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Punishment by Pop Star: The Joint Effort CHAPTER 7

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"Bieber!" I call, banging on his door. "Vocal lesson in five, let's go!"

I'd given him a 10-minute warning already but he still isn't out of his room. No one's seen him since the brawl over the newscast. Some of the crew tried to talk to him, but it was no use. I'm the only one still attempting to interact with him now. I'm not afraid of the temperamental little twerp, and I have a "job" to do.

Another five minutes pass, so it's back off to his door with a sigh. "Come on, Drew!" I smack the wood once more and make fun of Bieber's middle name. "Enough messing around!"

Still no answer. Maybe he's asleep. I try the doorknob and open the door, peeking my head in. Yep—lying on the bed curled up and facing the other way. I go all the way inside, prepared to shake him forcefully 'til he wakes up. However, the door ends up closing behind me. It makes a fairly loud sound and causes Bieber to jump. Oh, so he's been awake all this time and was just ignoring me. Well too bad because he has to—

"Who s-said you could come in here?!" Bieber half-yells, but before I can put him in his place for taking his anger out on me I notice his teary eyes and red face. For a split-second I'm a little surprised and unsure what to think or do, but Bieber steps right in by turning away and trying to hide the fact that he's been crying. "Get out!"

Well golly gee I'd love to, but I'm bound here by the infamous contract, which is now even more infamous. "I've been trying to get you to get ready for your lesson for the past—"

"Screw it!" Bieber screams. "Screw you! Screw EVERYONE!"

I'm about to strangle him when he can't hold back the rest of his emotion anymore and bursts into tears. Right in front of me. He certainly didn't mean to and seems humiliated—which means I should take pictures to look back on and amuse myself with when this whole big mess is over. But my enjoyment fades as soon as it begins and I suddenly hate my soft heart more than I already do.

Believe it or not, I'm actually a good person filled with empathy, a capacity to care deeply, and a compelling desire to help others. I want to become a therapist someday so that people will always have someone to turn to and won't have to suffer in pain, darkness, and confusion alone. That's the part of me that's starting to push through to the surface in Bieber's room. My head's telling me that's my mortal enemy sitting on the bed with his hood pulled down over his face...but my cursed compassionate heart suddenly makes me see a PERSON. Not only that, but a person in pain.

Bieber's sobbing and he sniffs another "Get out," but it lacks any anger or effectiveness. Before I realize what I'm doing, I find myself intuitively sitting on the foot of his bed. I don't say anything. I just wait patiently for him to come to me when he wants more than just my mere presence to comfort him.

After a few minutes the gap between Bieber and I closes significantly and his head is practically on my shoulder as he continues crying, now into me. Geez, I've never seen him like this before. It's almost scary. Almost. I don't think he's even aware of what's happening around him, but I guess I'm wrong when he starts talking.

"It's not fair," Bieber sniffs. I just listen. "No one gets it. There's so much pressure! I can't handle it all!" Bieber clutches his head on both sides and starts shaking. It's not from him crying. I'd know this behavior anywhere—he's having a panic attack. My hand rubs his back, coaxing him to try to breathe the best he can.

"I can't d-do this!" he sobs.

"Yes you can," I hear myself say soothingly.

Bieber slowly brings himself down to a tremble, and then continues, "Everyone thinks my life is so perfect but it's not! Yeah I'm loaded but I still don't have everything! Money and fame isn't gonna—" He stops, like he's working up the nerve to say it. "Just because I'm surrounded by all these people doesn't mean I'm not—"

(Lonely.)

I give a gentle nod to tell him he can go on if he wants to. He doesn't though. He sniffs and wipes some more tears and goes off on a new tangent.

"Everything I do is wrong. And then if I try to fix it no one believes me and I just get more hate!" Another angry sob. "So what's the point then?! I might as well do whatever the—" Boy he has a mouth like a sailor. "—I want! No one praises me for the good stuff I do, they only criticize me for the bad stuff." He starts calming down, the anxiety that turned to anger now turning to sadness and despair. His voice cracks. "Everyone expects me to be perfect. Well, they used to. Now they just expect me to screw up."

I feel a little twinge.

"Even Scooter's lost faith in me," he says with a mixture of pain and anger. "He treats me like a baby, like I can't do anything. Like I have to be watched!...That's why you're really here."

So that's it. I sigh a little. That explains a lot. But I shift my focus back to Bieber. I try to make sense of the jumbled thoughts he's just tried to express and look at him. "What is it that you really want?"

"...I don't kn-now..." Bieber sniffs again. "I...I guess I want people to believe me. And believe IN m-me."

"And how are they gonna do that when YOU don't believe in you?" I ask.

"Wh-what?"

"It sounds like you've lost hope," I say to him. "Maybe I'm wrong, but what I just heard is that you don't really see a point. You're cracking under pressure put on you by others as well as yourself. You no longer believe you can do better, so you're just throwing everything away." He's looking right at me now. "Do you want my advice?"

Bieber hesitates, but then nods a little.

"You have to shape up," I say firmly. "You have to fight giving in to the pressure and the negatives inside and around you and declare that you're going to be the best you can be. You give your all at your concerts, but you have to start giving your all to yourself, too. I'm not saying it's going to be easy, and I'm not saying you'll never make nor be allowed to make another mistake again. It's what you do when you're faced with an intense situation or after a mistake that's important and makes you who you are. You have to promise yourself you'll try to make it right and do better next time. You have to promise yourself you'll handle a tough time with dignity." I add, "You're telling everyone else to 'believe', but you don't. In my opinion, people are giving up on you because YOU'VE given up on you."

I'm suddenly starting to snap out of it. Did I just give my arch-enemy a heartfelt pep-talk? I start to move from the bed when I hear Bieber softly say, "You're right." I mentally shake my head; I must've imagined it.

The, uh, "moment" we just had lingers for a few seconds more before Bieber realizes what just happened, too. He suddenly becomes awkward and all fake tough-guy again as he turns his face away and wipes the last of his tears. I head for the door.

"Um..."

I turn around a little to Bieber's lowered voice.

"This didn't...happen," he makes sure that I understand. He seems back to "normal."

"Fine by me," I manage to respond.

"I don't cry—"

"Whatever." I put my hand on the doorknob.

"Jess," Bieber blurts out. I stop and turn once more. I know what he wants to say. "...Th—"

"Don't thank me," I cut him off, having returned to my usual hardened way of interacting with him. The way it should be. I narrow my eyes a little, remembering my added responsibility as his "mentor," "I'm merely doing my 'job'." I walk out.
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avataraang1999's avatar
I'm so planning the justica wedding