Jaded (Rock Star Trilogy)

you anyway?”
    He doesn't reply. He just hangs his head, and looks at his food. Where was the confident guy I met on the first day of school? And then, I realize...
    “You like her.”
    He glares at me. “I don't know her... I mean, I used to, but not anymore. I can't like somebody I don't know.”
    I can't help but smile. “But you want to know her. And you're attracted to her.”
    He sighs. “It doesn't matter. She doesn't want to know me.”
    “How about we make an arrangement,” I suggest.
    He looks up, and I can tell he's intrigued.
    “You tutor me in math, and I'll tutor you in girls.”
    “I'll tutor you either way,” he says, taking a bite of his food. “Besides, I'm a lost cause.” I'm pretty sure part of his burrito just fell out of his mouth. I choose not to comment.
    “I know. But I want to help you.”
    “I don't know...” he hesitates, but I can see that he will break easily.
    “That girl, and every other girl in this school, will be falling at your feet within a month,” I promise.
    “Fine.”
    I can't help but feel satisfied.
     
    3:11 pm
    The real “Scarlett”.
     
    One of the reasons why I chose Hope, Florida is because of my house. It's nothing fancy, especially compared to my home in Malibu, but it is exactly what I want. A 2 story house on the beach. On the bottom floor, the walls are basically glass, and the view of the ocean is spectacular.
    At the back of my house, there is a huge stone wall that circles around the in ground pool. There is even a rock waterfall that is attached to the pool.
    The best part... I know my parents won't want to visit me here. This house, as well as the town, is much too small for their taste.
    I catch a ride home with Ethan, since I had rode to school with Stephan. When I get home, he is waiting for me outside. The security guys I hired are standing beside him.
    “Want us to get rid of him, Miss Ryan?” one of the guys asks.
    I smile, and look like I'm truly considering his question. Finally, I say, “Naw, he's with me. He's fine.”
    I open the door, and Stephan follows me inside.
    “My studio is in the basement,” I tell him.
    He follows me down the stairs. “So, did you have fun at school?”
    Absolutely not , I think, but I lie and say, “Yes. It was fine.” I smile, not offering him any more information. As soon as lunch was over, I regretted my decision to not leave with him. I would never get used to high school, or teenagers for that matter.
    “Liar.”
    I roll my eyes. “Fine. It sucked. I'm not going to lie, high school sucks .”
    “Yes, it does,” he agrees.
    I switch on the light in the basement, and smile. This room, I quickly decide, will be my favorite. It will be my escape.
    The walls are covered with white cloth, for better acoustics. There are a couple of small glass rooms. The first room has a pink drum set inside, and the other room has a microphone set up in it.
    Huge amps, and speakers line up against the back wall, and on the wall above it hangs some of my guitars, and basses. I grab my favorite electric guitar off the wall, a cherry red Gibson Les Paul, and plug it into my Fender amp. I turn it on, letting the tube warm up, as I put the strap over my shoulder. I pull the mic stand up to meet my height, and tap the mic.
    “Flip the red switch,” I tell Stephan, motioning towards the very large soundboard that has two computers set up in front of it. He does as I say, but doesn't say a word. He just watches me in amazement.
    I strum the guitar, and shake my head. I haven't played this guitar since the move, and it's extremely out of tune. I turn on my guitar tuner, and begin tuning my guitar. It only takes a few seconds. I'm used to tuning it fast on stage. I then turn my amp to distortion, and turn on a drum pattern.
    Then, I lose myself in my music. My hand glides up and down the familiar neck of the guitar. I'm smooth, never missing a beat, always hitting the right notes.
    The song I'm playing, it's different than what I normally do. I haven't even shown this particular song to my producer because I know that he won't record it... And if he did, he would butcher it. He would take away the raw guitar, and add some computer animated shit that I hate.
    My music is popular . But I don't want to be popular . I want to be good . As long as my dad is my manager, I will never be able to do what I want. And this is what I want.
    Finally, I begin belting out the lyrics to my song . It's all me. Nobody helped me