Seaside Pictures Series Book 2
Author
Rachel Van Dyken
Reads
79,7K
Chapters
48
Prologue
Zane
My palms slid against the guitar, slick with sweat. I tried to wipe them across my jeans, but it was no use. The noise was deafening. I had to remind myself why I was up there. “Saint! Saint! Saint!” Stomping ensued while I knelt down and made the sign of a cross in the air in front of me. “We want Saint! We want Saint!” With a muffled curse, I stood, then reached into my tight jeans to pull out a smashed marshmallow.
I popped it in my mouth and closed my eyes, allowing myself to be transported back to a simpler time, a time when things were easy, when decisions weren’t all on me. When life was about making mud pies and carrying around miniature marshmallows in a measuring cup.
“You don’t have to save the world,” she whispered. “You know that, right?”
“Right.” I furrowed my brow. “But why is it wrong to try?”
“Oh, Zane,” My grandma leaned down to eye level. “Just because your parents were taken from you, doesn’t make it your job to make sure everyone and everything is safe from the bad in the world.”
My frown deepened as she walked off, my two little sisters skipping after her. I was the man of the house. It was my responsibility to take care of the girls, especially Grandma, with no other family but her. That was my job. My papa told me so on my last birthday when I turned six; he said I was a man.
And it was time to be that man.
I quickly ran into my room and started making a list of how I could help. I didn’t want Grandma to lose the house, but how could she keep it if she wasn’t working? I never saw her leave for work, and we used those funny coupon things in line at the store, and sometimes, I had to bring stuff back because we couldn’t afford it.
With determination, I sat at my desk and started writing out my list:
1. Make enough money so Grandma isn’t hungry. Because sometimes she gives me her extra meatloaf. I hate meatloaf.
2. Be famous, so I make money.
3. Make sure Grandma keeps her house.
I thought a little harder, shoving the end of the pen into my mouth. What else? With a grin, I wrote out the last number. Tears ran down my face at the memories, but I wrote it anyway.
4. Never, ever run out of marshmallows again.
I took the stage two stairs at a time, hands still shaking, body still trembling with anxiety, and grabbed the mic stand, sliding it in front of me. I gave a smug grin to the waiting crowd as I strummed out the first two notes. The lights dimmed, as the audience cheered, and then I held one finger to my lips as I motioned for them to be quiet.
The entire stadium went silent.
“I’m Saint…” I chuckled. “Are you ready to be saved?”
