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Chapter 6— New Beginnings
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The smell of pine and soap filled our living room like gas filling a chamber—no doubt coming from Marcus’s fancy cologne. I felt cornered, constricted into myself. I hadn’t been ignoring Marcus’s texts and calls out of spite, but I needed time away from him. He was a genius. He somehow knew how to take four edgy high school nobodies and turn them into rockstars before they even graduated. As my dad’s childhood best friend, Marcus had always been a part of my life, sometimes visiting for holidays and birthdays, but I never knew how deep he was in the music business until Anarchy Road was already formed. Marcus saw our small but passionate fanbase and jumped at the chance to manage us, seeing something in our music that we hadn’t quite uncovered yet. We’d made Marcus quite a bit of money while he had made sure I had a college fund. But, when my problems started to arise and began affecting the band, Marcus had made the decision for us to make the trip to New Mexico. He started saying he knew what was best for us. And I still couldn’t decide if he was right or not.
“Philly,” my mom interjected, trying to shake me from my glass-eyed stupor, “It’s Marcus. Say hi.”
I faked a smile and nodded his way.
Marcus smiled again and rose from the couch, enveloping me in an uncomfortable, leathery hug.
“Ah, Philly,” he sang, patting a large hand to my back, “Glad to see you’re still the same teen spirit we all love.”
What?
“Yeah,” I agreed, “Who knows? With this kind of voice, I should join the cheerleading squad.”
Marcus chuckled, pulling away from the hug, and rested a hand atop my shoulder. “I know you’re joking, but you really shouldn’t do that.”
My mom stood from the couch and crossed over to both of us. “You’re here to discuss details about the iHeart interview, right?”
“Sure am. But, more importantly, I’m here to check up on my girl. See how school’s been treating her.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure now is the best time to do an interview? I’m still trying to figure out this whole Jenny Tyler thing. What if someone at school sees the interview and recognizes me?”
“You don’t have to worry about that. The interview is over the air on the radio. Nobody will be seeing your face. And it’ll only be a short thing next weekend. After that, you can get back to your math homework.”
I looked over to my dad, unsure and hoping for a look from him that would tell me what next to do. But, instead, he looked back at me, waiting for my own answer and letting me decide.
“It would look great for the band, Philly. You’re not out touring and doing the things the band was scheduled to do. If we’re not careful, the band could start losing momentum. And, I just don’t know if I could build you back up from there.”
I sighed, pressing a hand to the growing headache behind my eyes. “Okay, I’ll do the interview next weekend. But, I’m serious. Only band pictures, no new photos. Please, Marcus.”
He nodded, his wide white smile sparkling again. “No doubt. You’ll love it.”
Suddenly, there came a chirp-like ringing from Marcus’s back pocket. He retrieved a phone and groaned, “I’m so sorry, but I’ve gotta take this. I’ll be just a few minutes.”
Marcus stepped out of the living room to answer the call. Afterward, my mother seemed very pleased with both me and herself. She laid a hand on the side of my head and beamed. “Thank you for doing that.”
I said nothing but looked back at her, trying to figure out what her endgame for all this was. Would we be in a constant battle with one another until the Anarchy Road flame eventually died out? How much longer would she cling to me like an overfilled tick?
I let her hand rest there on my face. She smelled the way she always had ever since I was young. It almost brought tears to my eyes. Sometimes, I wanted my mom back the way she used to be. Then, I’d remember that that person wasn’t there anymore.
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When Monday morning came, I felt a new determination rise up inside of me. The weekend had been spent with fresh pages in my song journal and my favorite vanilla and lavender candle. My rituals. Many times, I had let all of my frustrations out on the page, scribbling down nonsense phrases and words that arose behind my eyes like a secret vision. And after the ink was stained and blotted wet with tears on the page, I flipped to a new clean sheet and started again.
But, Monday would be different. Monday would be a new beginning. Last week was Philly Emmet. This week was Jenny Tyler.
Angie was always busy during the early mornings, hanging posters around the hallways and preparing for the morning announcements over the intercom. So, most of the time, I walked the hallways alone. The chaos that had erupted the first week of school had faded after most of the kids learned where their classes were.
I had perfected the Jenny Tyler look over the weekend, finding the right balance between bohemian and good girl. This included a pastel blue blouse and a cream white sweater with a black plaid skirt and converse shoes. With the black shoulder bag decorated in Hot Topic pins, I was the perfect confusing mixture.
