She's the Ash

Chapter 1: Thinking

Synopsis: Craig's debut album has been out for months, and Ashley's never listened – really listened - to its songs. What she does hear comes as less of a shock, but more as a pleasant surprise. CrAsh; fills in the blanks between the end of "Live To Tell" and "Bust a Move"

I was mumbling to myself as I shifted my messenger bag to my other hip while I stood on the steps of my house, trying to balance my books as I tried to open the door to my house.

"Stupid, stupid you. Thinking that it could work out? Jeez, Ashley."

I managed to get my key in the door and unlock it. I stumbled in, my balance overthrown as the door swung open. My textbooks fell out of my left hand and spilled onto the floor; all I was left holding was my journal, clutching it tightly.

I cursed loudly and slammed the door, then paused, waiting for my mother's inevitable admonishment. It didn't come.

Good.

I was alone in the house; no Toby, no Mom, and no Jeff to question my obscenities and anger, to ask about school and NYU and Jimmy.

God, Jimmy.

I was so angry with myself; how had I allowed myself to fall into the same trap with Jimmy again – the same trap I had fallen into with every guy – again? How had I become a babysitter instead of a girlfriend?

I had become a 'crutch'- an ironic word from the man whose probability to walk again was so high. I was only support; I only maintained, never challenged. I was never the lover, never the inspiration. I was never his muse, nor his motivation.

But I don't think I ever wanted to be.

That's probably why I deleted hi track off of my song. I had never fully understood my motives beyond "not wanting to be in his shadow, like I was with Craig." I didn't want to be his musical crutch. That's how I explained it to myself at the time, but that only scratched the surface of why I did it.

But, really, I wasn't doing it for myself. I was doing it because of Craig

He had jumpstarted my focus on music again, with his song stealing and his artistic success working in tandem to inspire me to find my own voice, away from him, and away from Jimmy. So, in a way, Jimmy was my crutch, too.

I began to pick up my books, and once all had been placed into a pile, I carried them to the kitchen table and set them down, not planning to return to them. I had more important things to worry about than homework.

I grabbed a snack from the fridge, bypassing my usual post break-up comfort food of popcorn with Parmesan cheese in favor of an orange. It felt odd, but I didn't need the comfort this time around. I wasn't upset, and didn't care that Jimmy had broken up with me; it didn't feel like a loss.

I walked up the stairs, orange in one hand and my journal still in the other, my bag bouncing on my hip as I climbed higher, Once I reached my room, I tossed the bag on my bed and heard the distinctive sound of my typically coin-filled wallet hitting plastic.

I pulled my paisley scarf off of my head and yanked off my beaded tank top, suddenly feeling like those clothes weren't me anymore. I looked into my closet and grimaced at the presence of floral patterns and fluffy sweaters. There was no way in hell that I was putting any of that on.

I reached blindly into my drawers and pulled out a t-shirt, not caring which one I took out since it had been so long since I had worn them. I needed to get back to the basics of the self that I had lost since returning to Degrassi.

It was fitting, then, that I found myself holding my Ramones t-shirt a gift from a certain someone four Christmases ago.

My basics – my true honest self, in which I was no one's crutch and could stand on my won – began and ended with Craig Manning.

I plopped down on my bed and pulled the shirt on, then opened my black vinyl messenger bag. It was the first time I had used this one in a while. I had spilled soda on the designer bag Jimmy had gotten me for Christmas, the one by some designer in the States that every girl wanted this year, and I had pretended to adore it.

It was fitting, then, that the day I used my bad from grades 10 and 11, filled again with my journal and my music, Jimmy and I broke up.

Everything was "fitting" today.

I turned the bag over onto my bed, emptying all of its contents onto my comforter. Out fell my iPod, my cell phone, and my planner, all essential to my everyday activities, which I set on my nightstand like I did everyday after school. The usual knickknacks also cascaded out onto the maroon bedspread: a patch of the UK flag which I had yet to attach back onto the bag it had fallen off of, a bunch of plastic dogs Ellie and I had gotten out of a vending machine the last time we had went out for pizza, and lastly, the clay heart Jimmy had made for our eight month anniversary in grade eight.

I looked at it, marveling at my own pathetic attempt to convince myself that he loved me and that I loved him. I picked it up, turning it over a few times, then threw it, hard, against the wall behind my desk; it shattered, the pieces falling into the garbage can next to the desk. The only remnants of its existence were the tiny shards on my rig, and the sienna-brown splotch it had mad eon the white wall.

Perfect.

The last item that had fallen out of my bag was not usually in it: a newly bought CD, still it cellophane wrapping. I had passed by the music store on my way back home after school, and saw the album in the window- it's creator was having a CD signing in Stouffville, and anyone who bought the CD was entered into a raffle to get a chance to meet the artist in person.

The prize wasn't something I cared about; I had entered anyway, but I knew I could get the artist's number from someone if I really needed to talk to him.

What I did care about was the fact that it was Craig's album.

I hadn't bought it when it first debuted/ I had refused to, on the grounds that he had stolen my music and I wanted to make something of my own, uninfluenced by him in anyway.

I had never listened to the album. I knew that one of the songs – "I Still Miss You" – had gone to number one, but I didn't listen to the radio anymore.

Well, with a fresh start to myself comes fresh ideas, and I knew I needed to finally listen to Craig's CD. Closure, I told myself. I'm only listening for closure. Nothing else.

I tore the plastic off of the CD, cursing the genius who had decided that it should be impossible to open a CD in under a millennia. I placed the disk in my stereo and pressed play, feeling free to turn up the volume, since no one else was home.

I settled down on my bed, my back against my pillows journal and pen in hand ready for…something.

Closure. Inspiration. Anything but my current apathy.