Diary of a Rocker's Kid (D.O.R.K #1)
Read Diary of a Rocker's Kid (D.O.R.K #1) Online
Authors: Haley Allison
Diary of a Rocker’s Kid
D.O.R.K. Series, Book One
By Haley Allison
Diary of a Rocker’s Kid
Copyright © 2015 by Haley Allison.
All rights reserved.
Second Print Edition: April 2016
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-612-1
ISBN-10: 1-68058-612-2
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
To Derek, who showed me what it's like to have a rocker in the house.
I tap my finger on the side of the laptop and glance out the open window for inspiration. The rolling green hills give a ripple effect in the breeze as our horses graze peacefully inside the wooden fence. Usually this view is inspiring to me, but right now I’m annoyed I’m sitting on my bed doing homework while my best friend is in Florida on spring break.
Nana’s sharp rap comes at my bedroom door. She croaks through it, “You workin’ on that assignment I gave you?”
I groan. “Yes, Nana.”
“Good. Take your time on it. Give my tired old ears a rest.” I hear her rushed footsteps pounding down the hall.
Looks like Nana wants me to start expressing my feelings some other way than shredding on a guitar. I’m supposed to be creating a diary for English, so I decided to make a private—for my eyes only—blog. I called it
“Diary of a Rocker Chick.”
Keeping a diary is something I wouldn’t normally do. I’m not obsessed with my feelings, and I honestly think diaries are kind of cheesy, but I can’t go outside until I finish this, so I guess I’d better get on it.
Well…here goes nothing…
First Blog Post
Hi, Me. I guess that’s who I’m supposed to be talking to here.
What to write…what to write…feelings. I’m supposed to be writing about feelings. Bleh.
As usual, I’m stuck-y in Kentucky while Ana’s on spring break like a normal person. Her parents didn’t invite me to join them because, in their words, I’m a “bad influence” on Ana. Being labeled like that by your best friend’s parents really sucks, especially when there’s no reason for it. I’ve never had a drop of alcohol, I don’t know how to roll a joint, and I’m still a virgin, so there’s no way they could label me as a whore. I can’t figure out why they think I’m a bad influence. I guess it’s because I want to be a rock star someday.
I glance over at my Gibson and smile. That kickass instrument is my soul. If I needed inspiration for writing, I think I just found it.
Today during lunch break, I did something even better than going on vacation: I mastered the guitar riff from
Back in Black
by AC/DC. I should have known that one already, but I was too busy learning an ass-ton of Avenged Sevenfold songs to care that I was getting behind on the classics. I’m obsessed with 2000s rock, especially A7X. I eat, drink, and breathe their music.
Hmm…this would be a good place to keep up with how many songs I know. I think I’ll save that for another day, though.
I worked on my own music today too. I keep trying to write this one song, but it’s like the words are stuck in my head. They’re there, I can feel them, but they won’t materialize and spring forth. Until those words pop out, I can’t really call it a song, so for now it’s just naked, sick-ass guitar chords. Someday I’m going to be a professional musician, so I really need to get this songwriting thing down. It’s hard to write songs when nothing ever happens to you, though.
Ugh, me and my boring life. Not a very inspiring blog topic. I’m glad no one’s going to read this but me. I can at least
try
to make it sound more interesting, I guess.
Later, I was forced to battle it out with Geometry, my arch-nemesis. It took me, like, two hours to get this one lesson down. That subject hovers over me like a supervillain bent on destroying my future. Thankfully, I’m almost done with it, since junior year is almost over.
Ahhh…putting that down in print made it seem more real. Just a couple more weeks and I’ll be done with junior year. Then I’m going to fly through my senior textbooks as fast as I can so I can bust out of here when I turn eighteen.
Six months until I turn eighteen, and then I’m packing a bag and going off to see the outside world. My first mission when I leave this farm is to find my mother, whom I affectionately refer to as “Mother Dearest.” She’s never been a part of my life, and I don’t even know her name. I’ve asked Dad about her, but all he’ll tell me is that she was a “bitch who didn’t deserve me.”
