Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > Everybody Wants Somebody
“Light that smoke, get one for giving up on me. And one just ‘cause they‘ll kill you sooner than my expectations. To my favorite liar, to my favorite scar: I could have died with you. I hope you choke on those words, that kiss, that bottle; I confessed. Now ask yourself, yeah you‘re out on the inside. I said I love you but I lied.
Let‘s play this game, called ‘when you catch fire.’ I wouldn‘t piss to put you out. Stop burning bridges and drive off of them so I can forget about you. So bury me, in memory. His smile‘s your rope. So wrap it tight around your throat.”
Sarah stole another swig from the bottle of vodka and fell back against the pale wood floor, staring at the ceiling. Previously unopened, the bottle was half empty, and she still didn’t feel any better. It was barely a week after Sarah’s eighteenth birthday, and the present her parents gave her turned out to be finding her mother overdosed on pills in the kitchen and her father bled out over the living room from a gunshot to the head. Her favorite band continued to play over the speakers.
Rather than think about the tragedy in her life, rather than reread the suicide notes and will her parents left her, she preferred to internally debate the transformation of Fall Out Boy. “Tell That Mick” and the rest of Take This To Your Grave expressed the youth of the band, as did From Under the Cork Tree but with a degree of maturity in the music’s composition. Then came Infinity On High, where maturity had definitely set in though with it came a more sexual nature. Finally, Folie A Deux, which seemed like disconnected insanity from the other albums, when in-LP it flowed together perfectly. Then they broke up, and she hadn’t kept tabs on them. She didn’t know their names, only their faces, seeing that she didn’t want to become some obsessive fan-girl. Sarah respected and enjoyed the music, and she saw no need in having to know everything about the band members.
Somehow amidst her thoughts, her chronological playlist had shifted from the beginning of Take This To Your Grave to the middle of From Under the Cork Tree. It reminded Sarah of how quickly time can pass a person, of how much time people truly had to live, and it told her to appreciate whatever life she had to look forward to. She silenced it with more gulps of vodka.
In the days prior, she’d read both suicide notes more times than she could count, and as a result she could essentially recite them by heart, though a summary could do.
Her mother’s: “I‘ve been suicidal for most of my life, and the post-partum depression from you didn‘t help any, but don‘t think it was your fault. This has existed in my mind for a long time and planning it wasn‘t easy. The best time was chosen for when you were an adult, any time after eighteen, but I couldn‘t wait any longer than your birthday. I‘m sorry and I love you.”
Her father’s: “I‘d known your mother was suicidal but never did I think I‘d find her on the floor. I thought there was time to help her but apparently not. She loved you and I loved you.”
Disgusted with their abandonment, Sarah downed the remainder of the vodka and shakily stood up to lie on her bed. She began to reminisce about her life before while From Under the Cork Tree shifted to Infinity On High. Her parents, wealthy from being corporate heads of a well-known fashion company, showered their daughter in every want she had in the world her whole life, from electronics to music to expensive interests to Europe trips, and in return they received unconditional love, respect, and maturity. Sarah, never less than a straight-A student with a musical flair, centered her life on not only honoring her parents’ wishes but also fulfilling herself; fulfilling herself even went as far as never once having a boyfriend.
However, a compromise for her future came when the time to apply for colleges began. She knew beyond doubt that not going was out of the question, but as a musician she wanted to skip the theatrics of being taught and go out on her own. Rather than upset her adoring parents, Sarah applied to Julliard and the Eastman School of Music, both the top schools in the country for music; with her perfect grades and profound musical ability, she was admitted into both following the live auditions. Soon, she sent her letter of acceptance to Julliard, as it was in New York City. Sarah lived in the wine country areas of California and was starved for city life. She was overjoyed to be leaving home and going out to live her life. Of course, three months from freshman move-in day was her eighteenth birthday.
