A/N: Hey, everyone! Thanks for checking out my Diary of A Wimpy Kid fanfiction, "Anarchy Road". I've been working on this one for a while, and I'm so proud to bring you a story that deals with the complications of fame and dishonesty. The characters that I did create are so close to me and so complex in their own way. This story touches on a lot of sensitive subjects that I tried my best to portray, including anorexia, fame, family and relationship dysfunction, and teen addiction. This meant a LOT of research on my part. I understand I am not a perfect writer, so feel free to correct me on sensitive subjects such as these. Still, this story is chockful of real emotions and real issues that I feel needed to be brought to light. Thank you SO much for reading and I thank everyone who has helped me bring this story to life! I do not own all the characters in this story, but several characters and settings are my own creation.
If you're an extra person (like me), I LOVE to listen to music while reading and I like having visuals. So, I've included links to the Anarchy Road Spotify Playlist as well as my Anarchy Road Pinterest board for your enjoyment.
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Thanks again to all my supporters and all the Rodrick lovers out there! Don't forget to comment, follow, like, all the things!
Chapter 1—Jenny Tyler
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My name is not Jenny Tyler. And if it were, this would be a much shorter story with a much nicer ending. I look like Jenny Tyler and I sound like Jenny Tyler. But, she was just an idea, a fantasy, a shortcut. Jenny Tyler is a nice girl who stays home every night listening to Iron & Wine and color-coding her anatomy notes. But, I am not a nice girl.
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I remembered the first time I sang Fleetwood Mac. I was ten years old, and “Rhiannon” had just come on over the radio. It was like sudden electricity I’d never felt before was now coursing through my fingers and toes. The sharp beat hit my body deeply, and my small hips began to rock. And every lyric made sense—every note, every breath. I knew then that I could never do anything else. So in middle school, I joined a band that Freddy Hillmore, the concert band’s drummer, was starting in his parent’s basement. He had a busted-up old drum set that his father used to play and an amp from 1987. I took one look at the cluttered, asbestos-filled cement basement and ran the other way. Only a few weeks later when I saw a beautiful mahogany six-string in the window of a pawn shop did I realize what I had to do. I spent all of my birthday money on the guitar and marched back to Freddy’s basement. By this time, high schooler Trevor Grey, who had been playing bass for a few years, joined our numbers. We played every song that Freddy’s dad had on vinyl and got to know bands such as Nirvana, Led Zeppelin, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers very well. When we made it to high school, a very quiet goth girl named Valerie Nichols came to us with an extra guitar. And, without saying it, we felt complete. We became Anarchy Road.
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The same asbestos smell drifted in the air, bringing me back to a time so long ago. I told myself that’s what all public schools smelled like—I shouldn’t be surprised. I wasn’t used to the crowded hallways, the taste of feet in the air particles, and the shrieking loud bells ringing every hour. For the past year and a half, I’d been homeschooled until my parents decided being alone wasn’t good for my mental health anymore. And what wasn’t good for me wasn’t good for the band.
I shuffled down the hallways like I was walking through a bad part of the city—bag clutched tight to my side, body pressed close to the lockers. I wasn’t necessarily a shy person, but this school had already proven itself in more ways than one. Already, I’d passed two couples making out, a meathead cornering a kid in a stairway, and a girl eating gum off of a locker door. The constant buzz of chatter and laughter around me made me even more conscious of the fact that I didn’t belong. And sooner or later, someone would find that out.
I slid past the glass doors of the front office and waited in a short line until I reached two middle-aged women at the front desk.
“Name, honey?” the first blonde one said, smacking gum in her molars.
“Um,” I lowered my voice, “I’m the uh…the special case.”
The woman squinted through her wire-frame glasses. “What?”
“The…celebrity…”
The woman looked over to the brunette next to her and made a face. The brunette looked at me and her face lit up.
“Oh, yes, you’re that new case, aren’t you?” she said with a wide-toothed smile. “We just love having royalty in our schools. You know, many years ago, we had a young man named Mark Bryan here.”
The blonde stared at her, confused.
“You know,” she continued, “Hootie and the Blowfish.”
The blonde woman shook her head and turned back to her computer. “I don’t think that’s right, Margaret.” The woman typed quickly into the computer. “Philadelphia Emmet? Weird name.”
