Captured

After being carefree during the vacation with One Direction, there was no room to think about school at all. And when I had too much to handle with the post-vacation events, for example, the paparazzis, reporters, and for that matter Harry Styles, it just completely evaporated from my mind. I decided to stay at home and give a shot at reevaluating my life, but I guess that failed when at Saturday, I received an email from The Office of the Headmaster saying that 'your absence from school is no longer condonable, and you must return as soon as possible', along with documents of lessons and school works that I've missed over the week.

On Monday morning, I was hair-raisingly late.

I decided not to stay at our hotel in Manhattan, even if it was for my convenience since it was just Central Park away from my school. One Direction was still there for concerts-related reasons, and as much as I wanted them to go away or prohibit them from entering the hotel, I couldn't really do that. Their management 'insisted' that they stay in Schneider's Hotel-Manhattan.

My driver was also crappy. Despite driving a current-modeled Chevrolet that is supposed to bring me anywhere posthaste, he just couldn't get me from Battery Park City to Upper East Side in less than 30 minutes. I wonder why my father even hired this incompetent twerp.

I could use the traffic issues, especially in Times Square. Mondays in New York City is a really busy day, so you always had to adjust yourself. Nevertheless, I was really really really late that I missed the entire Monday Ceremony, and half of homeroom. I had to sit and wait outside the headmaster's office, so I am going to miss first period as well. Good thing first period is Calculus.

Everson Preparatory School's headmaster, Mister Timothy Powell, looked like Peter Pettigrew from Harry Potter, except that he was taller, actually excessively lanky for a man his age, and liked to wear duck-patterned neck ties, and occasionally, turtle necks. Everybody respected and looked up to him, but maybe if they spend time in his office as much as I did, they'd also notice his uncanny resemblance to the aforementioned fictional character and wouldn't really take him seriously.

That's the thing, no matter how much I get detentions and sanctions and whatnot, and no matter how I am obvious with disliking him, the old man never gets mad. He'd simply call you into his office, smile at you, and start to bore you with his endless bum steer of how we shouldn't waste our opportunity in high school.

I was gone for a week and not a bit changed. "Good morning, Miss Schneider," he smiled pleasantly then motioned me to take a seat, "I have been informed that you were tardy this morning. I will pretend like I didn't know that, given that you will fully accept the disciplinary action I have prepared for you."

"What is it, sir?" I tried to sound nice, but duh I was clearly uninterested with the way I was staring at his Civil War action figure collection the entire time.

"I heard you declined to join the Valentine's Ball."

Please, not that fucking ball.

Everson Prep is one of those rare co-educational private high schools in Upper East Side that provides New York kids with an environment to enhance their optimum potential intellectually, physically, and socially. Yes, socially. Hence the abundance of pointless balls and dances. As you can see, I don't like dancing, and you can also add the fact that I'm socially-awkward. So yes, I've never attended a single party prepared by the school. Bridget and Marcus have tried desperately to drag me into one of those, but they failed.

"So here's the deal, Miss Schneider. You will get yourself a fancy dress, ask a guy to be your date or whatever you kids call that these days, and attend the Valentine's Ball."

I scrunched my khaki pants out of vexation, "I don't exactly see the point in this disciplinary action, Mister Powell. I was absent. How does attending a ball give you a relief that I will not be absent the next day?"

"Oh, that's not really the point. You've been misbehaving since uhm, ever since you arrived in this institution," he held out a white folder and started reading its contents, "You skip your classes to drink coffee, absent yourself for more than two days for god-knows-what, you don't attend balls, you once punched a fellow senior, threw a volleyball at your team leader's head because you detest the sport very strongly, and the list goes on. And recently, you were AWOL to go frolicking with a boy band."

I'm not exactly your prominent Everson Prep student. But in my defense, I only threw that ball at George Lewis's head in sophomore year because I broke up with him after a three months affair, and there he was being bitter about it and said fictitious things about me. Obviously, the whole 'I detest the sport very strongly' doesn't even pass as a plausible excuse, but I used it anyways.

"You can't always do the things you want, Miss Schneider. This time, you will obey the rules and do as I say," he continued, "You will attend the Valentine's Ball. Otherwise, I might consider suspension as a sanction. It's not going to look good on your college application forms, I tell you."

I resisted to roll my eye, but who was I kidding, "Whatever."

I left without further saying anything. I shut the door behind me and started walking towards hell.

At lunch time, I almost choked on my Celery Victor when Bridget told me that she wasn't given any sanction, only a warning. And I choked even more when she said that tomorrow is Valentine's Ball. Tomorrow is February 14.

"That hamster," I grunted, "How the fuck am I supposed to fucking find a fucking dress and a fucking date in less than twenty four fucking hours??"

"Geez, chill the with the fucks, Austin. Don't worry, I got it covered," Bridget said, but smiling down at her phone.

"You got me a dress?"

"No, a date, silly," and she grinned mischievously, and I'm not sure if I should be happy.

Twenty minutes before dismissal, I received a text from Zayn Malik, "Hey. There's this place, Serendipity 3. It's our day off and I wanted to hang out. You in?"

I sent a quick yes and said I'd be there in half an hour.

Serendipity 3 was in E 60th Street, so I instructed the driver to take Park Avenue. There was a bit of traffic, but we got there in approximately fifteen minutes.