I looked down at the school map in my hands, hoping to figure out where the gymnasium was in the most painless way possible when a small but dense body collapsed into my side and shoved me into the lockers. A pain hit my shoulder and I winced, grabbing onto the spot where a bruise was sure to form. The crowd of hallway kids dispersed around the area, and I could hear nasally laughter coming from a group of jocks several feet away. Crumpled down at my feet was a boy I’d never met who somehow looked vaguely familiar. He was scrawny and short, obviously a freshman, and awkward with every movement of his body. I knelt down and tried helping him up slowly. His dark black hair had been tousled and ruffled up, and a look of shame darkened his face.
“Hey, are you okay?” I offered, getting him to his feet.
He stood several feet below me and dared not make eye contact.
“Hey—” I tried again but no response.
“Greg!” A breathy boyish voice cried out from across the hallway.
I looked up, following the sound to another freshman boy of vastly different proportions being harassed by the group of athletes. He was short and chubby, round in many parts of his body, and rosy in the face. His face was frozen in terror as two much larger jocks pinned his arms behind his back, taunting him and sneering. I looked down back at the thin boy in front of me.
“Did they do this to you?” I demanded.
The boy finally looked up to me with a face so familiar it frustrated me. But, once again, said nothing. I didn’t need a response.
A fit of strange anger—the same anger I’d endured all weekend stoked itself inside my chest and a flame began to ignite. I slid past the boy, shifted into defense mode, and approached the jocks. The stench of day-old sweat stains covered up by Old Spice musk nearly proved too much for me. I instantly recognized one of the guys as the broad-shouldered intense jock that had glared me down on my first day. He held the same gaze as before, but this time, I could’ve cared less.
I shoved my hand against the shoulder of the jock pinning back the boy, pushing him back into the group behind him.
“What’s your problem?!” I challenged. Reel it back. Reel it back. The little voice inside of my head screamed desperately for me to turn and walk away, but my blood was boiling too hotly.
The group of jocks hissed and hollered, finally releasing the freshman boy. I stood my ground and felt my face grow red and pink.
“What makes you think you can mess with a kid like that?!”
“And who the fuck are you, preschool?” the first meathead exclaimed, stepping forward and eyeing me up and down.
“None of your business. Leave them alone. I’m sure there are plenty of lockers around here for you to smash your heads against.”
“Hey,” snapped the big one who’d first eyed me down, “You better watch your mouth or I’ll be sure to fill it up.” He smirked, and I almost gagged as the other jocks hooted and hollered around him.
I suddenly clenched my fists and gathered the nerve to spit in his face. The entire group fell silent and, at that moment, I knew I’d royally fucked up. The jock ran his sleeve across his face and jumped at me. Several other guys latched onto him, holding him back from me. All the courage I’d had only moments before drained out of me and left me white in the face. I had to get out of there.
I escaped away from the jocks and sped away through the hallway crowds. My heart was racing and pounding in my chest. I wasn’t typically a confrontational person. I hardly knew what came over me.
“Hey! Wait!” A small high-pitched voice called out from behind me. I paused to look behind and saw the two freshman boys scurrying up. They were panting and out of breath but otherwise looked unharmed.
“That was awesome!” exclaimed the thin one that had knocked into me. “I can’t believe you spit at that guy.”
My stomach fell and I frowned. “It won’t be happening again.”
“I was so scared!” the chunky boy cried out, still majorly out of breath. “I thought we were dead.”
I gave them a moment to catch their breaths and briefly considered slipping back into the crowd.
“I’m Rowley,” the chunky boy said, sticking out a hand and smiling a toothy grin. I looked at his hand and back at him.
“And I’m Greg. We’re new here,” the skinny boy continued.
I gave him a small smile. “Me too. I’m Jenny.”
“Jenny!” another voice called out from down the hallway. Peeling through the crowds was Angie with posters spilling out of her arms. She landed in front of us, huffing and trying to catch her breath. “I heard there was a fight. What happened?”
“Angie?” both of the boys said at once, a look of surprise lighting up their faces.
She looked up at them and smiled. “Oh, hey, Greg, Rowley.”
“Wait,” I stopped her, still several paces behind and confused out of my mind. “You know them?”
“Yeah,” she remarked, lightly shoving Greg’s shoulder with her own, “I went to middle school with these dweebs.”
“We’re Angie’s friends!” Rowley chirped.
I inwardly cringed. This was not at all a ‘Jenny Tyler’ move. Then again, neither was spitting at a football player. I told Angie the whole story, leaving out the part about the head jock eyeing me down on my first day.
“Ugh, that’s Kurt Klein. Total meathead and sexual predator. The only reason he isn’t in prison is because that no girl has ever been able to prove anything on him.”
I peered through the crowd to the broad jock Kurt, seething and still fuming in anger all the way across the hallway. Something deep inside of me worried that I’d just awoken a sleeping giant.
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