Lingering Melody

Our food came and I stare. Curly fries, a regular beef sandwich and milkshake. Maybe I should have gone with a diet. This is really too much… “No leaving until you eat it all,” he said, as though reading my thoughts.

I sigh, thinking how he was getting to be a parent a little too much. He’s only thirty, after all. I glanced at his buzz cut, wondering how it might look if he grew it out. Okay, not the best, but it would be interesting… I caught two little girls staring at me, their mouths opened. I looked away, my cheeks tinged pink. I was already wondering why I had done that to the lady at the cash register. I felt rude. Should I apologize? I rubbed my arm nervously.

But it couldn’t be helped. I bit my lip for a minute then ate a curly fry. Which tasted unusually perfect, as always. “Mmmm…” I sigh, this time in pure bliss. I shoved a few more in my mouth, and then- but not to Webster’s surprise any more- dipped my burger in my chocolate shake. Which makes everything complete.

I took my time, enjoying the food. I also deliberately ate slowly so it would feel as though I were eating more, meaning I would get full a lot quicker than if I just shoved it all in my mouth in seconds. Webster was kind enough to finish off my fries but I finished the burger in the end. We ate in silence and after I sipped the last of my shake, we headed out.

“Home now?” I asked. “I have a ton of homework to deal with,” I made a face and he chuckled.

“Don’t forget to work on that song, too. Rick wants it next Thursday,” he reminded me. I groaned. Firstly, it annoyed me how they said ‘next [fill in date]’ because it made me want to think the week after that date. Mental defect? Who knows. Secondly, it was already Tuesday and thirdly, I was having a mental block on that song.

I had come up with the idea, and Rick had liked it. Rick, by the way, works with Lazer-Dark Records, which I have a contract with. Webster found him for me and I couldn’t ask for a better guy. Except the fact he liked to have songs being continually written on a schedule. Eck.

“See you,” I called after picking up my bag and exiting his car. “And don’t forget to come by early tomorrow! You promised!” I reminded him.

It was his turn to make a face at me. I grinned and headed up to my room. It was a small two-room apartment on the second floor. One bathroom, a microwave and dishwasher- all good, right? Good enough, anyways. Webster was getting close to convincing me to move into a nicer place- he was getting pretty close to it, but I was trying to save up for collage and what not.

I found my backpack and carried it to my small TV to watch the news. I’ve been doing this since I’ve had the TV, but I don’t know why. It goes to show how awful the world can be, how stupid and evil humans can become and how cruel money is. And yet I still turn it on nearly every night.

I’m finishing up my Calculus when the Entertainment news comes on. Except I can’t find the remote. “Where the flipping Flipper is it?” I mutter to myself.

“Just this afternoon, finding our camera-shy Shy, the new up-coming star of the number one hit single, ‘Time To Fly,’ was caught before entering…” I immediately shut my eyes- I haven’t looked at myself in years, seriously, and I don’t plan to start now.

[Honestly. There’s one mirror in the bathroom, but I put up a large photograph of the woods there instead. At all the recording places and such that I go to, I ask that all mirrors and such that I’ll pass by to hide or something. My aunt and uncle once through a hand-held mirror at me when I was twelve, and that’s the last I ever looked at mirrors. I hate being able to see myself. So, obviously, my fans get very few signed pictures of me- they are very, very rare.]

I growl at the television, remembering that. Okay, so I didn’t need to be so… rude then, but honestly, they are stalking me. Don’t I have a right to my privacy? Everyone should. Even stars. It’s probably one of the few things that really bother me. Stupid press.

“Is it true you hate the press?” One man asked, stuffing a microphone in my face- from earlier. I snigger at remembering that.

My expression was then is of disgust. “Why shouldn’t I?” My voice comes through. “They- all of you- are wasting away your lives stalking and talking about other peoples’ lives.”
“What about Yander? Are you still going out with him?”

Remembering, I had rolled my eyes. Yander Morrins was a British model and I had met him at a party Webster had convinced me to go to. I still don’t remember why I did- and Yander has to be at least twenty. “I have no interest in dating just yet, especially not someone that much older than I am. Yander’s a nice guy, but we aren’t even staying in touch.”