Chapter Two

Baby Joshua: call me when you land

Miss Emory Clark: you’re picking me up from the airport, right?

Baby Joshua: er, I’ll send someone

 

Insanity is the proper word to describe my day.

 

When I awoke this morning, it was in a state of panic.  I’m a notorious over packer, and then under packer, and then forgetful packer.  I leave phone chargers in hotel rooms, my conditioner in bed and breakfast bathrooms, my underwear in my apartment, or even once my little sister at the Devine’s house, without a way for her to be home by Christmas morning.

 

She never quite forgave me for that, but it’s okay.  She also never forgave me for lacking social skills, refusing to wear makeup, wearing thick glasses, and having more virtual mates than real ones.  Always had a crush on Josh, too.  Probably made her upset because he would never view her as anything other than his best mate’s annoying little sister.  Which is what Auburn Clark is �" annoying.

 

So that morning, I knew I had to have a nice little chat with my younger sister.  She’s off at college in the states and our phone call will probably be short, because she doesn’t want to pay long distance.  And neither do I.  We usually talk about mom and dad for a little bit, mostly how senile they have become.  I mean, taking a cruise to the Caribbean without their brilliant daughters?  And deciding to breed Pembroke welsh corgis?  Not that I have anything against them.  It’s just that I always wanted one growing up and they waited until I was out of the house to get multiple.  S’not fair.

 

While I was stuffing several months’ worth of clothing into one suitcase, not as difficult as imagined, I had a bit of a panic attack.  Apparently, crop tops fold easily, but jeans, not so much.  And I own a lot of jeans.  Might be time to start looking at my closet before I buy something.  I own one skirt, one very tight, very small skirt.  Probably Auburn’s.  I own two dresses, both tight.  Both Hervé Leger.  One black and one red.  Not very exciting.  No cardigans, no sweaters.  Few pullovers, few leggings, too many spandex.  One pair of sneakers.  One pair of leather boots.  And, of course, the leather pants.  Along with the leather jacket.  And a couple pairs of cutoffs.  So basically, I have a wardrobe similar to Josh.  Except he might have more dressy clothes.

 

After writing a post-it note and sticking it to the fridge, telling me to become more girly, I threw away any perishables.  Ate a few too many pop tarts.  Because I will miss those, especially the Hot Fudge Sunday flavor.  Brown Sugar Cinnamon is good, too, but Joshy would kill me if he knew I found his secret stash.  And if I ate a pack, he would probably force me to regurgitate it.  Seriously, no one messes with Josh Devine and his pop tarts.  Even though it’s my favorite food group.  Not like I have any fruits or vegetables anyway, save for the frozen peas in the freezer.  The only time I eat ‘healthy’ food is if I get leftovers from Valerie’s.  

 

Which brings me to the next level of insanity.

 

Valerie’s. 

 

Because, unfortunately, I do have some morals.  Or, at least, enough to quit in person rather than leave an informal message on her answering machine.  As much as I hate her, she gave me a job when not a lot of places were hiring.  Let me order a brand-new green polo.  Though she did dictate the size.  Saying I needed it small enough and tight enough to prove I had a decent body and then let the customers decide for them selves.  Even if she told me to lay off the sugary drinks, or the deserts, I believe that deep down, somewhere, she cared.

 

And then, you know, I thought differently when she screamed at me to leave her property or she would call the cops.  I took my final paycheck, waved goodbye to my fellow waitresses and the busboy that would flirt with other people around me and the cooks who spit in the food when I asked them to.  I asked her if we could part as close mates.  Was a bit of an over estimate, yes, but I believed she wasn’t actually a horrible, horrible person deep down.  I was so wrong, though.  Which lead to me throwing a few plates against a wall.  But I swear, I was provoked.

 

“I’m watching that commercial for Airheads Extremes, where the little boy dives into a pool of sour straws,” my little sister tells me.  We were face timing so she could disapprove of everything I pack.  “And all I can think, is: why can’t that be real?  Like, I could eat a pool of Airheads.” 

