Shaforostop It (2015)

Chapter Fourteen - Who Cares?

"Louder," I commanded. Roger turned the music up. You could hardly hear yourself think. I was blasting A Candle Lit Dinner, by new favourite people, whilst being used and abused in preparation for the first interview. Shower. Wax. Scrub. Soak. Rinse. Wash. Blow dry. Curl. A million different outfits an a million pairs of shoes. I did everything, was Roger was still in the 'do it yourself' stage of thinking. He went through different mindset the closer we got to the games. Beginning is 'She can do it herself', then a little closer is 'Do even more yourself'. Then it was 'rest up when you aren't training', and just before the games, it was 'I'm so stressed do whatever the hell you want'. I did everything with T.J by my side for guidance. With hair and makeup done, T.J and I walked into my closet to decide on an appropriate outfit. He pulled my closet apart whilst I sat, and said no to everything he picked out. Too much colour, too formal, too casual, too old, too childish. "I'm twenty two not two hundred." I sighed.

"No no no no." He muttered, throwing arm fulls of clothes on the ground. "Where the hell did you get this?" He held up a short gold sparkly dress in disgust.

"You bought it for me." I laughed.

"You should have fired me." He threw it down and continued on his search through my travesty of a closet.

"I just fucking might if you don't hurry up and choose something suitable."

"Language!" Roger shouted from the other room, then muttered some things in Spanish.

"Fuck off!" I screamed back. He put the music back on.

"He's right though, you need to start watching you language. Are you gonna tell the president of the United States to 'eat your ass' too?" I rolled my eyes.

"If he deserves it."

"Leda."

"No..." I muttered, like a moody child. Come to think of it, I was basically a moody child all the time. Like an over grown baby.

"Then don't say that to us."

"Are you implying you deserve the same respect as Obama?"

"Put this on." T.J. threw me a pair of jeans a blue top.

"Soz, I don't do colour."

"What the fuck does 'soz' mean?"

"Watch your language." I smirked. He looked as if he was ready to implode.

"Fine. What would you wear?" T.J had hair that was long on top but shaved on the side and the back. He had back Pete Wentz style eyeliner, and would plain back dress pants, a red shirt with the sleeve rolled up, and a black tie. I grabbed an outfit I had already set out in a drawer. Black and whute vertical stripped jeans, and a Metallica tee that was bought on a designer website instead of at a concert. I grabbed a few necklaces and bunch of brass rings and changed right there. "Thats..." I rolled my eyes in preparation for him to say 'horrid'. "fabulous. Yes. The messy puck look. I'm redoing your makeup and straightening your hair." I took it as a victory, and did all he told me to until it was time to go. When we got to the studio, it was nearly empty. I was sat on the stage set, a news channel/talk show. The interview was being taped for a later broadcast.

"Hello, miss McLean." A woman full of botox and bullshit strutted over in her blue blazer, and mini skirt, and tank top. Kim Giesbricht. Media whore extrodinaire.

"Lovely to see you again Kim." I forced the fakest smile I could.

"Like wise. Shall we get started?"

"Please." She sat on the red chair, beside the red couch I was on.

"Rolling in three, two, action!" The producer called.