The Fine Line Between Truth and Fiction

Life is Full of Choices

"They're sold out."

The voice repeated this statement several more times with no reaction. Just a set of dull, blue eye staring blankly at the computer screen. On the screen was a glaring image of a yellow sign with the words 'sold out' written across them. The words were so large that one could even call them taunting.

"Reilly? Hello? Did you hear what I just said?"

"They...they can't be sold out!" a woman, well more like a girl, cried out. She clenched her fists and stormed from the computer in a rage. With her back to the screen and her friend, she put one hand on her hip and combed the other through her short, brown hair that fell just below her chin. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm her seething insides.

"Oh, come on, Reilly. You don't need to get all butt hurt. They go on tour all the time. We'll just have to plan ahead and see them some other night," the other girl said as she exited the current page on the computer. Her appearance was much different from that of her friend's. Her wavy hair was much longer, reaching down past her shoulders around her mid-back, and was chestnut in color. Her eyes were brown and resembled a deer's in the sense that they were large with thick, long eyelashes jutting around them in all different directions. Her milky white skin was littered with hundred of light freckles that only added to her 'girl-next-door' persona.

"Se-see them another night? See them another night! Dakota, this is our only night! Do you really think Sultan Seven is going to be playing down here in hickeville again? Huh? Do you?" the girl with the dirt brown bob burst, also known as Reilly. She heaved in frustration and threw herself on the nearest sofa.

There was nothing more she could do. Reilly had missed her chance to see the greatest band in the history of, well, history due to a little devil known as 'procrastination'. She was guilty of associating herself with this vile fiend from as far back as she could remember. Whether it was school projects or family matters, the saying 'I'll do it tomorrow' always seemed to escape her lips. Now, it had finally caught up to bite her in the rear. Reilly let out another grunt and turned on the TV.

"I can't believe this is happening to me. This....this has got to be the worst day of my life," Reilly wailed before burying her face into a pillow. Tears began to form behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She refused to cry at all actually. A trait that had been implanted to her by her father, a nice man, but one of little words and emotions. His gruff exterior and curt manner of speech had rubbed off on his daughter and caused her to become equally heartless, but not as tight-lipped.

"Reilly, I know you're all...sad...and everything, but...well, if it makes you feel better, this is all happening to me, too," Dakota turned the rotating chair around to give the gloomy figure on her sofa a warm smile. Reilly poked her head up just enough to give her an irritated scowl.

Dakota was a good-natured, generous and kind young woman that was liked throughout the community. Reilly couldn't stand her.

"Wow, Dakota. I can just feel the despair and regret disappear at your reassuring words," Reilly proclaimed in obvious sarcasm. Dakota's grin did not falter.

"Maybe we can go to, oh, I don't know, like the Hub, you know, get ourselves a couple pizzas and watch Sultan Seven from there," Dakota suggested. Reilly sprung herself from the sofa and sat upright, sending a defying glare towards her friend.

"No. No, no, no, no, no! I-I refuse to watch them from a crappy little TV screen in a crappy little sports bar when they are playing literally less than two miles from my house. It doesn't make any sense! Why should I settle for a cheap imitation when the real thing is just within my grasp? Under what circumstances would that ever be logical?"

"How about when you have no other choice?" Dakota suggested curtly.

"There's always choices, Dakota. Everyone always has a choice."

"Not when you wait till the last minute to even think about buying a ticket," Dakota said before turning off the computer and joining Reilly on the sofa. She took the remote from the floor and started flipping through the channels.

"Hey! I did not wait till the last minute to buy a ticket. I just....I just....-" Reilly's train of thought was put on hold with a local news report.

"Hello, Cheshire County! It's me, Harvey Shane, coming at you live from the Albany Theater. Here with me is everyone's favorite rocker: Moss Chet!" yelled the reporter over the hysteria of screaming fans. He looked out of place in his button down shirt covered by his cheap, black windbreaker. His come-over was taking the beating of the winds as were his glasses that were now only covering one eye.

"It's good to be here, man," hummed the dirty man to his left. His black, unkempt hair hid one eye, revealing the other one to be covered in piercings. He wore a typical outfit that one could find at Goodwill: a jean jacket with too many holes to provide any sort of protection, black cargo pants that sagged behind his rear, a faded tee with the words 'REAL BEAR HUGS ARE OFTEN FATAL' plastered on with red writing, and a pair of converse that were once white, but now resembled the color of old potato salad. Oh, yes. This man was a dreamboat.

"So, uh, Mr. Chet, is it true that you and the other bands members are going to be outside of the theater to sign autographs an hour before the show?" the reporter asked. Moss did a hair flip and gave the awkward man a smile.

"Oh, yea, man. That's right."

"Wow, I must say, Mr. Chet, that must mean a lot to all your adoring fans here tonight," Harry-or-whatever said as the camera showed the immense crowd held behind skinny, iron gates.

"Oh, you bet, man. Everything's about the fans. Everything. I mean, just the oth-" Moss's touchy speech was interrupted by another band member, this one a little more sanitary, came into the screen.

"Oh, well, if it isn't the band's drummer, Kian Shad! Mr. Shad, do you have something you'd like to say to all your admirers out there?" Kian, who was sporting a dark brown beehive this evening, looked at Moss and then furiously shook his head. He took the mike from the reporter's hand and held it up to his lips.

"Yea, I just have to say, you know, uh, well," Kian was unable to force complete and coherent sentences.

"It's okay, man. Let it out," Moss said as he patted his back. Kian gave Moss a quick look and then shook his head again.

"Uh, yea, well, as I was saying, you know, we say a lot of stuff. Stuff like 'we hate you' or 'go die', you know, stuff like that and I just wanna say-"

"We mean it," Moss interrupted. The reporter's face became pale.

"Yea, like, we honestly mean it. We wouldn't be saying those things if we didn't. I mean, where do you think our heartfelt lyrics come from? Our as-?" Kian was cut off as soon as Harold-something grabbed the microphone.

"Th-th-thank you, boys, and we will be sure to get another interview after the show," the baffled reporter stuttered as the two band members were shooed from the camera. The crowd continued to go wild even after hearing what their band had just confessed. That just went to show the true dedication of Sultan Seven fans. Even after being told to go die by the lead singer and drummer themselves, they still had the tenacity and passion to chant their names and belch their songs.

"I still don't know why we like them," Dakota said. Reilly hadn't heard her, nor had she heard the death threats from Moss and Kian. No, she was still thinking about...

"That's it."

"What's it?" Dakota asked.

"That's how we're going to see them! We're going to sneak into the show while everyone is out getting their autographs!"

Dakota sighed and shook her head. She also didn't know why she liked Reilly.