 

“Easily,” I agree, going through my sweatpants drawer.  Or, more accurately, yoga pants.  Also known as the most comfortable things in the world.  “What do you think, Aubs?  Should I bring my Lulu Lemons?” 

 

“Depends,” she says finally.

 

“That’s not an answer,” I complain.  “Yes or no?”

 

Auburn purses her lips, narrowing her brown eyes.  The same face I make when I don’t know if I want to watch Harry Potter 3 or 5.  Both feature Sirius Black, the love of my life.  Still, it’s a hard decision.  When she makes that face, it’s like looking in a mirror.  Same eyes.  Same dark brown hair.  Same short build.  Though she reaches 5’2”, which I have only dreamed of.

 

“Do you plan on making an effort with your appearance?” she asks.  “Ever?”

 

I pretend to think it over.  Do I, Emory Ann Clark, plan on making an effort with my appearance?  Maybe if I were someone else, sure.  Or if I was actually going somewhere important.  Like the premier of Star Wars.  Or if Joshy asked me to dress up for something.  Maybe I would do it, for him.  What are mates for, right?

 

“Of course not,” I laugh.

 

Because best mates should accept me the way I am, casual clothing and all.

 

“Seriously Em?” she groans.  “Would it kill you to look presentable for once?  This isn’t a marathon of The Big Bang Theory.”  How dare she use one of my favorite shows against me?  “You’re meeting One Direction.”

 

“I mean, maybe not.  I might not even meet them,” I point out smartly, pulling on a pair of mismatched neon socks.  “Just because I play guitar for them doesn’t mean we will actually interact.”

 

“Josh is close mates with all of them,” she tells me.

 

“And you know this, how?” I ask.  Now is seriously not the time for jealousy, Emory.  Every time Joshy starts to make a new mateship, I feel slightly threatened.  And how could I possibly compete with five famous boys?  I bet they have more Superman boxers than I do.

 

“Twitter,” she says like it should be obvious.

 

“Are you stalking Josh on twitter again?” I tease.  “You know, you could call him every once in a while.  He thinks your little crush is cute.”

 

“It’s not little and it’s not cute,” she huffs dramatically.  Flails her arms in the air a little bit.  “I’m in love with him, Emory.  I love him so much it’s insane.”  She starts giggling before frowning.  Talk about a mood swing.  “You wouldn’t understand.  You’ve never loved someone.”

 

“Er, sure I have,” I say uncertainly. 

 

Which is a total lie.  It isn’t that I don’t believe in love or anything, because I do.  I’m actually a bit of a hopeless romantic.  Just waiting for the day Doctor Who professes his undying love for me after randomly appearing in his Tardis.  You know, normal stuff.  I want it to happen; I just know it won’t be anytime soon.  And besides, the real challenge is finding someone who will love me.

 

“You haven’t,” she says with an air of finality.  “I would know.  I read your Tom Riddle diary.”  I’m not even surprised with this lack of privacy.  “Anyway, you will meet One Direction and you should try to look decent.”

 

“Why?” I laugh.  “So they can all fall madly in love with me and then Louis and Liam will leave their girlfriends for me?”  I snort.  “Right, likely story.”

 

Auburn pouts at me, stomping a foot on the ground.  Like a little girl.  Which is exactly the reason why Joshy would never go for her.  And besides, it would be weird if my sister and my best mates ended up together.  He wouldn’t have as much time for me, and I would see too much of her.

 

“You know that’s not what I meant,” she huffs, blowing a piece of straight hair away from her face.  “I just think you should look good when you meet the boys.  Josh is close mates with them, Niall especially.  And there are some super cute pics of him with Harry and Zayn.”

 

“Oh my god, you are such a stalker,” I laugh.  “And trust me, Joshy will forget all about them when he sees me.”

 

“Cocky much?” Aubie teases.    

