That Girl

“So, will you do that for me?” Pete finished his long ramble, the pause causing me to barely register his last inquiry. My head flashed up from my twiddling thumbs. Knowing him, what his question was about could involve something I would really enjoy (like helping Neal Avron plan the ‘Dance, Dance’ music video), or something I would want to fucking tear my hair out over (helping [George] Ryan Ross perfect his lyrics before the recording of ‘A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out’). So I quickly decided to discreetly pry for the information I had missed.

“Sure.” Well, hell. I suppose I needed to reintroduce my mindful brain to my thoughtless mouth. Impulses, damn things.

“This isn’t the kind of thing you say sure to, Stella.” Pete chuckled, clearly catching on to my lack of an attention span, “It’s the kind of thing you say ‘Hell, yes’ or ‘Fuck, no’ to. It’ll require you to utilize every last drop of wit and creativity you have.” He said. Obviously, he had stopped censoring his words since I’d graduated high school. Obviously, I didn’t mind.

So it was a song-writing, recording, music video, tour deal? That would occupy me for about six months. Pete was right, it was a big commitment. “It should be easy enough.” I confirmed nonchalantly, confident with the little information I had on this subject. I rested my hands behind my head, leaning back in my chair as my feet made themselves at home on Pete’s desk.

“No, it’ll be a challenge.” My casually shut eyes snapped open, eyeing my guardian suspiciously as he glared at the black Converse I had rested over his maple desk, knocking over his name plaque. I leaned back. “They’re your age.”

In the most suave, Stella Fazzah-Madison way ever, I fell to the ground in surprise. Trying to preserve some of my pride, I recovered some of my stature, my knees hanging over the chair as I hoisted myself up to rest on my elbows. “Bull! You only have one band signed, and that’s those kinky nineteen-year-olds from Vegas that I just wasted eight goddamn weeks of my life with to help record their album.”

"Speaking of Vegas, how much of my money did you spend at the strip?" He seemed to have noticed my new clothes.

I rolled my eyes, "Outlets for the most part, and this vest was a gift from Ryan and Spencer, they'd accidentally bought a girl's waistcoat instead of a guys' for video costumes." I shrugged, "Regardless, you don't have to worry about me spending your money on overpriced things in different cities. I spend too much time tearing my hair out trying to put together hopelessly complicated and shit-tastic albums like 'A Fever You Can't Sweat Out.' I mean, what kind of a name is that? Fu-!"

Pete glared, cutting me off. “I heard it, you helped record it, it was damn good. I never said that you were working with a band on my label, anyways. This is beyond that.”

“That’s a debate for another day. Ryan had some fucking weird ideas that I had to sift through. So we’re talking inter-label collaborating?” I blew my disheveled bangs out of my eyes, blinking my faux-feather eyelashes. Well, damn.

He nodded, “So I’m putting a lot on your shoulders, but I think that Fall Out Boy will end up touring with them someday.”

“What label?”

“Hopeless.”

“Who?”

“I don’t really know much about them either.” He shrugged, “But I heard about the band and their EP and debut album in passing when I was talking to a fan back in Baltimore. It was brilliant. The kid still needs some vocal work, but he had some damn good lyrics, and they’re touring.”

My eyes widened, “And they’re what, seventeen?” He nodded. Well, as young as they were, they probably weren’t up to par in creativity. “Album name?”

“Put Up or Shut Up.” Catchy, I’ll be the first to admit.

“Single names?”

“The Girl’s a Straight-Up Hustler.” Wow, that’s good. They might actually be a good investment of time.

“Damn, well, I’ll give it a try.”

“Supposing you can handle it.” He smirked, causing me to bristle. He knew I hated it when he questioned my musical talent. It was a sensitive button that he loved to push. That’s so not what she said.

I rolled my eyes, “You do realize that I just spent two months with Panic! at the Disco? Have you heard 'But it’s Better if You Do'? Ryan Ross has the most perverted mind! And Brent wasn’t much better; I ended up having to play his bass for him!”

“That’s not the immaturity I was talking about. It’s whether or not-” Pete said absently, ignoring my small rant before I cut him off swiftly.

“Pete.” I said flatly, “Just get me out of that house.”

His smirk remained unaffected as he slipped in sarcastically, “You don’t like Ashlee?” I glared, my dark eyes like black holes. He quickly changed the subject: “Regardless, I’m starting to second-guess this, because you don’t seem to have grown since we first met.”

When I was playing guitar on the poorly lit streets next to the venue that Fall Out Boy had made its debut on in a tattered Blink tee? I was thirteen, still had my homework splayed out in front of me, and while I hadn’t changed much physically- as Ashlee so kindly pointed out- I had sure as hell grown mentally and emotionally.

“You’ve got to be joking, Pete. Just let me do whatever you have planned, I can’t stand being in that house anymore.” I said darkly, glaring at him.

“Okay, if you insist.” He sighed, causing me to roll my eyes. Wentz quickly snapped out of his little act. “Your flight leaves in six hours.”

“I hate you.”

“Maybe you’ll get a handsome young lad to help you-.” Fake accent. Correction: a damn terrible fake accent.

“Fuck off, daddy.”

“Is that how a young lady like you should speak?”

“Isn’t that a bit hypocritical coming from someone who copyrighted ‘Shit happens when you party naked’ before going off to say naughty things to his slutty girlfriend?”

“Fuck you.”

“Sorry, I’m not that desperate, and you’ll get arrested, O dear guardian.”

Before he could protest, I had slipped out the door, and barreled to the elevators. I cranked up the volume on my IPod as Anthem Part Two started blasting through my headphones.

My Razor beeped from inside my pocket, flipping it open, the text message it read:

Good luck, moron.

Pete was the moron, as far as I was concerned.