Immediately after finding her parents, Sarah dialed 911; they were confirmed dead within the hour and taken to a funeral home, and a cleaning crew removed the large pool of blood left from her father. To Sarah, the next couple days were a blur of publicity reports, mourning family friends, and a haze of final plans for the two of them. It was their wish to be cremated and have their ashes forever together in a gorgeously elaborate urn to be left in Sarah’s care, after a ridiculously large funeral service of course.
The day of the funeral, at least a hundred people filled Sarah’s home, all dressed to the nines in black. Sarah herself sported an understated black cocktail dress from her mother’s closet, as she herself owned no black, with simple black pumps. In a matter of hours, the funeral was over, the people were gone, and her parents were being incinerated to ashes. Just when she thought she was alone, her parents’ lawyer approached her.
“My condolences for your loss,” he began, patting Sarah’s back lightly. “I understand that this is a very tough time for you.” She could only nod in response, seeing that she hadn’t made a sound in days. At least, not since the 911 call. He sat across from her in the living room and laid out a sheet of notarized paper in front of her. “I understand you may want some time to yourself to digest what I’m about to tell you so I’ll make this meeting brief.” He pointed to the paper. “This is your parents’ will, Sarah. This document is what they want done concerning their companies, their estates, their finances, and you.” Sarah always hated the way he talked down to her, but on this occasion his mentioning her piqued her interest in the conversation.
“Now, what they’d wanted concerning you was to give you to your godmother in Chicago, but seeing as you’re legally an adult, that doesn’t matter.” Tears brimmed the corners of her eyes in sadness and anger as the lawyer continued reading. She didn’t know the woman listed as her godmother, let alone that she even had a godmother. Her parents intended for her to live with a total stranger? “Basically, they left all of their personal estates and finances to you, Sarah. This house, their bank accounts,” he paused to catch his place, “the vacation house in France, their cars. Everything that was theirs is now yours.”
Sarah tuned out the rest of the conversation, catching phrases about their plans for who would succeed the business and how there were people interested in their homes and such and how she could call him with any questions and that details about what she was given by her parents was outlined in the will. He left both the will and his business card on the table in front of them as he showed himself out.
The first day completely alone, Sarah either slept or simply laid around in bed; the second, she moved herself and a blanket into the connecting family room and kitchen and ate for the first time since finding her parents, stuffing herself sick. The third day, however, she surrounded herself with alcohol, locked herself in her bedroom, and blasted the entire Fall Out Boy discography from the speakers.
Sarah had started drinking about mid-day, turned on music at two, and by around seven that night Folie A Deux was playing while she, intoxicated beyond all possible belief, daydreamed and thought about what she should do with her life. With her parents dead, she didn’t have to go to Julliard. She didn’t have to listen to what her parents wanted for her while they were alive. Now Sarah was on her own, and for the first time in a week she smiled. She knew what she had to do.
By the following morning, Sarah’s head was in a toilet as she emptied all the vodka from her system, and when she was done, she mustered all the strength she had to undress herself and take a shower; it was the first shower she’d had since the funeral. As the warm, welcoming water encompassed her body, she took extra time to deeply shampoo and condition her hair, to closely shave her legs, and to scrub every inch of her body.
A half hour later, she brushed her teeth, plucked her eyebrows, and wrapped herself in her favorite robe. She picked out her favorite outfit, underwear and jewelry and all, and laid it over her bed. She then dressed herself, put on her make-up, and styled her hair. She made her bed. She cleaned up her room. Then she went downstairs.
Sarah grabbed a phone and dialed the lawyer’s number and copied her godmother’s address and phone number from the will into her iPhone. By noon, he came over and reread the will to her. Then she spoke.
“I don’t want any of this,” she said, surprised at her own voice. She hadn’t heard it in a week, but in that time it already sounded different: more distinct, more profound. Older, definitely.
“Excuse me?” He asked.
“I don’t want this. This isn’t my life. It was theirs, and they’re gone.” He nodded his head.
“And what would you like me to do?” Sarah smiled again.
“Tell the buyers they can have the houses and everything in them. Donate that money to charity.” The lawyer took notes.
