The Obscure Downsides of Fame

7 // crowded

CHAPTER SEVEN
crowded
•••

ᴏᴀᴋʟᴇʏ ᴄᴀʀʀɪʟʟᴏ

I'm lying on my bed, legs against the wall, staring at the boring white ceiling with my guitar laid down on my chest.

I had locked myself up in my room for hours writing songs, and I'd come up with exactly zero good ideas. It felt as if I'd forgotten how to write songs. Or even how to play guitar.

"Oakley, dinner's ready!" Trisha yelled through the door.

I sighed and sat down on the edge of my bed, looking at the door.

"I'm coming," I said. My voice was nothing more than a wheeze and for a second I thought she didn't hear me, but just a moment later I could hear her footsteps descending down the stairs.

I grabbed my phone and opened Instagram. There are so many people who would kill to have the following I have, but I couldn't care less.

On my actual Instagram account, I followed basically everyone I've ever met in the industry. Photographers, interviewers, other musicians. But obviously, like most other celebrities, I had my private account on which I followed my closest friends and family.

Sadly, someone leaked it.

I finally made my way downstairs.

"How's the writing going, Oakley?"

"Terrible, dad."

"What? You've been locked up in your room for hours," Trisha said. "Not that I'm complaining," she mumbled after that.

I rolled my eyes at her.

"I have nothing to write about. It's exhausting."

"I mean, you could just write about something stupid like... wax. And if anyone asks, it's a metaphor."

"That's just stupid, Trish."

"Oakley, can I just tell you something really honestly?"

"What?"

"Your music sucks and Gen is right."

And once again I rolled my eyes at her. It wasn't uncommon for her to call me out on my supposedly stupid music. But all she listens to is indie bands. I got where I am for a reason: I'm good.

"Trish, Oakley's music is fine," mom defended me.

"Just fine?" she asks, smirking as she stuffs a fork full of spaghetti in her mouth.

"I get it. You think it's fake and fabricated or some shit."

"Have you ever thought about writing about some actual experiences?" My dad asks thoughtfully.

"Experiences like what, exactly? The worst thing that's ever happened to me was being pushed in middle school. And I have a full album about that."

"Remember that girl you dated in junior year? What happened to her?"

"She came out to me as a lesbian."

"Yeah, how did you not know that?"

"I'm sorry I can't smell her sexuality, Trisha," I said sarcastically. Or was it satire? "Besides, I didn't care. It was just a tiny crush, nothing special."

"Wait! What if you exaggerate it. A boy falling in love with a girl to be crushed by the reality that she's gay."

I'm not saying my dad is stupid, but his ideas are terrible.

Also, I actually tried that once. A long time ago. And it was indeed a terrible idea. Mason lashed out on me, telling me it wasn't 'family-friendly'. It didn't suit my image.

"You could still try writing fiction," Mom butted in.

"I'm not a fiction writer, mom. I've tried. Those three hours led exactly nowhere."

"And I still agree with Genevieve."

I clenched my jaw. I was done with this conversation and I felt like I would stay here for a second longer, I'd suffocate.

"Genevieve is full of shit."

"Oakley!" Mom screeched. "Okay, what happened?"

"She told me I should drop the label and Mason because she's afraid they're too controlling."

"And he said he'd think about it!" Trisha said.

"I have. And she's wrong."

I didn't waste another second sitting there in the kitchen. I got up without another word and went outside. There was no specific place I wanted to go. I just wanted to get out. But wherever I went, I felt crowded.

Author's note:

Finally another chapter. I figured out I'm wack at writing long chapters, but I'm gonna try to go over 800 words because this is too much...