Chapter 1 – Average, I guess.
I don't really know what to write here… I guess I'll write advice, or something like that. There comes a moment in everyone's life when it all makes sense. A wake me up, if you will. These moments occur every so often and a new look on life is accepted. When I finally found out what I wanted to be, I dedicated myself and look where I am today. I put the pencil down, reach for a tissue, and blow my nose. I've been tackling a fierce cold for a while now.
"MARISSA! GO TO SL/EEP!" Mom yells.
"Okay." I say ever so slightly louder than a whisper. "Where was I… Oh! Here."
Little things speak the greatest. They build up over time. Keep at it.
I've been trying to keep a diary recently. Dr. Flanenbaum thought it would be a nice idea. Write my thoughts down, reflect on a day, all that stuff. I don't see how it could be helping in the slightest. It's just stupid writing. What so Dr. Flanenbaum probably knows like what, 2,000 prescription medicines, and she tells me to keep a stupid diary? Psychiatrists are so overrated.
"MARISSA! GO TO BED! IT'S 11:30!" Mom stamps up a few steps and screams louder. She doesn't take the time to come up all of them and say it nicely because that requires more effort. I guess. I heave a sigh and unplug my iHome. I had been blasting some songs from the 'Night Visions' album. I toss a half eaten biscuit in my hamster cage and fly into bed. I snap once, and the lights are off. After a few minutes of drifting, I hear a vibration and my room lights up with a florescent blue glow. I crack my eyes open and fumble for my iPhone on the bedside table. A text from Tony. A smile creases my lips.
It reads:
"Hey, Marissa! Hope the showcase went well. Chat me tmrw school. My mom showed me an audition youd be interested in!"
"Thnx! I hope you realize what time your textin' me . It's 2am, Tony. Go to bed."
Two minutes later, Tony responds:
"I AM IN BED! Good night, Riss!"
I smile and tuck my phone under my pillow. Tony and I aren't that close, but close enough that we talk sometimes. I think I'm only 6 months younger, or something like that. We're in the same homeroom. Okay, Riss. You need sleep. If you go to sleep now, you'll get five hours. ….. This is ridiculous. Marissa, get to sleep. You have four hours. …. SCREW IT. I fall asleep.
A slight vibration and the cluck of a chicken are barely audible. I wince and peek my eyes open. Bright yellow light shines in from the bay window on the left side of the room, cloaking everything in a mysterious, glowy coat. Outside I grab for the phone under my pillow and press the power button. Oh, good. Only 9:30. Good thing it's a weekend. … Wait, is it? Is it Friday or Saturday? Oh crap. It's Tuesday. TUESDAY?! I bolt upright and a stress sweat trickles down my spine. I shove the 10 pounds of blankets that bind me to my bed onto the floor, and I sprint for the bathroom. Great. A wonderful day for my hair to look like Diana Ross on crack. I hate having poofy hair. I have too much of it. I open the cabinet and grab my toothpaste, squirting about half of the pasty white goop into the sink. I forgot to put the cap on last night.. I groan and splash some water on it until it flushes down the drain. I run my fingers under the cold tap and wet my face. Hot water has been hard to get these days for the common man. I am not poor. I just prefer cold water. On my way out of the bathroom, I stub my toe and curse to the Gods. This will be a long day.
"What's up with you today, Riss?" Tony pops a piece of Stride into his mouth and begins to chew.
"I've had a rough morning…" I say, thinking back to the incidents prior to school. We turn a corner and are met by a stampede of angry seniors rushing to get to lunch. "And it's getting rougher by the minute."
"Don't sweat it," Tony giggles. "I have something that'll make you a whole lot happier!"
Considering I don't have many close friends, no one knows how I'd usually react. When I'm excited for something, I over exaggerate a lot. No one knows me that well though.
"Oh?" I raise an eyebrow and I catch a glint in his dull brown eyes. Tony's a little shorter than me with freckles all over his face. He has stubbly light brown hair with a flick in the front.