“What if they don’t want what’s inside the house?”
“Auction it off and donate the money. Anything that means something to me will leave with me, and after that it’s up to you or the buyers or whoever.” He nodded in response again, and Sarah gave him a list of the charities she believed in, adding that they should receive equal money.
“And what of their bank accounts, Sarah?”
“Transfer them into mine. I can handle it from there.” As he stood, she discussed the urn. “I don’t want that urn either. Could you have their ashes made into a ring?” He nodded once again. They shook hands, and he told her he’d be in touch to handle all of the final arrangements. After he was gone, Sarah jogged back upstairs to her room and started putting things aside and evaluated her worldly things.
The closet, she decided, was first. In the end, of her hundreds of expensive and preppy outfits, only a few band t-shirts and a pair of shorts made it out with her; the rest of the wardrobe was for Salvation Army. She could buy new clothes later. She kept her entire CD and vinyl collection, her Macbook with all of her recorded music and written lyrics, her stereo, and her acoustic guitar plus accessories. She moved into her “studio” of sorts where she decided to keep everything: the piano, the keyboard, the amps and cords, the Gretsch Corvette guitar with its case and strap, the microphones and stands, and the recording equipment. She decided to skip every other room in the house, knowing nothing in any of them meant something to her, until she reached her parents’ room.
Sarah paused, taking a moment before slowly opening the door. The maid had as always turned down the bed, with perfectly arranged pillows atop it. Where their outfits for the day usually were laid the clothes they had had on for their funeral: her father’s favorite suit and her mother’s favorite hosting dress. As she was about to lose her composure, she regained it and continued into her mother’s closet. Sarah ignored everything, brought out the step-ladder, and used it to locate a lonely box in the far corner; inside was her mother’s wedding dress. Although old, Sarah had always loved it and intended on perhaps one day wearing it for her own wedding. She carried the box down with her and went to her parents’ dresser, going straight to the jewelry drawer; aside from what she had been told were family heirlooms and her personal favorites of her mother’s, she left the rest. On her way out, Sarah’s eye caught a glisten of the wedding rings on top of the dresser, but she left anyway. Throughout their twenty years of marriage, they updated their wedding rings every year to go with the times, and Sarah knew they never kept the originals. On the way out, she made a mental note to save all of the pictures in frames and the photo albums.
Sarah went back to her room, pulled out her suitcases, and started packing everything she had up, as she’d decided to stay at a hotel until the house sold. The underwear, clothes, jewelry, and all of her essentials fit nicely into her small suitcase, and she packed the wedding dress box inside of a different box. In her large purse, she fit her electronics and chargers alongside her wallet and normal purse potpourri. As for her music collection, stereo, instruments, studio equipment, and all the photos, she quickly made arrangements for them to be put into a small storage unit until she had the space for them; she kept her acoustic with her.
In the next month, Sarah moved into a Homewood Suites fairly close to her old home. She’d called Julliard and, despite the desperate acts of administration to keep her, dropped out. She’d received a call from the crematory regarding the ring of her parents’ ashes; she decided on a white gold band-style, with the ashes tinted green, their favorite color, made into half-karat diamonds all across the top of the ring. Her parents’ lawyer met with her over lunch, explaining how the property went quickly and that the auctions over her parents’ remaining possessions were successful, so successful that all of her charities received at least eight figures each.
“And what of the bank accounts?” Sarah asked. She wasn’t money-hungry, only waiting for this last bit of information before she could start her life somewhere else. He chuckled.
“The transfer went through fine.” He passed her a couple of papers from the bank, and Sarah’s eyes widened: 500 million dollars. “Your parents wanted you to be able to support yourself on your own, I presume?” Unable to respond, Sarah shook the lawyer’s hand for the last time, paid for her lunch, and walked out. Upon arriving back to her hotel, she made a much anticipated phone call to her godmother; the phone rang maybe three times.
