and she clicks the keys twice. One car makes a sound. A small, blue Volkswagen Scirocco. She opens the door for me, which no one besides my dad has done before, and when I climb in it all smells new. Rachel pops open the driver's door as I adjust the height on my chair. She tosses the keys into the center console and then hits the start button. Oh great, she has one of those fancy cars where you don't even have to turn the key. She also has a fancy touchscreen stuck in her dash.

Rachel opens the sun-roof to let light and air filter through the car. She pops some sunglasses out of a cubby and selects some music.

"You okay with pop, country, and songs from today?" She asks as her phone syncs with the car and some beats start playing. I nod. I'm okay with anything. Corey, Kin, Kon and I have done all the music under the sun anyway, and this song sounds catchy. She opens the title track and I balk at the artist.

"Taylor Swift?" I ask in disgust.

"Yeah." She responds. "State of Grace. I've always been a fan. Want me to change it?"

I shake my head and silence my displeasure. It's her car. Why should she change her own music? And the song is sort of catchy anyway. I can deal with it. Rachel looks at me, then shrugs. She puts the car into drive. The music soars all by itself as we pull out.

She's not a bad driver, and she lets me hit all the buttons I want – seat adjustments, air-conditioning, music. But the way everyone stares at her from their cars makes me want to train my eyes on the dash. Most people never meet my small country's worth of relatives. Now, Rachel is out in the public's eye, and everyone is staring. There's an emotion in their eyes they've never looked at me with. Envy, anger and strong feelings of inferiority spike in my chest. They all know me, I am old news, but Rachel?

The city is like a child at Christmas, surrounded by new toys. And Rachel is the biggest, newest, most fun plaything. Sick.

Rachel Barabossi's personality is based off my own. I designed her appearance after Reese Witherspoon on Legally Blonde.

Laney's personality is based off of one of my friends who's going through some times. Laney's plush blanket is actually mine IRL.

There is, of course, both a Harry Potter and a ABBA reference in this story. I threw it in so you could get an idea of what these two characters value.

For those of you who hate TS, sorry. That aspect of Rachel is from me and my cousin. Do check out that one song though. Once you know the words the beat makes you COME ALIVE.

Rachel's car is based off one my dad had.

Aunt Bess is based off some people I've seen on both Pinterest and Facebook. I don't know any of them. They're featured in those memes that make you roll your eyes. Believe it or not, almost ALL of Laney's inner dialogue are things I heard spoken in the school locker rooms.

Story Stats:

5,414 words. 28,093 Characters. 6,984 syllables. 119 paragraphs with 384 sentences. 20min estimated reading time. 30min estimated speaking time. 7th grade reading level. Top five word usage points are Mom(56), like(36), dad(34), all(23), and back(22).

Interested in more stories by me? I have parallel accounts on Archive of our Own, Wattpad, and Fanfiction/Fictionpress.