"Yeah. Check this out." He hands me a pamphlet as we enter rom 109, Mr. Tralora's history room, my next class. Tony stops at the door and gives me a wink and faster than a fly can flee from under a swatter, he's out of there. I feel my cheeks grow warm and a sweat breaks on my upper lip. I don't really like Tony, but I've never had anyone interested in me before. I'd prefer someone that's interested in the things I am; not burgers, South Park, cheerleaders, and soccer.
"Sit down, Marissa." Mr. Tralora rubs his temples and takes a seat on a high stool at the front of the classroom. Mr. Tralora isn't necessarily a mean or bad teacher. Just, when he's exhausted or annoyed, he seems to take it out on his students. He's just an average teacher whose mood is inflicted on his students. "Please turn your desks around and prepare for the test."
… What. My eyes widen and I glance at the person next to me. He's casually taking a pencil out of his bag, not showing any signs of anxiety or panic. I didn't know about this test! How could you have? Mr. Tralora passes my desk and sets down an exam. 75 multiple choice, two written responses and one summary of an article to interpret. I'm excited.
Question 1: What were the generals that fought in the battle Antietam? Which sides were they fighting for? What year? Who won?
I'm stuck. I groan and flip through some pages in my booklet.
Unit 3: The Civil – nope.
Unit 6: Africa : Cultures vs. – nope.
Unit 7: Africa Cont. : Literacy and – no.
I hate this. I haven't learned any of the material. I probably have, I just haven't studied. I tap my pencil on my chin and look from right to left. I notice I put the brochure that Tony gave me earlier on the empty desk next to mine. I take a look at the cover before opening it up.
"Dreaming Big" it's called. I unfold it and I'm greeted by three blondes and two brunettes, sporting the most jewelry I have every seen in one photo.
Want to be on the banner for R5's new tour? Sign up for an audition today! So… Tony thought giving me a pamphlet for something like this would make me happy? I roll my eyes, although I know he can't see, and I crumple it up. I get a slight paper cut. That's weird. There's a sticky note on the back. I peel it off and read the quickly scribbled letters.
Riss –
I talked it over with my mom. It's a done deal! Your audition is today after school at 4PM. Good luck!
-Tony
Audition?
"Thank you, Riss. I'll be adding this to the collection." Mr. Tralora comes over and takes the pamphlet. "After you're finished, I'll give this back to you."
I huff some golden hairs out of my face and look around the room. Everyone's either listening to his or her iPod, passing notes, or texting. I guess I'm the last one. The bell rings. Yup. That verifies it. I look back down at my test and I realize I haven't answered any questions. I turn around in my chair, hoping he'll understand, but he's already staring at me. Coldly. I shrivel down in my seat and I count the seconds go by.
At this rate, I'll never get to my audition. Why do I even care? Who cares if I'm in a banner, commercial, preview or whatever. I just want to play MY music.. For the next 20 minutes or so, I randomly bubble in the 75 questions and leave the other answers blank. I scribble "Riss" at the top and hand it in.
"Uh.. Riss? This isn't complete." Mr. Tralora ponders as I rush to the door.
"I know. I… I didn't know it." I slump into the hood of my jacket. Mr. Tralora sighs and removes his glasses.
"I know it's hard for you having a famous mother-"
"I don't see how that relates."
"Famous mother," He interrupts me. He smirks a little. "But this is a class. You are a student. I'm going to see how you did. If you get an F on this final exam, I'm sorry to tell you but you'll have to take summer school and repeat the course."
By the time he finishes, I'm already at the door, saluting him from across the room.
A woman is hunched over some papers; the chain from her glasses falls down occasionally after she pushes her glasses further on her nose. Her brow furrows in concentration. She wears heavy coats of red lipstick and mascara that makes her eyelashes clump together. The crinkles by her eyes suggest she's much older than the age she's trying to pull off. Light gray hairs pop out of a beret she wears on the top of her head. They're only a few that stick out over the dyed jet-black hair, but they're silvery enough to catch the light.