Eww…my mother. Writing about her did
not
give me warm and fuzzy feels. I don’t think I’ll be making that mistake again. In fact, now I feel like cutting this project short.
Now that I’ve finished my last assignment of the day, I’m free to go out and take a ride with Dad before dinner. We love riding our horses around the property as a way to unwind at the end of a long day. I’ll come back and write more if anything interesting happens while we’re out. That’s highly unlikely, so don’t get your hopes up.
“Your?” Damn, this assignment is really bringing out my inner weirdo. Time to sign off. Hmm…
Yours truly
.
I laugh out loud. No. No, no, no.
Rockin’ out
.
Meh…nah.
See you soon.
What? Seriously, no. Why is this so hard? Um…
Ttyl?
I sigh…sure. Guess the inner weirdo’s here to stay. I might as well embrace her.
Ttyl,
Mads
I click Submit and take a look at my published post, surprised that writing in a diary didn’t totally suck.
***
That evening, as Dad and I come back in through the windowed, curtained back door to the kitchen, the smell of my favorite dinner meets my nose. Fried chicken and the works is a staple in any old-fashioned Southern home. I’ve eaten way more than my share of it in my lifetime, but it never gets old.
The kitchen is overrun by dated wallpaper and carved wooden horses. The tile was once white, but it browned from years of people tramping in dirt from the stables through the back door. Nana already set the table, and now she’s scurrying back and forth between the refrigerator and the stove. I know better than to get in her way. This is
Nana’s kitchen
, and no one else is even allowed to step foot beyond a certain point.
“Hey, Nana, how long until dinner’s ready?”
“Patience is a virtue, young lady!” she barks in her raspy growl of a voice.
Dad nudges me, and his maple eyes twinkle. “You were askin’ for that one, baby girl.”
I head to the nearby half bath to wash my hands, and Dad follows behind me. “She just gets grouchier as she gets older, doesn’t she?” I whisper.
“Well, if your body was decayin’ and givin’ off a smell, you probably wouldn’t be so happy, either.”
I laugh. “
Gross
, Dad! I didn’t need to hear that spelled out.”
“It’s the truth, though. She’s senile, honey. Just keep cuttin’ her slack.”
“Fine, but I don’t have to like being yelled at for every little question I ask.” I turn off the squeaky hot and cold knobs, and then I make a futile attempt to dry my hands on the old-as-hell hand towel. There’s hardly any fiber left on this dense web of beige threads. “Can’t she at least buy new towels once in a millennium?”
“I’ll talk to her about it,” Dad promises, and I nod and pass by him to exit the room.
When I get back to the kitchen, I stand behind my chair at the table and wait impatiently for Nana to set everything down. Once Dad is back at the table and everyone is seated, I grab the metal tongs and sort through the bounty to select my choice meat.
“How’s school goin’?” Dad scoops some delectably lumpy mashed potatoes onto his blue china plate with a plop. “I haven’t heard much about it lately.”
“It’s all right. Nana got me started on this diary thing today.”
“Sounds great! I wish I had written down more of what you did when you were little. I can barely even remember those days now.” Dad takes a long draught of his sweet iced tea.
“What, are you gettin’ senile or somethin’?” My Southern accent is usually kind of tamed down, but it comes out when I tease back and forth with Dad. He takes it as me making fun of him, but it’s totally accidental.
His eyebrow cocks in warning. “Careful, young lady.”
We fall silent for a little while to eat, and I glance at Dad again as I bite into one of Nana’s fluffy, buttery, melt-in-your-mouth homemade biscuits. He’s graying around the temples, although he’s somehow managed to keep all of his ear-length brown hair. Crinkles appear around his eyes when he smiles, and he’s also getting just a hint of creases in his cheeks. Dad
is
getting older…not as old as Nana, of course, but it’s still kind of scary when you realize your only parent is starting to age.
