hater ⇔ c.h.

three; what's past is past

The room is terribly cold-just they way she wanted. The whole room, to be precise, was totally accustomed to the way she asked. I swear, there's a little spoiled brat stuck inside that woman's body.

"Reagan? Reagan, what are you doing in here?"

I rolled my eyes, hearing her squeaky voice from behind me. Standing at the back of her room, flipping through random booklets, I replied, "It's Tegan."

I turned around and tried my best not to grimace. Her outfit. Her outfit makes me want to throw up. Tight leather pants, extremely low cut purple tank top and platform boots? I sighed, knowing I was going to be dealing with that for the rest of my seven hour shift.

Four hours to go.

"I'm suppose to go help you with sound check. Your band isn't here yet so I'll be running through things, ok?"

She nodded, hand placed on her hip, examining her fingernails.

A silence fell over the room and I just stared at her, waiting.

She looked up.

"Oh, you mean right now?"

If Tori were here, she would have slapped her silly. Yes. I mean right now.

"Yeah," I sucked in a breath, grabbed my clipboard and walked into the winding hallways of the gigantic stadium.

Speaking of Tori, I'm almost certain I forgot to tell her that I'm working another couple hours. She'll probably need to find another ride home rather than sitting around the mall for two hours.

In other news, our TV survived the AMA's. Even when I fell asleep and One Direction lost. I still woke up to a perfectly un-cracked flatscreen television. Tori was especially happy. Now we're good until the Juno's are upon us.

"So this is where you'll enter," I said, leading her onto the stage, coming from a huge door in the back. She followed carelessly, glancing around the set.

A row of different colored guitars sat upright to our left, the drums on the platform to our right, at least five huge amps scattered about and a few microphones standing center stage. The letters MM were engraved into almost everything. Self absorbed, much?

Marisa Marie.

It's such a fake name, which suits her personality perfectly.

"So, um, how does sound check work?"

This girl is supposed to be the next biggest thing in music and she doesn't even know what sound check is. What is becoming of the arts? It's not all that complicated.

You check the sound.

"Just go grab a microphone and... hold it or something. I've got to test all of the guitars and basses. Your drummer can mess around with his stuff when he gets here."

She nodded, slowly walking over to the mic which I also needed to adjust to her height.

I grabbed the first guitar, gazing out into the rows upon rows upon rows of seats. Sometimes I wonder what it's like to be on stage when this place is filled with people. But then I laugh hysterically and snap back to reality.

I slung the strap over my head and placed my left hand on the neck of the guitar. I strummed it, open. The sound echoed throughout the room and Marisa turned to me, probably startled by the sound.

"I'm gonna play a bit, ok?"

She nodded and went back to staring at her many microphones.

I have to play each guitar, not just strum a few chords. Her manager needs me to make sure that these things aren't going to start ringing or completely cut out in the middle of a song. If it does? They blame me and I'm fired. Fair enough, I guess.