“This is Patricia,” the woman answered. She sounded cheery and up-beat, much to Sarah’s surprise. She gulped.
“Yes, hi Patricia, my name is Sarah.” She paused briefly. “I believe you’re my godmother?” The woman on the other line sighed, and the conversation’s tone immediately shifted.
“They’re dead, aren’t they?”
“Yes. I don’t know how close you were to my parents, since I never heard of you until they died, but I’m sorry.”
“Oh no, sweetie, I’m sorry for you! They may have been my best friends, but those were your parents.” Sarah couldn’t even respond to that. How could she not have known her parents’ closest friend her entire life? “Listen Sarah, I’m sure you have a lot of questions, and I hate to be insensitive, but I have to go. Why don’t you come to Chicago? Does that sound like a good idea?”
“Uh, yeah, sure, okay, I guess.” Confused, Sarah made a quick good-bye and stared at her phone. They’d barely been talking for three minutes and this woman, whoever she was, basically treated Sarah like family. Weird.
Antsy to leave her old life, Sarah swiftly pulled up some information on Chicago: city of commerce, modern architecture, standard city crime rate, and an incredible amount of musical culture. She grinned and booked a plane ticket for the following morning; within another week, she was moved into her very own Chicago apartment.
Before forever leaving California, however, Sarah took one last look at herself in her hotel room’s full-length mirror. She was dressed in her favorite outfit: gray skinny jeans that her parents never approved of, black flip-flops, a couple silver rings, the ring with her parents’ ashes, and a white button-down shirt with a black cami underneath. She’d ditched the French mani-pedi weeks ago in favor of just natural nails so they’d be easier to maintain. Her long, formerly honey blonde hair was dyed back to its natural chestnut brown and stuffed with products so it wouldn’t lose its natural wave and bounce that she’d straightened out for years. Her deep blue eyes stared back from their reflection, accentuated with black mascara and eyeliner. You can do this, they seemed to be saying. You can totally do this.
Sarah, now in Chicago, set up her stereo and for the first time turned on the radio, and playing from it was a very familiar voice.
“This city, is my city, and I love it, yeah I love it. I was born and raised here, I got it made here, and if I have my way I’m gonna stay here for life…”
Let‘s play this game, called ‘when you catch fire.’ I wouldn‘t piss to put you out. Stop burning bridges and drive off of them so I can forget about you. So bury me, in memory. His smile‘s your rope. So wrap it tight around your throat.”
Sarah stole another swig from the bottle of vodka and fell back against the pale wood floor, staring at the ceiling. Previously unopened, the bottle was half empty, and she still didn’t feel any better. It was barely a week after Sarah’s eighteenth birthday, and the present her parents gave her turned out to be finding her mother overdosed on pills in the kitchen and her father bled out over the living room from a gunshot to the head. Her favorite band continued to play over the speakers.
Rather than think about the tragedy in her life, rather than reread the suicide notes and will her parents left her, she preferred to internally debate the transformation of Fall Out Boy. “Tell That Mick” and the rest of Take This To Your Grave expressed the youth of the band, as did From Under the Cork Tree but with a degree of maturity in the music’s composition. Then came Infinity On High, where maturity had definitely set in though with it came a more sexual nature. Finally, Folie A Deux, which seemed like disconnected insanity from the other albums, when in-LP it flowed together perfectly. Then they broke up, and she hadn’t kept tabs on them. She didn’t know their names, only their faces, seeing that she didn’t want to become some obsessive fan-girl. Sarah respected and enjoyed the music, and she saw no need in having to know everything about the band members.
Somehow amidst her thoughts, her chronological playlist had shifted from the beginning of Take This To Your Grave to the middle of From Under the Cork Tree. It reminded Sarah of how quickly time can pass a person, of how much time people truly had to live, and it told her to appreciate whatever life she had to look forward to. She silenced it with more gulps of vodka.
In the days prior, she’d read both suicide notes more times than she could count, and as a result she could essentially recite them by heart, though a summary could do.
