Lingering Melody

I pick at the chords. I’m already nearly there with the rest of the class. Strummer says it’s because I’m so good with the piano, so it comes naturally. I pick at the little song he gave me to practice. It gets boring after playing it three times, so I start playing around, like I do on the piano.

In a few minutes, I’m picking a small melody. I tap my foot to it and nod my head in rhythm. My ears have always been good at it, that’s why I’ve gotten where I am. I start humming. “You say…” it took me only a minute to find the words. “Heroes are like you and me, they live their lives, but even they have the right to bleed.”It took me a while and my mind wandered. “We are all heroes, to each other, to you and me, to the whole world everywhere.”I hum some more and I look at my guitar-learning book, with all the chord notes and such.

I grab some paper and begin writing down words, but it takes a longer while to find all the chords I was doing, because I’d been messing around. I sigh in relief, when it’s all done. I look at it, satisfied, and put away all those things.

I groan, glancing at my schoolwork. But I don’t have much of a choice. I grab the last of my ice cream and begin eating it while working on my school stuff.

There’s a knock on my door. I look at my watch. It’s seven. I glance around. My schoolwork is scattered everywhere. But hey, it’s done so I’m happy. I get up and open the door. “Ready?” Webster asks.

I glance around, thinking. I never need to bring anything. “Yeah.” I grab my purse and we head out after I lock the door. We end up going by a fast food for some munchies and he convinces me to eat. I promise myself not to eat much tomorrow. I knot up my hair right before we get there, along with a few sunglasses. I already changed in the back of the car into other skinny jeans and a long tunic top with a sash and belt. I also wore a scarf wrapped around my neck.

Stretching, I climbed out. I glanced around and saw the paparazzi making their way over- quickly. I groaned but pretended to ignore them as I shut the door. “All right, let’s go,” I give a fake smile, meaning let’s get this over with, already!

He nods and follows after, keeping the cameras as a distance. As we enter, he talks quietly how we need more people. But I don’t, so I won’t. We meet Yessa, the owner of the boutique. “How are you, my dear?” She asks brightly with her French accent. I’m positive it’s a fraud accent, too. I can do better but I never let on that I also speak French. She doesn’t wait for my answer, since I usually don’t. “Marvelous! This way, please.”

We are guided around, and by the camera crew. I glance at the spot where I’ll be standing for the pictures. Plain white background, perfect- my favorite. We continue to the dressing room I’ll use.

I glance at them and know they’re already in my size. I lock the door and pick up the first outfit. Odd dress with a ton of beads. But I strip down and put it on. It’s scratchy but I don’t say anything to insult. I actually get paid for this, so who’s complaining?

I come out and everyone gasps as though it’s perfect or my wedding day- or something equally odd. I’m dragged up to a chair where they work with my hair quickly, straightening it- if anyone let out that Shy’s hair is actually extremely curly, they’d be sued. And then they would lose. So they don’t say anything.

Then it’s done and I’m taken to the spot. But they are choosing the poses. They all feel awkward. But only a few and I change. Capri’s with a long sleeved shirt and beret. They keep changing and soon two hours are gone. Another passes.

Webster talks to Yessa and she nods. She claps her hands. “All right, last one. Go,” she instructs me and I obey. They’ve taken out all the clothes but one and I love it. Another set of Capri’s but I love the shirt. It’s just a lighter shade than emerald green with split sleeves. Roman lining everywhere. There are slits on the side, but an undershirt beneath it. it ties together at the bottom after a little elastic. There is a matching headband and earrings, so I put those in. I walk out and the guys cheer.

It still embarrasses me, though it shouldn’t by now. A look from Webster stops me from drawing my hair in front of my face and hiding. They add some eye shadow and this time, I’m allowed to act as I want.

I like to look upwards, never at the camera, unless I’m in a very good media mood. But this is the real Shy. It’s on the album cover, too. I give them a few looks over my shoulders but mostly I try to stay in front, to concentrate on the clothes. Have to remember those.

They finally let us go. Webster chats as he drives me to my house, but my mind is stuck on the last phone conversation I had today. It still has me bummed. “Night,” I tell Webster and I’m gone.

I enter my apartment, feeling lonely and completely alone. No one is ever here. To say hi, to talk, to do anything. My life… I frown. I don’t have much of one, coming to think of it. School, schoolwork. Songwriting and playing the piano. I’ve given a few concerts that sell out all the time, but… otherwise? Nada.

I’m about to head to bed when I pass by the kitchen table. My drawing is there, on the table. It makes me pause. I’ve never been totally awful at drawing. Not the best by any means, but I’m content with it.

It’s a… drawing of him. I don’t remember drawing it. Getting out sharpies, yes, but drawing it? No. And why would I draw Lait? No reason to… right? Hopeless- and butterflies started up in my stomach again. I groan and slump off to bed. Alone and hopeless. What a perfect life- not.

Morning. Saturday! Yay… I suppose. I wake up around ten and realize that. Then I realize I have nothing to do today. Nothing at all… I spend another hour simply lying in bed. Then I get out what’s left of my cold cereal and eat that. I go over my essay for English and correct my science sheet.

Bored, I go through my closet. All my books are there. In between lies my diary. I pull it out fondly, and look at it. It’s white with colorful daisies everywhere. It was the last thing I got from my grandparents.