I wasn't really much of an ice cream person, but I've done enough food-hopping in New York to know where good food is. Serendipity 3 is a small dessert purveyor, but its name is big among New Yorkers. It can pass as a chill-out place because it's really small, but most of the time it's crowded, so I wouldn't really consider it. In spite of that, they serve really good sundae.

Zayn was already sitting on a table by the corner, away from the window and the peering eyes of paparazzis and fans. He wore a white Vans ball cap, red and gray plaid button down over a black shirt, and denim pants. He looked ridiculously good in his outfit, so I stared down at myself, somewhat thankful that I decided to wear a beige sweater over my Everson Prep uniform, before starting to walk towards his direction.

There were two ice creams on the table already.

"You ordered?" I surprised him, and he somehow jerked up.

"They said Strawberry Fields Sundae is their best-seller. And I got myself a Forbidden Broadway Sundae," he got up and pulled the chair for me.

I shoved a spoonful of the heavenly confection into my mouth before talking to him, "What's up?"

"Nothing, really. We have one more show coming up, but we've until Thursday to chill," he said, and he himself started eating his dessert, "I watched your interview."

"I don't really want to talk about that," so I shifted the topic to something else, and we had an hour-long conversation of random stuff, while trying to save what's left of our melted ice creams.

When my phone was already burning with Bridget-messages that I preferred not to answer, I decided it was time to go home. But then I remembered the Valentine's Ball tomorrow, and Zayn was here, "Hey, we have this ball thing tomorrow. And I was forced to attend. I don't have a date and-"

"Sure, Austin. It would be my pleasure."

Pretty good move, Bridget. Now it all makes sense.

Zayn had his private driver and drove off to Barney's to get a suit, while I entered my car and pressed Bridget's name on my phone and waited for her to answer.

"Where the fuck are you? I've been texting you to go to Heckscher Playground. Are you there already???"

"Chill, Bridge. I'm just a few blocks away," I said then stashed the phone into my bag. I quite didn't understand why she wanted to meet me in Heckscher Playground when it's not even spring yet, and when she had to prepare for the Valentine's Ball tomorrow. And most importantly, we're not six years old anymore.

There weren't so much people in the playground, save for the few kids by the seesaws and swings. There were plenty of helium balloons tied to the random things as well which baffled me for a while until I walked further to look for any signs of Bridget.

Suddenly, this red-haired boy was tugging on my sweater and handed me a red rose, "He said I'd give you this and show you that." He pointed at one of the balloons. At a closer look, it had the word 'Will' on it written in black marker.

The boy then guided me to the rest of the balloons, which later on I realized said, "Will you go to Valentine's Ball with". The boy left me by the giant rocks. I stood there like a complete fool, a rose on my hand, wondering if this is a joke.

Then a guy who I didn't see for quite a while now, and wished and prayed not to see ever again appeared from one of the rocks. He was holding a huge cream box, and a blue balloon, and it said 'Me?'.

Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god.

I dropped the rose, my bag, and myself. I probably even had one of those I-shouldn't-be-here-what-is-wrong-with-the-universe kind of look painted all over my face.

Harry Styles is proposing to be my date for tomorrow's Valentine's Ball.

"What the hell does this even mean?" was all I could manage to say.

He laughed. Oh how I hated that laugh. "You don't know how to read?"

"That's so funny, but I'm actually asking a very intellectual question here. Can you please quit being sarcastic for one second and say something less-sarcastic."

He walked closer, and I swear I wanted to move away, but I was somehow frozen, "Bridget texted me this morning that you were in a dire need of a date for Valentine's Ball. I said yes, but thought it'd be more appropriate if I formally ask you out. Hence this cheesy balloons thingy."

Bridget texted him.

Him.

Harry Styles.

Not Zayn.

Holy shit.

"And, I went to Brooklyn and got you this," he handed over the box, our fingers slightly touching for a millisecond.

"What's this?"

"It's a box. Duh, Austin, open it so you'd know."

I whispered "Fuck you" before opening the mystery box.

Inside was a light blue clothing, and it had sparkly stuff all over it. Beneath were ruffles. By the size of the box, I figured it was a gown, and Harry confirmed that for me.

"Bridget also mentioned that you didn't have a dress yet. I made a little research and found this Prom Outfitters place in Brooklyn. I thought you'd like it because it's sparkly and blue."

I didn't even know what to say. I stared at the gown, then at Harry, then at the gown again. It's all messed up. How did I even get myself in this situation?

"So, I'm going to pick you up at-"

"Harry, stop."

He look confused.

"I don't know how to explain this to you, but I thought this morning, when Bridget said he got the date-thingy covered, I thought it wasn't you. Or maybe in my wild imagination I thought it was you. But Zayn asked me to eat ice cream with him, and I thought that's what Bridget was planning. so I asked Zayn to be my date for tomorrow."

I think I dropped the bomb way too quickly.

"Zayn?"

I nodded nervously, feeling a painful blow straight to my stomach. He had a blank expression, and suddenly I felt guilty and really really bad, but I wasn't supposed to feel that way.

"Alright," Harry said, almost like a whisper, and let me hold the blue balloon, "I guess it's a no."

And then he started to walk away.