"Roxanne! You're going to be late for school!"

My mother's shrill voice carries down the small hall of our apartment, and I cringe at the very sound of it. I mean, my God, can the woman even hear how terrible she sounds? And as for school...ugh, don't even get me started on that hell hole.

I roll out of bed, catching myself before I completely fall on my face. Glancing at the clock radio on my nightstand, I see that I have ten minutes to get to school...on time. See, I've never been the kind of girl that follows school policies. I think of them as suggestions; the kind that I endlessly take advantage of.

I shower up, dry my hair, and slip into one of my favorite outfits. A tight, black skirt, red shirt with holes on the sides (patched up with some extra material from my fishnet stockings) and chunky, black heels. I take one quick look in the mirror, know I will look better than any of the other girls at school, then head out.

Luckily, my mother didn't stick around to yell at me today. Lately, she's been trying to play the role of the "responsible adult" and keep a steady job, and oddly enough, it's been working. Still, I sometimes wonder if she has invested in a pair of knee pads that she keeps at work.

Taking the bus from our apartment, I sit down in the last empty seat in the back. I've always wondered why people avoid the back of the bus around here. It always provides some nice time for me to be alone, and I take advantage of that something fierce.

I pull my lyric book out of my bag (a Gucci knock-off Mom got me for Christmas last year) and place it in my lap. I've been using the same notebook to write lyrics in since freshman year, so the papers inside are full of three years worth of writing. This year -my senior year- I want to actually perform one of these songs in front of the entire student body. I've been dying to show how talented I really am, if not only to prove it to myself.

I've never performed one of my own songs for anyone, but I've been singing other people's songs for as long as I can remember. I've been in every school talent show and everything else around town, but never have I used one of my own songs.

It's not exactly a stage fright thing. Like I said, I've performed a ton already. I'm just afraid to crash and burn, especially now that I've built up such a reputation around my voice.

Let's see if we can fix the rest of your reputation, I thought to myself. Everyone has made mistakes, and I know that, but some of mine are bad. Very bad.

The bus lurches to a halt, and I see that I am now in front of my school. Calloway High School. I moan, picking up my notebook and shoving it back in my bag. I pay the bus driver and exit quickly, even though I'm already hopelessly late.

A few students are running up the hill behind the school, and I laugh at them. Skippers. I used to be one of them. Now that my mother has decided to get involved in my schooling, I can't go off anytime I want anymore, but I'm fine with that. After all, I want to shape up, right?

I groan inwardly, thinking about how the guy that said "Change is constant" definitely had not met Roxanne Ledger.  

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I'm a hot, sweaty mess coming off the court this morning. After listening to my parents fight last night, I needed to find a way to release the stress, and I decided that release would come through extra work in basketball practice.

I've been playing for the Calloway Devils for three years, and now that I'm a senior, I'm Team Captain. The girls look up to me (well, they sort of have to because I'm almost six foot), and I look out for them, on and off the court.

It's a nice feeling, but I'm not going to lie. basketball has never been my favorite thing in the world. Don't get me wrong, I'm totally great at it and all, but sports just aren't where my heart is. Truth is, I've always wanted to be in the school band. Playing bass guitar.

I've asked for one every Christmas, but my parents are both major athletes and insist on me being one as well. Sometimes, though, I'll drive into the city after practice and go into this hole-in-the-wall music store to check out their basses. I'll sit there and place for hours, sometimes even until they close. My parents don't know, and I don't plan on ever telling them. 

Flipping my phone open, I see that it is 7:00 a.m. The team practices for an hour and a half before and after school everyday, despite the fact that there aren't any teams around here that are even close to being competition. We could practice once a month and still beat everyone within fifty miles.

I go into the locker room and head for the showers immediately. I can't wait to get all of this disgusting sweat off of me. Sometimes sweating is a satisfying feel, but lately, I've been hating it more and more. I tell myself it's because of my nerves about my college acceptance (or not) letters, but I know that isn't it. Sooner or later, I'm going to have to tell my parents that I don't want to play college ball. All I want is to play music.

I secretly applied for Belmont University (sending them a video of me playing a rented bass) and if I'm accepted, my parents are going to flip, and I don't mean that in a good way.

After my shower, I change into a pair of old jeans, a green shirt with quarter length sleeves, and white ballet flats. I don't bother to dry my hair because I know that it will dry on its own before school.

I've let my hair grow out since my freshman year, and now the blonde locks reach my waist. It can be a pain sometimes to manage, but when I can get it to behave, it looks great.