Her mother’s: “I‘ve been suicidal for most of my life, and the post-partum depression from you didn‘t help any, but don‘t think it was your fault. This has existed in my mind for a long time and planning it wasn‘t easy. The best time was chosen for when you were an adult, any time after eighteen, but I couldn‘t wait any longer than your birthday. I‘m sorry and I love you.”
Her father’s: “I‘d known your mother was suicidal but never did I think I‘d find her on the floor. I thought there was time to help her but apparently not. She loved you and I loved you.”
Disgusted with their abandonment, Sarah downed the remainder of the vodka and shakily stood up to lie on her bed. She began to reminisce about her life before while From Under the Cork Tree shifted to Infinity On High. Her parents, wealthy from being corporate heads of a well-known fashion company, showered their daughter in every want she had in the world her whole life, from electronics to music to expensive interests to Europe trips, and in return they received unconditional love, respect, and maturity. Sarah, never less than a straight-A student with a musical flair, centered her life on not only honoring her parents’ wishes but also fulfilling herself; fulfilling herself even went as far as never once having a boyfriend.
However, a compromise for her future came when the time to apply for colleges began. She knew beyond doubt that not going was out of the question, but as a musician she wanted to skip the theatrics of being taught and go out on her own. Rather than upset her adoring parents, Sarah applied to Julliard and the Eastman School of Music, both the top schools in the country for music; with her perfect grades and profound musical ability, she was admitted into both following the live auditions. Soon, she sent her letter of acceptance to Julliard, as it was in New York City. Sarah lived in the wine country areas of California and was starved for city life. She was overjoyed to be leaving home and going out to live her life. Of course, three months from freshman move-in day was her eighteenth birthday.
Immediately after finding her parents, Sarah dialed 911; they were confirmed dead within the hour and taken to a funeral home, and a cleaning crew removed the large pool of blood left from her father. To Sarah, the next couple days were a blur of publicity reports, mourning family friends, and a haze of final plans for the two of them. It was their wish to be cremated and have their ashes forever together in a gorgeously elaborate urn to be left in Sarah’s care, after a ridiculously large funeral service of course.
The day of the funeral, at least a hundred people filled Sarah’s home, all dressed to the nines in black. Sarah herself sported an understated black cocktail dress from her mother’s closet, as she herself owned no black, with simple black pumps. In a matter of hours, the funeral was over, the people were gone, and her parents were being incinerated to ashes. Just when she thought she was alone, her parents’ lawyer approached her.
“My condolences for your loss,” he began, patting Sarah’s back lightly. “I understand that this is a very tough time for you.” She could only nod in response, seeing that she hadn’t made a sound in days. At least, not since the 911 call. He sat across from her in the living room and laid out a sheet of notarized paper in front of her. “I understand you may want some time to yourself to digest what I’m about to tell you so I’ll make this meeting brief.” He pointed to the paper. “This is your parents’ will, Sarah. This document is what they want done concerning their companies, their estates, their finances, and you.” Sarah always hated the way he talked down to her, but on this occasion his mentioning her piqued her interest in the conversation.
“Now, what they’d wanted concerning you was to give you to your godmother in Chicago, but seeing as you’re legally an adult, that doesn’t matter.” Tears brimmed the corners of her eyes in sadness and anger as the lawyer continued reading. She didn’t know the woman listed as her godmother, let alone that she even had a godmother. Her parents intended for her to live with a total stranger? “Basically, they left all of their personal estates and finances to you, Sarah. This house, their bank accounts,” he paused to catch his place, “the vacation house in France, their cars. Everything that was theirs is now yours.”
Sarah tuned out the rest of the conversation, catching phrases about their plans for who would succeed the business and how there were people interested in their homes and such and how she could call him with any questions and that details about what she was given by her parents was outlined in the will. He left both the will and his business card on the table in front of them as he showed himself out.
