A/N: These are my ponderings of how wrongly we tend to stereotype people these days. How does anyone ever know what makes a person act/seem the way they are? Does anyone ever stop to realize that they could be so far off it's not even funny? So follows a one-shot for each main character, varying in length. It's all-human.

Rising Star.

She walked onto the court, and several hundred people began to scream her name. The furious chanting burst into an excited roar when the young high schooler laughed, waving to the stands.

Seventeen-year-old Rosalie Hale was adored by tennis players of all ages; in thirty-six different states, and three countries. She picked up a racket at twenty-months-old, and now she was making history.

She took a seat in her chair on the side of the court and tightly tied her shoes. She didn't want to trip and hurt herself, of course! A loose shoe led to tears and breaks.

Her aunt, who was both her coach and her legal guardian, came to stand behind her and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"Are you ready, Rose?" Aunt Sally asked, her voice full of encouragement and hope. "This is the big one."

"It's just another game." She answered, her voice flat with concentration as she looked at her opponent across the court. Her head was entirely focused on simply doing her best today.

No, it made no difference to her that winning this one would make her eligible to attend the Australian Open as a new rookie-professional player.

No, it made no difference that losing today would mean she had to train twice as hard as usual to struggle to the level she was currently at, let's not event talk about advancing.

No, it made no difference at all.

She played for fun, not fame. Win or lose she'd always tried her very best, and gracefully accept the outcome. That was what people loved about her the most.

The whistle sounded through the stadium. The audience started to fall into a near-silent hush. In several short minutes the players would be required to begin. Rosalie watched her opponent choose her racket and then skip to her side of the court.

She glanced questioningly at Rosalie. She was silently asking if they were going to hit warm-up shots. Even professionals did it. Serious players cared more about being ready for the game then the fact that they were getting ready with the person they hoped to win against.

Rosalie smiled and picked up her own racket. Aunt Sally handed her a half-empty water bottle. She reminded, "You need to stay hydrated."

The girl took the water from her, and chugged it down a few seconds later before tossing the bottle aside.

"Make me proud, Rose." Aunt Sally said, as she said before every game. Rosalie just chuckled at her and walked onto the court.

She was relaxed as she started to hit the ball around with her opponent before the game. Even in warm-up she tried to display her skill by never letting the ball escape her, and never hitting the net.

Such a serious player! It was no wonder that the world loved her. She was of a rare breed, a good-natured player who loved to play the game. Being good at it was just a plus, to Rosalie.

She was dedicated.

She was a fighter.

She was a rising star.

Alcoholic.

The locker room was my favorite place to be. I was safe here. I didn't have the demanding eyes of people pinning me down. I didn't have camera flashing for Internet pictures and autographs. I didn't have those piranhas of reporters ready to interview my success to over-hype a defeat.

It was just my water bottle and me in the locker room. If I should even call it that. The bottle may have had water in it once, but the clear liquid that filled half of the plastic container was far from water. It held the same thing I had consumed two bottles of in the last twelve hours.

I glanced at the clock; it was time to do the only thing I was good for. Sigh.

I emerged from the tunnel that leads to the center of the stadium- to the court. The stands went from relatively quiet to screaming eagerly the instant the sunlight illuminated my presence.

A hard laugh escaped my chest, idiots. Sheep. They loved me because the news told them to love me. They screamed praise and excitement because they honestly thought that their "encouragement" helped me play better. They were pitiful excuses for people. I didn't need any of them. I didn't want any of them.

But I smiled and waved anyway, because that was what was required of me. The screams turned into a thunderous echo of self-accomplishment. They cheered, I repaid their useless support with a meaningless twitch of my arms, and it made them feel useful in life.

If that is what got them through the night, I supposed it was the least I could do.

I crossed the court and sat in my lawn chair, mechanically re-tying my shoes. There had been many moments where I willed myself to keep them loose. I wanted them to come undone. I wanted to trip and break my ankle. I wanted some unfortunate accident to permanently ruin my unwanted career.

I would never do it, though. I needed tennis the way the sport needed me. It needed me for social awareness and popularization. I needed it for the money that kept my aunt off my back, therefore making my life a little bearable. A little.

Speaking of her, she shadowed behind me and clasped her hands on my shoulders. Her too-tight grip bit into my skin with enough force to bruise. "Are you ready, Rose? This is the big one."

Her voice was dripping with fake-sincerity and energy that we both knew neither of us had anymore. I could see right through her mask. She was threatening me to win. She was warning me that she didn't pull me out of foster care when I was four and dedicate the next thirteen years of her life shoving me harshly into the mold she wanted for me to mess up and waste the effort.

She had given me food and water. She gave me clothes, a house, and a bed. She gave me skills that would make me good money and a name that people worshiped. I owed her everything, and all she demanded was that I never lose.

It was easy. I hated it.

"It's just another game." I answered emotionlessly. I was distracted from trying to sound spiteful today as my eyes locked onto the girl I was playing against, Lauren something-or-another.

She was smiling. She was laughing with her coach, who must have been an older brother or a father by the resemblance in them. She was happy.

If she lost that man would sling his arms around her shoulder and kiss her cheek. He would tell her that he was proud of her, because she tried her best and that was all that mattered.

I wish I had someone like that in my life.

The whistle that rang above all the noise yanked me back into awareness. Lauren entered the court, and met my eye hopefully. I forced a good-sportsmanship smile and snatched my newly strung racket off the ground.

Aunt Sally met my eye as she handed me my bottle from earlier. "You need to stay hydrated."

I felt my heart burning with loathing as I took it from her. She was the one who found out, five years ago, that I played better if I was buzzed. The vodka made me feel fuzzy. I didn't need to worry about missing a ball, or faulting, or losing a set.

As long as I had that strong, clear liquid poisoning me I never lost. Stress didn't make me mess up, and if I didn't have stress to worry about then I had nothing to worry about except for playing the game.

I drank it in a handful of short seconds and thrust it aside.

"Make me proud, Rose." My aunt recited the ritual phrase. I knew what that meant, too. She was reminding me something that she would just straight out tell me behind closed doors. Failure was not an option, if I ever wanted her to love me.

I wanted her to love me, as sad as that was. I wanted to let her ruin my liver and my mental health if it meant I could make her smile. If it meant I could make her hug me, and tell me how well I played.

I still laughed bitterly at her words, because it was just not fair. It wasn't fair that I had to work so hard at something I hated in trade of something that should come naturally.

I went on the court, knowing that I would crush this Lauren girl. I would smile after the game as I shook her hand, and tell her how good of a player she was and how I admired her ability. I had to, because it's what the press wanted.

I would try to rely on the mass amounts of straight vodka I had consumed since last night. I would let it control me and stop me from screwing up my chance at love. I had to, because it was my only option.

I was pressured.

I was afraid to lose.

I was an alcoholic.