follow a girl named Anastasia on her rise to fame.
|The Rise of Anastasia Summers by Arianna Anderson
“Hey mom, I’m going up to our room. I’m tired.” I said as I walked over to the elevators and pushed the up arrow.
My mom and I had just arrived at our hotel, The Rose Inn, after a sound check at the music hall with my manager. I just wanted to collapse in bed and sleep for a thousand years. It was 11:55 at night and I had been awake since 1:00 that morning, traveling all day from my last concert in Autumn Bay, Texas to my sound check for my next concert in Chapel Hill, Mississippi.
“Ok sweetie. I’ll be up soon, I just want to call your father really quickly and let him know that we got here all right.”
“’Kay mom. Night,” I mumbled as the elevator doors opened. I stepped inside and pressed the button for the fifth floor. As the elevator ascended, there was cheesy elevator music playing. At each floor the elevator passes, there’s a ding that didn’t do anything for my headache, except intensify it.
I pulled out the key card that my agent gave me on the tour bus and examined the worn plastic. On the back it looked like it could be a regular credit card, but on the front there was a bouquet of flowers with “Welcome to The Rose Inn, where flowers bloom!” in golden letters.
Finally, after what seemed like ages, the doors opened. I stepped out onto the floor and looked down the corridor, then down at the key card. I turned it over and found the room number right over the black strip: 504A.
I considered turning back and going down to where my mom would surely be talking to my dad, telling him all about our adventures on tour and how much she misses him and my sister. Before I could, the elevator doors slid shut. I remember thinking, So there goes that option. It was silly of me to react that way anyway, wanting to go to my mom, and for what? Nothing.
I kept my head down as I walked, hoping no one will pop out of any of the rooms and recognize me. With each door I passed, I glanced up, checking the room number. When I neared the end of the hallway, I found the door to my room. I slid the card and the door opened.
The room that lay before me wasn’t like anything that I would have ever imagined. It was furnished with beautiful and expensive looking furniture and looked like something out of a catalog that would advertise perfect looking rooms that no one could ever afford. I couldn’t and still can’t imagine anyone ever in this room. I remember feeling out of place.
There was a large white leather couch in the middle of the room that could easily fit twenty or more people, with a glass table in front of it. There were some magazines on the table, next to some flowers (roses of course) and a T.V. remote. A large 22 inch flat screen T.V. was mounted on the wall above a fire place. Off to the side was a full kitchen, with every imaginable appliance. There was an indoor grill, a blender, a waffle maker, a food processor, a toaster that could hold six pieces of toast, a stain less steal microwave, and a fully stocked fridge. The cabinets were a soft cherry wood color with intricate details that must have taken forever to make. The counters were a cold marble and the fridge had a mirror exterior.
To the right of the kitchen was a door, which led to a large bedroom with a private bathroom, and even further down was another bedroom similar to the first.
Exhausted, I had sat down on the couch, being careful not to disturb anything. Even after everything that had happened to me in the past year, I felt out of place in these types of situations. I didn’t want to touch anything thing in that pristine room for fear of ruining it. I looked down at the stack of magazines and found that on every one of the covers was a familiar face that stared back at me. It was me, but it didn’t feel like me. The girl on each cover was cool and confident, but me, I’m not that at all.
I flicked on the T.V. and there was footage of my last concert. It showed a shot of all my fans screaming and singing along to my songs, and then focused on me singing and dancing across the stage.
I changed the channel to a news station, not wanting to watch myself, wanting something else. There was a news story about a car crash that happened at five that day. There were some shots that show the wreckage. Both of the hoods were smashed together. The reporter assured the audience that all drivers and passengers made it out of the collision safely and had only minor injuries.
It switched to another story with a different reporter. This time it was a man standing next to a teenage girl who has tears running down both cheeks.
“Hi, Mike Blue here. I’m here with sixteen year old Rebecca Dawson who just found out she won tickets and backstage passes to the Anastasia Summers Concert tomorrow night.” He gestures to the girl standing next to him. “Tell me, what are you feeling right now?”
Rebecca had sniffled and wiped her eyes. “Well, I’m just so excited. I can’t believe that I’m actually going to go see Anastasia. I love her and if I hadn’t won these tickets, I wouldn’t have had the chance to even go. My family wouldn’t have been able to afford it…” She sniffled again and put on an innocent face,” I’m just so grateful that my local radio gave them out.”
“Well Rebecca, I know we are all happy for you and we look forward to following your exciting journey as you watch the show and go backstage.”
“I’m excited to be living it!”
“There you have it folks. Until next time, goodnight and stay safe.” Mike had waved and the show went to commercial. It was an ad for Proactive Facial Cream, and it showed people who used it and it changed their life…
I flipped the T.V. off and went to bed thinking about Rebecca and the show the next day, dreading it.
It wasn’t like I wasn’t grateful for everything that had happened in that year, because I was. I just didn’t want to disappoint anyone. Everything was a dream come true: my music career, being able to share that with the world, being signed to Snow Records, and being able to go on tour. Sometimes it felt like just that though: a dream. That in a second I would wake up and my life would be the way it was before… me going to school every day, then to work, then back home to do homework, eat, shower and go to bed. I used to be like Rebecca, not being able to afford anything.
Instead, I wake up in a different city each day now. It still feels weird when someone recognizes me on the street and wants my autograph.
Let me start from the beginning.