Chapter 1- Simple Evee

“Jeans again, Evelyn?” Alley groans as I enter the cafeteria. 

“Yes, Alley, jeans again,” I roll my eyes and huff as I seat myself next to my friend. Compared to her I look like I’m stuck in middle school. While Alley is wearing a cute, blue sundress and white strappy flip flops with her long platinum blond hair perfectly curled, I have thrown on a pair of skinny jeans and a flannel shirt with converse and pulled my dark brown hair into a ponytail.

  It’s the last semester of senior year and the cafeteria is bustling with students already making summer plans of going to the beach or multiple weekends of shopping and charging their parent’s credit cards to the max. Then there are seniors reminiscing of old times and saying how they would miss each other and so on and so forth.

“We live in L.A. for goodness sake; Evee,” Alley continues, “and you are still wearing your old converse sneakers and faded jeans from tenth grade. In a few weeks we’ll be in college. How do you expect to get a guy if you don’t try,” I roll my eyes as Alley digs through her massive purse. I smirk as I watch her pull out a can of hairspray, a brush, two makeup bags and a bottle of perfume and spread them out on the lunch table as if she is about to open a salon.

We’ve been friends since seventh grade when she rescued me from the deep dark abyss of loneliness. I wasn’t some helpless crybaby back then; I just didn’t know how to socialize. Besides Alley needed someone who would listen to her endless chit chat and not interrupt, plus her nonstop exciting life always filled me in on what I was missing but didn’t really care to experience myself.

            “So, did you hear Phillip Ryker’s newest song ‘You’re All I Think About’,” Alley asks me while still rummaging through her purse looking for who knows what.

          “No Alley, you know I don’t care for Phi-“

          “Found it!” She screeches causing me to nearly jump out of my skin, “Look! It’s the newest tabloid scoop about Phillip!”

          Alley looked like a nine year old in a candy store as she pushes a piece of a magazine into my face. At the top was a picture that had a tear right between a scene of Phillip and his newest girlfriend holding hands. The headline read “Phillip and Sylvia No More”.

          I look at it trying to decode the intense meaning that kept Alley squirming with excitement. I look back at her, “Okay, I give up. What am I supposed to be seeing?”

          “Ugh! Don’t you see Evee? Here’s my chance.”

          “Your chance to do what?”

          “Evee! This is my chance to get Phillip to fall in love with me.”

          I bite my tongue to keep from laughing at her, “You have to be joking, Alley. He’s famous, we’re not. He’s a somebody, and, face it, we’re not.”

          “I have a way to change that.”

          “How?”

          “This afternoon my mom has booked an appointment with a talent scout.”

          “Doing what?”

          “Singing, duh,” She rolls her eyes as if I am the biggest idiot, “So don’t talk to me much because I’ll need to save my voice.”

          “Yes, ma’am,” I smile. There was no doubt in my mind that Alley can make it. She is gorgeous, thin, funny, smart and she had a beautiful voice, but what would happen after that? Would we still be friends? I brushed the thought to the side.

          “So,” I nudge Alley, “I have got a part in the school play and we'll be performing it in a month, do you think you could come watch?”

          Before she can answer, the ringing of the first block bell sends her into a scramble to throw the salon back into her purse. I sigh, it’s whatever.

         

        At home I throw my books on the kitchen counter and go to the fridge. Our maid, Lucinda, has restocked the fridge and we are overflowing in yoo-hoos and sandwich meat.

          Knock, knock.

          I roll my eyes, irritated that someone dare interrupt the peace of my sanctuary. Reluctantly, I shut the door saying a silent farewell to a deeply desired yoo-hoo.

Knock, knock, knock, knock.

          “Hold on,” I moan as I drag my feet to the door.

          I open the door to see a teenage guy standing in my doorway. He’s six-foot-two with tanned skin and dark brown hair. I should be swooning. He’s handsome, he’s beautiful, he’s grinning at me, but he’s also Phillip Ryker, the teen dream, hottie singer, who also happens to be my famous best friend. Go figure.