I grab my bag and begin to head out of the locker room. All of the girls are laughing and hitting each other with towels, their lives just how they want them to be. Well, maybe they experience something they didn't expect on occasion, but they're living the way they want to, and I can't bear to be around it for too long. It would be impossible for me to be a good Team Captain if all they could think about was how poor little Dahlia Havers is never happy with her life.

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I fell asleep in my History book. Again. "Shit," I hiss, looking at the clock. It's already 7:15 a.m. I quickly pull off my pajama shirt, slap on some deodorant, and pull a cream colored sweater on. I complete the terrible outfit with dark jeans and a pair of dirty flip flops.

Shoving my History book back into my L.L. Bean bag, I run out of my room, down the stairs, and head for the front door.

"Veronica, dear! Don't you want break-"

"No time, Mom," I interrupt, throwing the door open and closing it behind me. I thank God for the seventh time this month that we live so close to the school. The first day, everything had run smoothly, but as I had signed up for more and more academic activities, I began to feel my routine slowly slip away.

Unlike most kids that are stuck doing school clubs and such, I actually enjoy it. My parents are loving and would support anything that I would ever want to do, so they didn't shove me into things like National Honor Society or Debate Team. I know those things will look great on a resume, so I go for them.

However, I've recently gotten into something that is completely beyond me. My younger brother, Chance, told my parents that he wanted a drum set last year for Christmas. My parents, of course, got him one. He played it, like, twice, and neither time did we ever hear any real talent.

Anyway, the drum set has been sitting in the basement for awhile now, and when I was downstairs doing laundry a few months ago, I decided to check it out. I don't want to sound cocky, but I'm a natural at the thing. Chance doesn't care about the set anymore, and now its officially mine.

I've asked the band director at Calloway High School if we have any room for a drummer in the concert band, and he has simply stared at me as though I have three heads. Needless to say, band has been out of the question.

Ever since I have started playing, though, my routine has gotten even worse. I don't spend enought time on my school work, and my academic teams are beginning to see how unfocused I am becoming. I fear that they will kick me out for neglecting my duties.

Even though those thoughts enter my head, I still have an urge to play the drums, even when I know I should be doing something more productive. My parents, always amazing, have told me that if I really want to play drums, I should try and form a band, but I don't know who with. Despite the fact that we have a rather large band at Calloway High, none of them seem to be all that musically inclined. It is rather sad, it truly is.

The thought of what my friends -if you can call them that- would think of my drumming is typically what gets me to do the little work that I do get done. They would simply laugh in my face, so I've kept it a family secret. No one else will ever know that Veronica Harrow is a drum-playing machine.

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I'm the first one at school, as always. I sit outside on the marble steps of Calloway High School and marvel at the beauty of the sunrise. I've seen it almost everyday this year since I leave the house at around 5:30 a.m.

I know that statement confuses people, and I can assure you that I do not do it because I love school. I've actually hated it since I was five, but that's a different story altogether.

No, the reason I leave the house so early in the morning is basically to save my own skin. See, I've never met my parents, and I've been living in this foster home near the school ever since I can remember. Up until recently, I've loved it there, but now the home is under new management, and I try not to spend too much time there.

I don't know what happened to the couple that used to run the foster home, but now the house is run by a Mr. Trenton. Now, I don't scare easily, but the sight of this guy was enough to make me almost piss myself. He's basically the size of a freight train, with black eyes and tattoos everywhere. I don't know what Child Services were thinking when they hired the guy.

Anyway, I've been slinking out of the house at any chance I've gotten because Mr. Trenton has taken a liking to me that I'm not all that fond of. If you're thinking that he is a creeper, you would be right. Naturally, I avoid him at all costs.

Before the original house owners left, they gave me what I consider to be the greatest gift of all time. And old acoustic guitar. I take it with me to school everyday, sit on the steps, and play my own little songs as I watch the sun come up. For those brief minutes, I can pretend that I am the only person in the world, just me and my music.

I look down at the wood, seeing two letters carved into the side. P.C. Payton Carter. I don't know who gave me that name, but I haven't been all that intersted in finding out. Odd, right? Don't abandoned kids typically want to know who brought them into this world, hoping that they will end up loving the child and taking them back? Well, I've never been the kind of kid.

The first car is pulling up to the curb and letting out some students. I lean back against the side of the stairs and continue to play, pretending that I am alone again.