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A/N: I've re-vamped this story. I re-read it this afternoon and thought to myself...that's yuck. So I've redone it to suit my ever-changing writing style. Needless to say that come the next few months, this story will be re-re-vamped etc. I quite like it, it's unlike anything I've written before. But despite changing quite a lot of the first chapter, I'll still say this - This kid has issues.
Derek57 - the kid's back.
Summary: "Remember my name. Only when I started school in my new country did I begin to realize just how 'un-wonderful' I really was. People knew me alright, but for all the wrong reasons. Teen idol or envied poser?"
Wonderful Brett Myatt - Chapter 1
But for most people, that’s just a dream. Being a teen idol means you require an amazing talent and not many people nowadays can make do something sensational. Like me. Yep, you heard me right alright. I’m talented. Not just your run-off-the-mill teen singer, but also I have the charm and the looks. A regular heart-throb. I’m the greatest thing since David Cassidy; actually, I’d say I’m better. No, much much better.
I mean, why not? I’m just what every girl dreams for, right? A gorgeous smile, a gorgeous face and a gorgeous voice to match it. You even get your seven year olds that are just getting to grips with infatuation, manage to fall head over heels for me. And get this; even old ladies think I’m the next Donny Osmond. But much better, naturally. I can’t have them still stealing my well earned spotlight.
I don’t blame people worshipping me. It’s just a natural human instinct to look up to those greater than you are. My own definition of the word ‘idolised’ is ‘severely adored’. Though people may argue otherwise, I retort that I redefine the word. It’s fitting, don’t you think? I’m adored. Well, I reckon you’d think so too if you were blessed enough to catch a glimpse of me. I bet you any amount of sterling that you wouldn’t take your eyes off me.
I often see articles in those mass-produced, highly coloured teen magazines with my smiling face in every corner of the page, surrounded by pink hearts and quotes of ‘isn’t he dreamy?’ The latest description gave me that feeling of justified arrogant satisfaction - “cute rounded face and deep shimmering blue eyes, long eyelashes and rosy lips. A dark perfected yet adorably scruffy hairstyle that falls over gorgeously over his eyes. A straight set of pearly whites and a smile to make even the rooks of Westminster turn their miserable heads and swoon. Charming and intellectual, a rapidly contagious sense of style, but above all, his singing talents. He’s hit it huge in the music industry these last few months. So huge, that his name is mentioned several times in almost every girl’s conversation. Seventy two percent of boys worry that their girlfriends adore this flawless teen singer more than they adore their boyfriends…”
Yes, I know! It’s great isn’t it? All this and still only sweet sixteen! Make way Jesus; the next bible will be about me. I’ll be legendary; but for now, I’m happy with the well deserved title of - ‘trulywonderful teen idol’.
Even being as popular as I am, my life is full of the regular complications of any teenager. You know the sort. The relationship issues, the perfect image fad, the teen angst – you name it. But those really are nothing.
Kevin Hartwell - a funny chap to say the least. Not only did he look like a taller and plumped up version of the Looney Tunes character Elmer Fudd, but he spoke like him too. He was almost a nice guy, had I not been in his bad books since I announced on stage that he’d actually slept with a Portuguese prostitute this time last year. It was just a wind-up, and he’d told the media in his defence that she was an ‘escort’ rather than a prostitute.
Besides that, I was going to be staying in the fanciest part of Los Angeles, in a six-star hotel made for stars like me. Living the luxurious American lifestyle and being pampered to death had always sounded good to me. But what was more, was there were more American girls that would inevitably kiss my magazine shots goodnight. More girls would be muttering my name and sigh as they saw amateurish video footage of me on the TV. They would scream and point and shout to get my attention if I walked along the streets.
I’d come here to do a live few shows in a few weeks time. Singing live and being broadcast in every single state. That was right. I could actually sing live without pitching problems and bad timing. Except for one of my early shows when a delayed flight had stolen the free time for me to eat, and my concentration was redirected to my growling stomach.
Getting this big in the media and music industry was a dream.
But my dreams were shattered into a google of fragments when I was told I had to attend school. You read that damn right – school. I haven’t attended a class in a school for the past year! What makes them think they can make me go to school? You know as well as I that stars don’t go to school. School is for regular kids, not me. We’re a class apart, in a literal and metaphorical sense.
But that’s the way it had to be. Some completely idiotic doctor – whom I swore was a quack - suggested that I needed to be with people my own age. He wants me to make friends, know how to socialize and to build on stable relationships. I had all that before I was famous and I don’t need it now. Fiends are backstabbers, socializing is a chore and relationships are too ordinary. I didn’t want to seem ordinary. I wanted every girl to dream that she had a chance with me. If I had a girlfriend then they would lose interest and I wouldn’t be so remarkable any more.