 

“What can I say?” I shrug, smiling slightly.  “I haven’t seen him in months.  Our reunion will be good, is all.  I mean, he is basically forcing me on an eight hour flight to cover his a*s.  And he stuck me on the phone with Simon Cowell last night.  Do you have any idea how scary that is?” 

 

“Nothing is scarier than your bedhead,” she teases.

 

With that, I hang up the phone.

 

*

 

Annoying Auburn: how was your flight?

Annoying Auburn: have you seen Josh yet?  Does he look good?

Annoying Auburn: tell him I say hi

Annoying Auburn: but in a totally non-creepy way

 

The plane ride could have been boring.  Key word being: could.  I spent two hours watching the Niall Horan and my best mate twit cam and might I say, they looked good.  Josh more so than Niall.  Not that Niall isn’t attractive, because he is.  He really is.  He’s all blue eyes and bright smiles.

 

And I will never admit this out loud, because doing so might very well kill me, but I spent the rest of my flight researching One Direction.  I’m going to be working for them, right?  It’s the least I can do.  So I watched their video diaries, interviews, twit cams, and music videos.  Can’t say I’m a fan �" that’s a very special word.  I’m a fan of Star Wars, Harry Potter, Doctor Who, World of Warcraft, you know, the greats.  We can call what I have an appreciation.  Will my heart rate speed up when I meet them, if I meet them?  Absolutely not.

 

I’m mostly into alternative, anyway.  But Everything About You is catchy.  A little too catchy.  Almost like I’m being brainwashed.   

 

The lyrics were stuck in my head throughout my epic journey from the plane to baggage claim.  With my luck, my bags were the last to arrive.  Of course.  I called Joshy who didn’t answer.  Must be dying.  Obviously.  Why else would he ignore a call from his best mate of forever? 

 

I saw an adorable little man holding a ‘Miss Emory Clark’ sign and ran over to him, giving him a hug.  Do I know him?  No.  Does that matter?  Never.  He pats me on the back awkwardly, insisting he carry my bags.  Of course I didn’t let him.  What kind of sick person makes someone in their seventies carry something heavy?  And then, get this: he brings me to a limousine. 

 

I nearly peed my pants, sliding onto the black leather.  Only to find that I was not alone in the expensive car.

 

“Miss Clark?” the man sitting next to me asks, looking the epitome of Calm and Cool.  Wearing a crisp white shirt and jeans, aviators covering his scary eyes.  His eyes, similar to the ones of the Great White: Jaws.  Black.  Soulless.  Searching for a kill.

 

“Simon Cowell?” I whisper, looking around.  “What are you doing here?”

 

He doesn’t answer me.  Points to his cell phone, holding a hand to his lips.  Which I assume means that he is too busy to talk to me.  I shrug it off, staring out the window at the scenery of Washington, D.C.  First time I’ve ever been here.  Random Lady going for a run makes me feel a bit bad about myself.  I can get ten yards and want to pass out.

 

After driving for around an hour, the driver, who I learned is named Johnny Murphy, drops us off at a hotel.  A nice one, too.  Like the Marriott.  Or the Hilton.  Not that I’ve stayed in either of those.  But Joshy says they’re nice.

 

The moment Johnny opened my door for me �" what a gent �" I was one step away from falling to my knees and kissing the ground.  I absolutely hate driving.  Much prefer my skateboard, to be honest.  So only once I was finally on land, sweet land, did I realize that Simon Cowell was checking me out.

 

Yes, you read right.

 

Simon.  Cowell.  Is.  Checking.  Me.  Out.

 

From my high-waisted denim cutoffs to my D1: Might Ducks cropped shirt.  From my chunky sneakers to my even chunkier glasses.  But mostly, it seemed, from my short little legs to my disgusting plane hair.  His eyes were lingering on my chest, before he slid his aviators back over his eyes.

 

“You know, Miss Clark,” he drawls, “I think I’m going to like having you work with me.”