“Do you know when Ana’s gettin’ back?”
Dad’s question derailed my train of thought. “Uh…I think she’s getting back in, like, a week.”
“They’ve been havin’ a good time, I assume?”
“Hell yeah. She loves it there.”
“Good. We’ll arrange somethin’ with her family when she gets back.”
When we’re almost done with our meal, Dad gets a call. “It’s Cass,” he says, and he jumps up from the table and runs down the hall with his phone. Cass Meriwether is Dad’s best friend who lives in California. We’ve never been out to visit her, but she comes out to visit us once a year, and they keep in touch by phone and text. It seems like she’s well off, but she never really talks about it. I guess she’s modest about her wealth or something.
Dad comes back in the room as Nana and I are taking our dishes to the sink. “Cass just broke up with Tom,” Dad says, and I groan.
“
Again
? Man, she can never keep a fiancé, can she?” Cass has been engaged, like, five times.
“Nope. I feel terrible for her, as always, but the good news is she wants to come see us a little early this year to get her mind off it.” I catch a hint of a grin on his face. Cass’s visits are his favorite part of the whole year.
“Fine with me.” I toss chicken bones into the trash can beneath the sink. “It will be nice having two riding partners instead of one.”
“I told her she can come whenever she’s ready. She seemed pretty torn up about it, so I think she’s gonna take a couple days to recover before she flies out here.”
“We’ll need to freshen up the guest room,” Nana says. “Mads, that’ll be your task tomorrow.”
A groan escapes my throat. “But she’s
Dad’s
friend! Why should I have to clean the guest room?”
“Madison Landers, don’t talk back to your Nana,” Dad scolds firmly. I sigh as I rinse my dishes off, and then I wash my hands.
“Ungrateful…” Nana mutters something else under her breath as she places my dishes in the dishwasher.
“Sorry, Nana,” I say with genuine remorse. Her whole life has revolved around me since I was born. I guess I do act ungrateful sometimes, but I don’t mean to.
“Tell you what, honey, I’ll help you clean up the guest room tonight. Sound fair?” Dad asks.
“Sure.” I grudgingly follow him upstairs while Nana finishes up the kitchen.
Dad hands me a can of Pledge and a dust rag when we enter the guest room. I spray and dust the old oak furniture as he takes the linens off the bed to wash them and then vacuums the carpeted floor. After we’re both done with our tasks, Dad takes the linens down the hall to the laundry room. I rush into my bedroom before he can find another chore to keep me busy.
When I get inside my room, my ringtone goes off. I hurry over to my nightstand to pick up my phone and slide it to answer. “Hey, lady!”
Ana is video-chatting me from Miami, looking gorgeously tan and perfect as ever. Her honey-blonde hair falls in waves over her shoulders, and her green eyes sparkle with happiness at the sight of me. “Hey! Aw…I miss you,” she pouts.
“Miss you too. How’s Florida?” I sink down into my black silk comforter, cringing at the image of me in the right corner of the screen. My glasses and braces look alien compared to Ana’s model looks. My long, dark hair is pulled into a braid over my shoulder that stretches all the way down to my waist. The length of my hair is one of the few girly things about me. In most other things, I might as well be a boy.
Ana talks for a while about the things they’ve done and seen, and then she adds, “By the way, be glad you’re not down here. I tanned so fast this afternoon. Those same rays would have had you looking like a lobster.”
I burst into giggles. Ana’s referring to the times I’ve had sun poisoning in the past because of my pigment-challenged skin. “Yeah, and then you’d have to play my nurse again with gallons of Ocean Potion and Advil. Having an Irish complexion is not as awesome as it sounds.”
“Well, being blonde isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, either,” Ana says with an eye roll. “I wish I had your dark hair. Everyone assumes I’m a moron because I’m blonde.”
“You’re one of the smartest people I know, so that’s their loss,” I say, bringing a smile to her face.