Page 1 of Doesn't Count

Prologue

Ashton

Clothes are strewn across the floor of my bedroom, every inch of carpet covered by tank tops, T-shirts, dresses, skirts, jeans, you name it. Yet, I still find myself sifting through more clothes in my closet, searching for something to wear for the first day of high school. As I mouth the words to Miley Cyrus’ “Wrecking Ball,” I yank another shirt off the hanger, tossing it behind me.

“Hey!”

I spin, finding Oliver, my best friend, yanking the shirt I just tossed off his head, shaking out his hair.

“Whoops!” I giggle, turning back to my latest obsession.

Oliver Matthews is the scrawny kid down the street. We’ve been best friends since the first grade, practically inseparable. There was something about him that drew me in from day one. We were the complete opposite. He was the quiet wallflower, and I was the busy bee. I wanted to be friends with everybody, but most of all him. Maybe it was because I thought I could lift him up and force him out of his shell. It was a challenge that I was still working on.

From trading favorite songs and cherished books to starring in each other’s social media, we never swayed as friends. Everyone who knew Ash knew Oliver.

As the years crept on, Oliver grew more comfortable with me, but never with anyone else. I, on the other hand, yearned for recognition. I loved the people, the attention, the love. I wanted every bit of it, soaking it in like it was a life source while Oliver quietly followed behind. From time to time, I would force him out of my shadow and into the limelight, but it never lasted long. He preferred to hide behind me, so I let him.

I’d like to think he has other friends besides me, but sometimes I think I really am all he has.

The song switches to “Heart Attack” by Demi Lovato and I gush, “Oh my God, I love this song.”

“I swear you have the worst taste in music.” Oliver shakes his head, his hair swaying across his eyes.

“What do you know about good music?” I scoff, contemplating a black pencil skirt.

Music was my obsession. I had a way of predicting the next hits, memorizing all the lyrics and the artists' lives before they even make it to the radio. Even Oliver admitted it was impressive.

“I know that all these artists are sellouts. They just crave fame, willing to do anything to get on the radio, to be famous. They’d even give up their creative liberties.”

“That’s rich coming from someone who never lets a soul hear him sing.”

“That’s different. I do it for myself, not for anyone else.”

“Okay, so if everyone did that, then we wouldn’t have any music to listen to.” I shake my head, my face giving him a look that says “duh.”

He turns toward my wall of posters, analyzing all thedifferent artists – Miley Cyrus, Demi Lovato, Taylor Swift, One Direction, Selena Gomez, Justin Bieber, Katy Perry, you name it. Anyone worth listening to made it to my wall.

“Whatever. Maybe when I’m ready to sellout, I’ll be up there too.”

I’ve only heard Oliver once and it was by accident when I snuck into his room to surprise him a couple months ago on his birthday. He didn’t know I was coming, but I was the one who was shocked. Even though I only caught a few notes, it was all I needed to know that he could actually sing. He just needs to put himself out there if he ever wants it to go anywhere and we all know that Oliver Matthews isn’t the type.

He tears his eyes from my wall, spinning and kicking some clothes around with his feet. “I think you need to take a break.”

“Can’t. Still haven’t found the right outfit yet.” I say, trying to match a pink tank top with patterned shorts.

His hand grips one of my shoulders, forcing me to spin so I can face him. He latches onto my biceps and shakes me, my entire body rocking back and forth as he groans.

“This is so boring! You have another week to figure it out!”

I shove his chest, knocking him back a couple steps. “You know how stressed I’ve been about this. If I can at least check this off the list before then, I might be able to relax.”

“What does it matter? It’s just an outfit. Who cares what you wear?” He argues.

“Just because you clearly don’t care about anything,” I gesture to his green and white striped polo and khaki shorts, “Doesn’t mean I don’t. First impressions are everything. We’re going to be meeting new people, new friends. Who knows, maybe I’ll get a boyfriend this year.”

He shakes his shaggy hair out of face as he rolls his eyes, “Can we just take a break?”

I stand there with my arms crossed, eyes narrowed, contemplating whether I can afford to stop searching for THE outfit.

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