I shifted a bit. “It’s Philly. And, I’d really appreciate it if you’d keep your voice down.”
The woman rolled her eyes and smacked her gum. “Yes, your majesty. Here’s your class list and locker numbers. You’re going by Jenny Tyler?”
“Yeah.”
“Your teachers should know. But, a word of advice—don’t be too surprised if no one in Plainview has heard of you. We’re a good respectable community.”
I gave her a satisfied smile. “Got it. Thanks.”
The brunette woman poked in, “Oh yes, I listened to some of your music. Not really my taste.”
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Walking through crowded school hallways can best be compared to walking through a mosh pit. Anarchy Road had started enough at house parties and concerts over the years. A countless amount of people shoving into each other and living in their own invisible universe. Heads bouncing up and down to music playing through headphones. The smell of sweat and cherry lip gloss. I almost expected to see drugs or flasks.
I consulted my class list again and peered past the moving heads to find my place. I’d practiced my low-profile look for weeks before this day—braiding my thick red hair behind my back, wearing a black beanie, glasses that I didn’t need, and a predictable dark outfit. I’d allowed myself the one luxury of keeping my band tees. I was quite the proud collector back home.
A few feet away from me, a girl with frizzy blond hair collapsed to the hallway floors, spilling her neon notebooks and plush animals to the ground. Next to her, a lanky, messy-haired boy with a Queen tee-shirt was hitting on a tall blonde cheerleader who was obviously repulsed by him. She spun around and strutted away, nearly smacking her ponytail in his face. He stood stunned before running after her like a lost puppy. I caught the eye of a husky broad-shouldered guy with a wide forehead who had to have been on the football team with such a thick skull. He stared intensely at me from across the hallway. I felt my shoulders seize up a bit, and I hoped I wouldn’t get date-raped during my time there. Looking away, I moved with the current of the crowd until I could make it into class.
Not many others had arrived when I got there, just a boy with his head shoved in a copy of “A Brief History of Time” and three students crowding around a cell phone. Wordlessly, I picked a seat close to the door around the center of the room. It wasn’t long before more and more people trickled in, including the Queen guy and the frizzy-haired girl. Lastly, a young-looking Indian man with a brown briefcase and bagel between his teeth crossed through the doorway to the large desk in the corner.
“Si’ down,” he said, muffled through the bagel. The noise and excitement continued just the same. The man set his briefcase down on the desk, pulled the pastry from his teeth, and faced the class. “Now! You, Heffley. Sit down.”
The Queen boy turned away from a group of girls in the back of the class, snidely flipping him off, and returning to the seat behind me. I couldn’t almost immediately hear him propping his boots up on the desk.
“Okay,” the Indian man continued, “First day. Hope you all had a great summer. I vacationed in the Poconos this year if any of you care.”
The group of girls in the corner giggled. I glanced behind me to see the Queen boy winking their way with a close-lipped smile. I couldn’t tell if they were laughing with him or at him. I refused the urge to roll my eyes and turned back around.
“For those who haven’t had me before, my name is Mr. Aerodyke—”
“Dyke!” squalled a male student in the back of the class, causing a short burst of laughter from the class.
“Yes, thank you,” Mr. Aerodyke said, “This is your Earth Science class, which I remind many of you, you need to graduate. Now, I’d like to go over the syllabus. You should each have a copy on your desk if you haven’t already lost it.” Mr. Aerodyke turned to his computer and began pulling up a slideshow.
Suddenly, I felt a harsh tap on my shoulder, but I didn’t make a move.
“Hey,” the Queen boy said, a watchful eye on the teacher, “You got any smokes?”
I pursed my lips and looked down at the syllabus handout left on my desk. “No.”
Queen boy pulled his feet down from his desk and pushed his face closer to my shoulder. “C’mon, I just want one.”
“Smoking kills, you know.”
I could see his smirk from the corner of my eye. “That such a bad thing?” he quipped, leaning back in his seat again. He didn’t talk to me again. And the strange urge I had to shiver crawled down my back slowly.
Mr. Aerodyke continued with his lecture, but I could feel my mind someplace else already. The coldness down my spine began to make my shoulders ache. And I had to force myself not to turn around and see if there was a face next to mine.
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