| The Player Prologue �There is something about Justin Randall Timberlake that I absolutely hate.� �How could you hate someone as cute as Justin?� I groaned. �Work with me here.� I walked down the hallway and into the kitchen. �Plus, Justin is not cute at all� �To you, but to millions of girls around the world�� I sighed. �Whatever. I don�t care what everyone thinks about him. I hate Justin and that�s that.� �Justin who, sweetie?� Mom questioned from the saucepan of steaming mystery dinner that was cooking over the stove. �Timberlake,� Ryan answered for me, walking into the kitchen. He tossed his apple in the air, caught it with one hand, and sunk his teeth in taking a bite that almost got to the core of the seeds. �Why do you hate him?� Mom asked as she walked to the sink and drained the spaghetti. �He�s such a sweet boy.� I was about to answer and explain my hatred of my long time next door neighbor and friend, but Ryan interrupted. �Because, mother,� he imitated with a heavily exaggerated valley girl accent. I rolled my eyes but Mom hadn�t even paid attention so it didn�t matter. I went back to my conversation on the phone. �But seriously, Stace,� Mary continued, �How could you hate someone you�ve been best friends with for like ever?� I hesitated answering her. I met Justin Timberlake a long, long time ago, right before my 11th birthday. My dad had just gotten transferred from our home of Long Beach, California to a city across the country- Orlando, Florida. At the time I had been mad at most of the people in my life. My parents- for making us move and making me leave all my friends. My brother, Ryan, for being so excited about the move and so oblivious of everything we were leaving. My friends- for saying that we would call everyday and write whenever our parents got mad about the phone bill, when really, we all knew that after I got on that plane we would never see each other again. Myself- for accepting the fact that this was all happening. But the person I hated the most was my dad�s boss, Mr. Banks. Mr. Banks was a short stumpy old man with a huge potbelly, a year supply of Cuban cigars, and a toupee that forgot to cover the outer edge of his bald spot. But if he hadn�t decided that my dad was the man for the job, my strangely interesting life in Orlando would have never existed. |