Changing the Script -ON HOLD-

Changing the Script

Do you ever feel like your life is a book? That's how I feel all the time.

It's like everything I do is scripted, every single thing I say or do must be perfect. Because if it's not, it will make the front cover of way too many magazines. And we can't have my dear father upset, could we? No, of course not. Because my father is the Roy Donahue. You know, the world-wide producer.

So I, Olivia Renee Donahue, must be perfect. It's like everything I do must be perfect. Everything about me must be one hundred ten percent perfect. From the way my hair is styled to what shoes I wear, every last detail must be how my daddy - or rather, the press - want it to be. 

You see, I am only fifteen years old. I look like my mother, or so my father says. I have never met my mother, but I know her name is Rebecca. She and my father dated for a while before she got pregnant with her first child, me. My mother gave birth to me on August 19th. And on August 23rd, when we were released from the hospital, she packed up and took off. One minute she was there, and the next, my father was staring blankly at the note she had left. 

He had asked for no one to look for her. He had said that if she wanted to leave, so be it. He let her go, just like that. But sometimes I wonder if he wondered what it would be like if he had gone after her. He says I'm her mirror image - with my natural jet black straight hair and pale blue eyes. I'm about medium height, not too tall, not to short, sort of in the middle. 

My father looks nothing like me, with his blonde hair and brown eyes. He's pretty handsome for being in his forties, to be honest. He's a good guy, but he's not really like a dad, if that makes any sense. Sure, we get along great - when he's home. Which is about five months out of the year. That's normally all of December, July, August and other random months that he takes off work. He always has off on Christmas, my birthday, and the first month of summer.

I'm home schooled, and my teacher also doubles as my nanny. Gail has been around since the day my mother left, she's like my older sister. And then there's Garrett, the closest thing I've got to an older brother. He's my "fashion expert" as he likes to call himself. Garrett is gay, he says he's always been. 

Apart from Garrett and Gail, my father is really my only family. My grandparents only come around when they want something, same for my aunts and uncles and everyone else. I do have one real friend, one who I know is really my friend, not just there for my money. Her name is Cheyenne. She's a total blonde, and I don't just mean her hair color. She's sort of a klutz, which is why Garrett watches her very carefully when she has a drink and is near my clothes. But she's a generally awesome girl. It's really good to know not everyone is there for my money.

And so that brings me to the topic of the ridiculous amount of money my dad drags in every month. Aside from the mansion that is so big we have an elevator that stops on every floor, we have a garage that holds the ten sports cars that I am allowed to chose from to drive around in - with Garrett, of course. I have my permit, so sometimes he takes me out to learn a little bit more about the whole driving thing.

Sometimes, I really hate being rich. You never know who is really your friend or who is just trying to get into your bank account. Sometimes it's pretty cool to have so much money at your fingertips, and other times it's the worst burden in the world. 

Like I said, it's like living by a book of rules. Or maybe it's more like a script.

~*~

"Oh, no, no, no, sweetheart, no." Garret says, rushing up to me. It's around twelve o'clock in the afternoon. Garrett is wearing the usual - a light gray long sleeved,  button-down shirt, with the buttons open at the top, and a pair of fitting jeans.