Page 1 of Rocked: The Price of Dreams

Chapter 1

August 2006

I refused to let the first day of my freshman year at high school play out like it would in a typical teenage movie—everything moving in slow motion, me, the loner girl walking along the school corridor with books in hand while other teenagers jostled each other, laughing, cheering, and catching up with their friends after summer break. Nope...that wasn’t going to happen. Not to me.

I’d been tossed from one elementary school to the next around Montgomery, New Jersey, over the years, thanks to my dad’s work as a mechanic near New Brunswick—before he took off when I was twelve—and my mom changing tavern jobs every few years. This wasn’t my first new school experience. I’d know kids here. Whether I wanted to associate with them was another thing. I wasn’t sporty, nor academic, nor popular, nor a techie geek. I was a musician and not the classical kind. I loved rock. All I wanted to do was learn music. Perfect the guitar. Master the piano. Once I graduated, I wanted to join a band and get the fuck out of this town. Forever. If I kept to myself and focused on music, freshman year at Montgomery High would be a breeze.

As I headed along the hallway lined with lockers, looking for my allocated number, girls giggled and hugged their friends. Guys rammed their books and bags into their lockers. Metal doors clanged and rattled as they were slammed shut. Noise and mayhem reverberated off every surface. The place stank of too much perfume and deodorant and reeked of too much testosterone—especially the rank quantity radiating off the jocks blocking the corridor, eyeing the girls and teasing them as they walked past. Dickheads.

As I passed one group of them, their lips curled and twitched with a who-the-fuck-are-you sneer. I didn’t care. I was a pint-sized stay-out-of-my-way kinda girl. I had friends; I just preferred my own company rather than that of others. But I wasn’t one to be shoved around.

I clung onto the strap of my backpack and cruised along, avoiding any eye contact. But my skin prickled under the weight of all the stares. Was it my clothes?My Converse shoes were ratty and worn beyond their used by date. My short denim skirt had frayed at the hemline, but it was my favorite. My tattered Bruce Springsteen T-shirt was full of holes, but I’d never throw it out.

Like at most schools, there were the rich kids, the average kids, and the poor kids. I was the latter. I was here because I had to be, and it was my ticket out of town. I’d use every resource this school had available to master music. I’d attend classes. Play and perform at every opportunity. Stay under the radar and out of trouble.

Rounding a corner, I scanned the locker numbers.

Thwack!

The slamming thud of someone being shoved against the wall of metal made me turn. Asshole Jock Number One pinned some poor lanky guy with shaggy dirty blond hair against the doors. Jock Number Two held a weedy, skinny guy with a helmet-shaped mass of big wavy brown curls in a headlock. Jock Number Three laughed and jeered, encouraging his buddies. They all looked to be about the same age as me but were twice my size.

“Give it up, Kyle. You dweeb,” Asshole Number One hissed at the guy held against the lockers. “You’re still the same douchebag as you were in elementary school. Always will be.”

Jock Number Three yanked Kyle’s backpack off his arm and rummaged through it.

“Matias. Don’t.” Fear and defeat hooded Kyle’s eyes.

Matias pulled out Kyle’s lunch bag and held it in the air. “Woohoo! Got it.” He peered inside the bag. “Mmm. Sandwiches and home-baked treats. We love your mom’s cooking. Sweet.”

This had happened before? What the fuck?

Jock Number One slammed Kyle against the locker again. “Don't hold out on me again, weasel.”

“Where’s yours, Hunter?” Jock Number Two shook and ruffled Hunter’s hair.

“Hank. Stop.” Hunter winced and grimaced. “Ow!”

Matias grabbed Hunter’s backpack and retrieved his lunch. He held up the bag. “Well. Look what we have here, Hank and Trevor. More goodies for lunch.”

Fire quaked my pulse. I hated people who bullied others or thought they were better than anyone else. Kyle and Hunter in their ripped jeans and plain T-shirts didn’t look like they could afford the cheap cafeteria food, whereas the jocks in their brand-new Nikes, designer jeans, and football jerseys no doubt could afford to dine in five-star restaurants.

I quickly scanned the hallway. No one seemed to care what was going on. That fueled my flames even more. I wouldn’t let these jocks get away with this. Furling my hands into fists, I dug my nails into my palms. My heart jumped like a mosh pit crowd at a heavy metal concert. I wasn’t a violent person, but I knew self-defense. And these hopeless guys needed help. I can do this.

Walking past, I rammed my shoulder into the dickhead, Hank, pushing him off-balance. As the jock spun to face me, I kneed him in the crotch.

He keeled forward. Collapsing onto the floor, he clutched his balls. “Ow! Fuck. You bitch.”

Asshole Number One, Trevor, was next. As I jabbed him in the kidneys, I kicked the back of his knee to break his stance. He turned his head. Shock flared in his eyes.

Yeah. I’m taking you on, asshole.

Before he could utter a word, I placed my palm onto the base of his nose, crushed it inward and shoved it upwards.

Trevor screamed. “Argh. What the fuck?”

He let go of Kyle and stumbled backward. I tripped his ankle and he hit the hard ground with a thud.

“Bitch!” His pained scream resonated down the hall.

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