Rose #9//Lil Peep

#52: This

2 days later,

Performing doesn't give me anxiety, I don't need pills for this. Interacting with the slightest amount of pressure, however, requires a whole bottle of Xanax, that's if it were humanly possible.

This... I could do with my eyes close. In a way, that's what I do. The clapping goes mute and faces in the crowd disappear as I'm placed into a robotic state. I don't think no one notices my lack of passion, which is good. I guess.

Bottom line: I don't plan on making this a career.

I think I've mentioned it before.

At once, I started with my back ached and my fingers over the keys. All day, yesterday, in the hotel's performance room— I fixed my upon meeting.

Gradually, I get to it and with a few stretches of my fingers, I played it out as I was suppose to. I'm sure, my mom and the judges will find something to critique.

You can never win, ever. Which is fine, too.

A monotone of claps brought me back, it alerted that I was finish and needed to get off the stage, which I did as the curtains closed in.

Quickly, I was approached by my mom, who had a phone pressed against her ear. "Alright Jen, I'll call you back, my daughter just got off stage, yes, okay, bye."

I was hoping she was distracted by the phone call. Sadly she wasn't, she concluded that I stampeded the last few notes and "required" that I work on it.

You see, there's no satisfaction. Whatsoever.

On the taxi drive back to hotel my mom's only words were, "With more practice, you'll get better."

The rest of my night was so uneventful that I fell asleep, as to the following morning I woke to an early drive back to Long Beach. By the time we arrived at my school, it was second period, meaning that I'd see Anthony sitting by himself.

As I pictured, he was.

The class turned heads as I walked in, and continued to the back to give my late slip to Mrs. Barker.

"Seat yourself and work on the project with Mr. Chalamet," she instructed, grabbing at my slip, without a lift of her head as she wrote on a stack of paper, vigorously.

It was on the way to Anthony's table that Amanda yanked my arm, pulling me in for a whisper. Cupping my ears, she frantically spoke.

"Gus's parents got a divorce yesterday."

Pulling away, she spoke louder, with aggression. "I've been trying to text you."

"Remember I told you I had a competition in Manhattan."

"When did you tell—

"At Gus's house. Remember?" "Well, do you have your phone now?" "Yeah but I haven't turned it on"

"Amelia! Amanda!"

Looking back, Mrs. Barker's glasses sat at the edge of her nose, with an expression that forced me to inch away.

"Turn your phone on," Amanda demanded in a loud enough whisper as I approached the empty seat beside Anthony.