"Is there a Walker here?" She looks up from her clipboard, back down, and up again. "Marissa Walker?"
No replies.
"No Marissa?"
Still silence.
"Well, all right then. Is there a.." She begins, but the sentence is cut off by the slam of a door.
"I'm here! I'M HERE, DON'T SKIP ME!" I barely pant, while cramming my stuff loudly into the cramped waiting room. Carrying a guitar case in one hand, and a drum kit in the other really takes a toll on my muscles.
"Ah! You must be Marissa…" She smiles for an instant, and looks me up and down. Her smile fades and is replaced by a look of disgust. "I can see you've prepared well for your audition."
The blood from my head sinks to my feet and I look down at my outfit. Neon yellow Vans, dark washed, ripped jeans that I tore when working on a science project in multiple different places, a stained black shirt from when I went paint balling last weekend, and a wrinkled jean jacket; I'd say I look top notch.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry… I'm here." I plop down my instruments and flick the hair from my face. It flips back around and pokes me in the eye.
"Wonderful…" She says a tad sarcastically. "Come. Follow me."
And with that, she does a sharp turn and all I see is her back edging farther and farther away. Her bright red pantsuit does not flatter her figure. I clutch the handle of my case with my whitening knuckles and plunder down after her. We walk through long hallways with cheap blue carpeting underneath our feet. I hear the click-clack of her high heels anyway. We reach some big double doors and she stands to the side. I turn around and push with my back, and I trip over my untied shoelace. What a place to be a klutz. What a place. I skid backwards for a few moments before I finally catch myself and I stop. I look around and notice three sets of eyes on me.
"Hah-hi…" I laugh awkwardly and set my instruments down. Straighten my shirt, push back some hair. It poofs back anyway.
"Hello, Marissa! How are you?" One of them says. This one is a man with a slightly growing beard and a very happy expression on his face. He puts on a nice show. He wears a plaid collared shirt with a white undershirt.
"Oh, I'm a little on edge, but overall I'm fine. How are you doing today?" I say quickly. The other two chuckle a little and clear their throats.
"I'm just fine. I'd like you to meet my associates; this is Matthew Peters, R5's agent, and this is Stormie Lynch. I am Mark Lynch, the father R5."
I almost blurt out What's R5?, but my mind jolts back to the pamphlet Tony handed me. R5 is that band thing that I'm auditioning for.
"Oh, great! Nice to meet you!" I nod my head in agreement. My voice echoes off the walls. "Will the members of R5 be joining us today?"
"No; unfortunately, they have a concert in two hours and they're in vocal training at this time." Mrs. Lynch answers with a crooked smile. "But let's get down to business, shall we?"
"I agree completely! The man at the other end of the table taps his hand down and grins a big toothy smile. He has big bifocals and spread out teeth. A soft speck of hair glazes the top of his head, coated in pounds of hair gel.
"Pretend we're not even here. If you get nervous, you can stare at those little windows up there." Mr. Lynch points to three windows about 5 feet above his head on the far wall. They have a darkish tint, but I can still see the cabinets and dusty fans on the other side. I smile awkwardly, revealing a white set of chattering teeth, and I quickly clamp my jaw shut. I unpack my instruments in a hurry, spilling out most of everything in the process. I press the red circle on my recording machine, and I take a seat on the small stool I pack with my drum supplies. I begin to beat a rhythmic, soul catching beat. Something easy to follow, replay, if you will. I go on for about twenty seconds and I press stop. Then I press play, making it loop over and over again to provide me with a constant pulse. I pick up my guitar and begin to strum.
Six white eyes poke out from the other side of the windows, which are followed by four more. Another set peers out from the right side of the furthest window. I wasn't aware I'd have auditors.
"So I bare my skins and I count my sins and I close my eyes and I take it in," I belch, take a breath. "I'm bleeding out, I'll bleed out for you," Final strum.
"For you."
The room falls dead silent.