Status: inactive

Fairytales Real or Not

1: I don't listen to ATL

Every fairytale starts in a similar way, once upon a time. They are usually about a princess, an evil witch, and a prince, but some start out differently. The story I’m about to tell you is not necessarily, a fairytale, it doesn’t have a princess, an evil witch, or a prince. Instead, it has a foster kid, a death, and a rock star. So this is the story, of a girl finding out the meaning of fairytale, but the catch is, she’s the one telling it, and she doesn’t know.
(girl’s pov)
“Daily, put that down!” I laughed as my best friend attempted to figure out my camera.
“And what if I don’t want to?” she taunted, her hair covering her ice blue eyes.
“I’ll cut your blonde hair off and just leave the purple,” I wouldn’t really, it took her forever to get her hair to her shoulders, but the purple streak in her bangs has been there since we were twelve.
“And I’ll cut the strings on your acoustic bass,” I sighed, she had won. I loved my bass and she knew it. I love all of my instruments. I own a keyboard, clarinet, acoustic and electric bass and guitar.
“You win, now I have to get to work,” I said grabbing my skateboard and opening the door to our apartment.
“Your no fun, you graduated high school at fifteen, skipping two grades, and are in your second year of college, you need to learn how to have fun.” She scolded as she grabbed her skateboard so she could go to work with me.
“Hey, crazy lady made me study like none other, I could multiply in kindergarten because of her,” I shuddered as we skated down the street.
“Whatever you say,” she opened the door to the café, where I worked in the mornings. I did my schooling here, too.
As I walked into the cafe, I put on my apron. My mandatory uniform is dark wash jeans, a black tang top and the ugly green apron, that has the logo of the cafe embroidered on the bottom right corner.
I pulled out my laptop and logged into the university's website. My grades popped up, as well as everything that I needed to do today.
In nine hours, my homework was finished, and all my cafe chores done. We only had seven or so customers today. It was 2:00 already, I only have one hour until I get off work, then 30 minutes after that I had to get to my second job. I worked at a stage, too, with Day; we are staff, so we don't really find out what we are doing until we get there.
A bell dinged my cue to walk to the front of the café. “Hi welcome to Jake’s café, how may I help you?” my voice was monotone, as it was every time I said it.
“Coffee, black,” the voice was different then I was used to, usually it was older and gruff. The usual customers were usually in their forties and were just here for the quiet. The voice I heard was deeper and younger. I looked up to see a guy; he looked like he was in his twenties. He was also new, and not from around here.
“That will be $6.25, please,” I said as I turned to get his coffee. He handed me the money, as I handed him the cup. He sat at the counter near my computer; I hurried over and shut it. So he wouldn’t see the songs I had made up.
“Why isn’t All Time Low on your laptop?” he questioned when he saw the names of bands in the same genre as them. The stickers were put on my computer years ago; they were starting to come off.
“I have the same last name as the guitarist and used to get made fun of for it, especially since I’m a foster kid. I stopped using my last name and refuse to listen to it now,” I truthfully replied, while picking at the Artist vs. Poet sticker.
“That’s a shame,” he said sadly.
“Why is it such a shame, I’m one person. They have thousands of fans, heck even my best friend is a fan,” I said thinking about Daily’s room.
“Well, maybe your friend can help you get over this dislike of All Time Low.”
“She’s been trying for years, it’s not going to happen,” I’m stubborn, I know.
“Would it help if I said I have a free ticket for you to go to their concert tonight?”
“No, I have to work.”
“Would it help if I told you that I’m the bassist for All Time Low,” he shocked me. The ding rung again, this time it was Kaden, my best friend.

“Hayden, Daily, you’re going to be late to work,” Kaden yelled. I looked at the clock and realized he was right. I yanked off my apron, grabbed the bag with all my stuff in it, grabbed Daily’s arm, and ran out the door. We jumped on our skateboards and skated to the Stage, the least creative name ever.