The first day completely alone, Sarah either slept or simply laid around in bed; the second, she moved herself and a blanket into the connecting family room and kitchen and ate for the first time since finding her parents, stuffing herself sick. The third day, however, she surrounded herself with alcohol, locked herself in her bedroom, and blasted the entire Fall Out Boy discography from the speakers.
Sarah had started drinking about mid-day, turned on music at two, and by around seven that night Folie A Deux was playing while she, intoxicated beyond all possible belief, daydreamed and thought about what she should do with her life. With her parents dead, she didn’t have to go to Julliard. She didn’t have to listen to what her parents wanted for her while they were alive. Now Sarah was on her own, and for the first time in a week she smiled. She knew what she had to do.
By the following morning, Sarah’s head was in a toilet as she emptied all the vodka from her system, and when she was done, she mustered all the strength she had to undress herself and take a shower; it was the first shower she’d had since the funeral. As the warm, welcoming water encompassed her body, she took extra time to deeply shampoo and condition her hair, to closely shave her legs, and to scrub every inch of her body.
A half hour later, she brushed her teeth, plucked her eyebrows, and wrapped herself in her favorite robe. She picked out her favorite outfit, underwear and jewelry and all, and laid it over her bed. She then dressed herself, put on her make-up, and styled her hair. She made her bed. She cleaned up her room. Then she went downstairs.
Sarah grabbed a phone and dialed the lawyer’s number and copied her godmother’s address and phone number from the will into her iPhone. By noon, he came over and reread the will to her. Then she spoke.
“I don’t want any of this,” she said, surprised at her own voice. She hadn’t heard it in a week, but in that time it already sounded different: more distinct, more profound. Older, definitely.
“Excuse me?” He asked.
“I don’t want this. This isn’t my life. It was theirs, and they’re gone.” He nodded his head.
“And what would you like me to do?” Sarah smiled again.
“Tell the buyers they can have the houses and everything in them. Donate that money to charity.” The lawyer took notes.
“What if they don’t want what’s inside the house?”
“Auction it off and donate the money. Anything that means something to me will leave with me, and after that it’s up to you or the buyers or whoever.” He nodded in response again, and Sarah gave him a list of the charities she believed in, adding that they should receive equal money.
“And what of their bank accounts, Sarah?”
“Transfer them into mine. I can handle it from there.” As he stood, she discussed the urn. “I don’t want that urn either. Could you have their ashes made into a ring?” He nodded once again. They shook hands, and he told her he’d be in touch to handle all of the final arrangements. After he was gone, Sarah jogged back upstairs to her room and started putting things aside and evaluated her worldly things.
The closet, she decided, was first. In the end, of her hundreds of expensive and preppy outfits, only a few band t-shirts and a pair of shorts made it out with her; the rest of the wardrobe was for Salvation Army. She could buy new clothes later. She kept her entire CD and vinyl collection, her Macbook with all of her recorded music and written lyrics, her stereo, and her acoustic guitar plus accessories. She moved into her “studio” of sorts where she decided to keep everything: the piano, the keyboard, the amps and cords, the Gretsch Corvette guitar with its case and strap, the microphones and stands, and the recording equipment. She decided to skip every other room in the house, knowing nothing in any of them meant something to her, until she reached her parents’ room.
Sarah paused, taking a moment before slowly opening the door. The maid had as always turned down the bed, with perfectly arranged pillows atop it. Where their outfits for the day usually were laid the clothes they had had on for their funeral: her father’s favorite suit and her mother’s favorite hosting dress. As she was about to lose her composure, she regained it and continued into her mother’s closet. Sarah ignored everything, brought out the step-ladder, and used it to locate a lonely box in the far corner; inside was her mother’s wedding dress. Although old, Sarah had always loved it and intended on perhaps one day wearing it for her own wedding. She carried the box down with her and went to her parents’ dresser, going straight to the jewelry drawer; aside from what she had been told were family heirlooms and her personal favorites of her mother’s, she left the rest. On her way out, Sarah’s eye caught a glisten of the wedding rings on top of the dresser, but she left anyway. Throughout their twenty years of marriage, they updated their wedding rings every year to go with the times, and Sarah knew they never kept the originals. On the way out, she made a mental note to save all of the pictures in frames and the photo albums.