I couldn’t express my disgust enough and my parents back in Exeter agreed to send me to school. They came out with some made up moralistic crap that I was getting self-obsessed and lonely and that it was best for my future. Self bloody obsessed? Fans wanted to know all about me and I gave them that liberty. Self obsessed – tell that to my middle finger.
So I was going to school and being only sixteen, there wasn’t a fat lot I could do to resist it. I wouldn’t mind being home-tutored; at least then I wouldn’t have to face the humiliation of sitting in a class amongst regular kids.
Like I begrudgingly stated, I don’t have much power over the parents, so the next week I was taken out to get a school uniform. Me in school uniform? That’s not even a laughing matter.
When I saw the outcome, I felt like what was left of my currently damaged ego had been smouldered and stitched into the tacky material of this outfit. It was repulsive. It was possibly the most vulgar excuse for a uniform I had seen in my days. Not only did this school have an outrageously atrocious sense of style, but it even made me of all people look ghastly. Nothing ever made me look hideous, except for this awful rag that they called a school uniform.
It consisted of navy blue office trousers, a white button up shirt, a brown and blue striped tie and a navy blazer. That was the uniform. It made me look like part of some foreign military whose clothes were sewn by the homeless, with a hint of Victorian private-school boy and few ounces of tramp plopped in.
But one thing was for certain, if all the students at this school wore the same horrendous trash as each other, then they would all look terrible. I’d possibly still remain some of my exterior charm. I’d make those other boys look like vermin in this fashion catastrophe. It was no big deal, people would still worship me with or without this tragic clothing.
I also had all my books to buy. The last time I did this was when I was I started high school in England at the age of eleven. Some agents took me to a huge bookstore. Getting around in the city like this was risky business. They key was to blend in. I was wearing large sunglasses to hide my eyes and rather ordinary clothes so that I wouldn’t be recognised. I’d been given a few looks from cute girls that were perhaps a bit suspicious, but I had smiled them off and carried on. Even the agents whose names I never bothered to learn, were not dressed in their normal suits. I swear those guys misinterpreted the title ‘agent’ as ‘secret agent’. Their stiff demeanour and lack of communication was a little embarrassing at times.
I picked up a few of the ‘Educational and Schooling’ books off the shelves with a few my ‘cardboard cut-outs’ at my back. That was my own title to my agents – they really did look like they were made in a factory. They watched my back in case anybody tried to swarm me. Well, that was my assumption. They always told me they were there to protect me from harm, but I mean, get a grip, why would somebody want to harm me?
“You’re kidding,” I muttered to a man standing near to me. “I mean, really? ‘Algebraic and Trigonometric Mathematics for 15-18 year olds’? That has to be some kind of joke. And what’s with ‘Hamlet’? If you ask me, these people should be shot.”
I was talking to myself, obviously; I neglected being sociable ages ago. I never kept in contact with my old friends. They’d tried to before, but when I was just the average teen, I was never very happy with how they had treated me.
I wasn’t the shy singer-in-the-shower like I was when I was fourteen and fifteen. I was a singing sensation, a musical marvel, a charismatic and captivating young man. No longer an undiscovered talent with a pretty face. People loved me and not the vulnerable child underneath, no, that loser was shadowed a long time ago. I was fresh.
Such dreary titles. The more I read the monotonous prose, the more I dreaded school. You can see why, can’t you? Teen idols do not slave away solving ridiculous algebraic puzzles and messing around with triangles in a classroom all day. Nor do they read soppy lifeless riddles and rhymes of a deluded guy that died hundreds of years ago. Nor socialize with spotty greasy haired rotten toothed dim-witted primates that we call regular youths. It made my skin crawl just thinking about it all.
Emails, forums, message boards, bulletins, snail mail, you name it, I had it all. I had whole websites devoted to me. Usually with flashing icons of me topless that I don’t remember ever being taken. I blamed people’s obsession with photo editing along with their sick fantasies.
I looked at the huge pile of letters waiting for me on the desk in the study room and grinned. No way was I going to read them all and even if I did read them, I wasn’t going to reply back. I’d just get workers to send my automated emails and post saying – “Thank you for your letter, it means so much to me. I truly think that only you are my biggest fan. You are my number one. Yours truly, Brett Myatt.” Or some other soppy lies like that.
After all this time, I never told you my name. You saw it just there. It’s a well known name and I pity you if you don’t know it.
Brett Myatt, teen idol. Remember that name.
