Page 2 of The Rogues

Sometimes, the thing you’re good at isn’t the thing you love. I’ve accepted that I’m not in love with classical music or even piano in general, but my mom hasn’t. I don’t think she ever will. She seems to think I won’t amount to anything if I give it up, but I know she’s wrong. Life has to be more than just settling for what you’re good at.

If it’s not, I don’t think I like the world very much.

“I’m just saying that it’s nice to have something to fall back on. Job security.” My best friend looks me right in the eye. “You have a gift, so you’ll never have to be broke a day in your life. That’s not something to turn your nose up at.”

I tuck my chin in. I feel like I always do this: complain about my issues when there are much worse things out there. Here I am with staff and a gold roof over my head, and Cleo doesn’t even know if she’s going to have supper when she gets home, or if her mom will even be there to make it.

I put my hand on hers. “You have a gift, too.”

She scrunches her nose, but I know she knows it. Her voice is the best I’ve ever heard, better than anyone on the radio or any of the opera singers my mom loves. She has something powerful; I just need to convince her to sing outside of our bedrooms so others can see it too.

“My voice is nice, but getting a recording contract is more than just having a nice voice. It’s about having an image,” Cleo tells me. “Like, what if they try to make me into some pretty ’n’ pink Barbie singing soft pop and wearing go-go boots?”

The image that paints causes me to snort.

“It sounds like a drag. What if they give me a backup band that I hate? What if the managers are prudes? What if they make me sponsor a perfume that smells bad?”

I know she is just joking, making the prospect of being a famous singer sound more ridiculous than it is, but her words spark an idea. “Lark’s been playing the drums since she was a kid.”

At the mention of our grumpy friend, an amused smile forms on Cleo’s lips. “Yes, that is true.”

“And I’m sure there are a few girls at my snotty school who secretly play the bass…”

A dark brow rises. “What are you thinking about over there? Spit it out.”

“Maybe we can start a band.” I stand up, walking over to my closet.

She snorts. “A band?”

“A rock band! Just like Stereo Hearts,” I exclaim, grabbing the magazine and flashing the hot drummer once again. “We could write our own songs, make our own sound. Cause chaos.”

“What do we know about that?” she asks with an exasperated laugh.

“Music is music,” I protest. “I know music theory. I’m sure Lark has a good handle on it, too. If we come as a package deal, they’ll have a harder time placing some bullshit image on all four of us.”

“I don’t know…”

“Do you think they could force Lark to wear pink?”

She lets out a laugh. “No, she’d probably cut them,” she mutters.

I let out a deep breath as my hand hooks around the neck of my uncle’s guitar—my most prized possession. In comparison to everything else in this mansion, it’s probably not that expensive, but to me, it’s priceless.

“What are you doing?” Cleo asks, trying to peer over my shoulder.

I pull it out, ready to show her the beauty of it for the very first time. It’s an Ibanez, solid black and glossy. The same thrill I always get when I hold it thrums through my body as I hold it out for her to see.

“Holy shit.” She scoots closer, her fingers almost touching the polished wood before she pulls them back. “I didn’t know you had this.”

“It was my uncle’s,” I tell her, and she gives me a knowing look. “It’s the only thing I have from him. He left it to me, but as you probably know, my mother doesn’t like it. She thinks it’s at one of their storage units.”

My dad isn’t any better when it comes to dissuading me from liking the same music his brother did. As a congressman, he holds very critical opinions when it comes to any kind of creative career, especially rock stars. To my parents, rock ’n’ roll is an evil entity, its only purpose to spread corruption and romanticize anarchy.

Rock ’n’ roll is chaos, and my parents like order.

Nevertheless, a small part of my dad knew what this guitar meant to me, knew what it meant to his brother. Because of that, he let me keep it despite my mother’s rules.

So in my closet it stays.