Sarah went back to her room, pulled out her suitcases, and started packing everything she had up, as she’d decided to stay at a hotel until the house sold. The underwear, clothes, jewelry, and all of her essentials fit nicely into her small suitcase, and she packed the wedding dress box inside of a different box. In her large purse, she fit her electronics and chargers alongside her wallet and normal purse potpourri. As for her music collection, stereo, instruments, studio equipment, and all the photos, she quickly made arrangements for them to be put into a small storage unit until she had the space for them; she kept her acoustic with her.
In the next month, Sarah moved into a Homewood Suites fairly close to her old home. She’d called Julliard and, despite the desperate acts of administration to keep her, dropped out. She’d received a call from the crematory regarding the ring of her parents’ ashes; she decided on a white gold band-style, with the ashes tinted green, their favorite color, made into half-karat diamonds all across the top of the ring. Her parents’ lawyer met with her over lunch, explaining how the property went quickly and that the auctions over her parents’ remaining possessions were successful, so successful that all of her charities received at least eight figures each.
“And what of the bank accounts?” Sarah asked. She wasn’t money-hungry, only waiting for this last bit of information before she could start her life somewhere else. He chuckled.
“The transfer went through fine.” He passed her a couple of papers from the bank, and Sarah’s eyes widened: 500 million dollars. “Your parents wanted you to be able to support yourself on your own, I presume?” Unable to respond, Sarah shook the lawyer’s hand for the last time, paid for her lunch, and walked out. Upon arriving back to her hotel, she made a much anticipated phone call to her godmother; the phone rang maybe three times.
“This is Patricia,” the woman answered. She sounded cheery and up-beat, much to Sarah’s surprise. She gulped.
“Yes, hi Patricia, my name is Sarah.” She paused briefly. “I believe you’re my godmother?” The woman on the other line sighed, and the conversation’s tone immediately shifted.
“They’re dead, aren’t they?”
“Yes. I don’t know how close you were to my parents, since I never heard of you until they died, but I’m sorry.”
“Oh no, sweetie, I’m sorry for you! They may have been my best friends, but those were your parents.” Sarah couldn’t even respond to that. How could she not have known her parents’ closest friend her entire life? “Listen Sarah, I’m sure you have a lot of questions, and I hate to be insensitive, but I have to go. Why don’t you come to Chicago? Does that sound like a good idea?”
“Uh, yeah, sure, okay, I guess.” Confused, Sarah made a quick good-bye and stared at her phone. They’d barely been talking for three minutes and this woman, whoever she was, basically treated Sarah like family. Weird.
Antsy to leave her old life, Sarah swiftly pulled up some information on Chicago: city of commerce, modern architecture, standard city crime rate, and an incredible amount of musical culture. She grinned and booked a plane ticket for the following morning; within another week, she was moved into her very own Chicago apartment.
Before forever leaving California, however, Sarah took one last look at herself in her hotel room’s full-length mirror. She was dressed in her favorite outfit: gray skinny jeans that her parents never approved of, black flip-flops, a couple silver rings, the ring with her parents’ ashes, and a white button-down shirt with a black cami underneath. She’d ditched the French mani-pedi weeks ago in favor of just natural nails so they’d be easier to maintain. Her long, formerly honey blonde hair was dyed back to its natural chestnut brown and stuffed with products so it wouldn’t lose its natural wave and bounce that she’d straightened out for years. Her deep blue eyes stared back from their reflection, accentuated with black mascara and eyeliner. You can do this, they seemed to be saying. You can totally do this.
Sarah, now in Chicago, set up her stereo and for the first time turned on the radio, and playing from it was a very familiar voice.
“This city, is my city, and I love it, yeah I love it. I was born and raised here, I got it made here, and if I have my way I’m gonna stay here for life…”
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