Captured

I don't hold antipathy, if you must, against Valentine's Day. I'm also not bitter or anything. Well, okay, sometimes I feel squeamish seeing lovers on the street, publicly displaying their affection to each other. But what the heck, nobody has a right to interfere with young love. And besides, I've had a fair share of boyfriend-experience before. People seeing me kiss a boy isn't an issue as well. Every single human being have probably seen the photos of me and Harry in that elevator. No big deal. I also don't blame whoever is responsible for the creation of such significant day. I find it 'cute', and nothing is wrong with it.

But -- yes, there's a but. Let me try to put this in a subtle way: I don't understand why the celebration of hearts has to be this...important. If they truly love such person, why only shell out thousands of dollars for flowers and chocolates on one day if they can do it on mundane days? They've got 365 days in the calendar. Why wait for February 14 to tell someone they're special? Does Valentine's Day heighten the love you feel for someone? Why not say 'I love you' everyday?

That is my point.

So I guess I couldn't help but feel rather disappointed when Zayn showed up on my door, a bucket of Belgian butter popcorn in one arm, and a dozen roses in the other, and said, "Happy Valentine's Day, Austin!"

He really really didn't have to do that.

Him coming over isn't a surprise. I texted him that it would be very okay if we prepared for the ball together. I think he just arrived way too early than I expected, and with more romantic side to him than I imagined. "What's with all these?"

He handed me the roses, "Well, it's Valentine's Day. Thought I'd get something special for a very special girl."

Wrong answer, Zayn.

I planted a soft kiss on his cheeks. Zayn had this silly but cute look as I pulled away, and I felt my face go tomato. I stared at the roses in my hands and gave him an appreciative smile. For a normal girl, nothing's more precious than roses from a very adorable guy who just called you special. I once saw this website that says a dozen red roses show that he's thoughtful.

It means he's grateful.

12 roses mean the guy is grateful.

And a single rose shows love.

Love.

A single rose.

Goddammit, Austin, stop over-analyzing.

I didn't even know how Zayn got my address, but I let him enter my humble abode anyways.

"We've got like three hours before the ball. Your suit's not here yet, and so is my make-up artist. What do you want to do?" I asked after giving Zayn a brief tour of the entire house.

Clearly, he wasn't listening.

"There are no photographs. I mean, there are a lot of lovely paintings around," he pointed at the portrait of the Northern Lights, the center piece of the living room, "but no photos of you."

The truth? My father ordered for every photograph that reminded him of my mother to be taken down. Especially mine. Because I look like her, but most probably because I'm the reason why she's gone. The only surviving picture of my mom hangs in my father's office.

"They're all upstairs," I half-lied, "Want to see them?"

Zayn nodded.

Thankfully, my bedroom is neat and clean. If Bridget were here, she'd be utterly surprised. The last time my room was this clean, she said, "Austin, whoever is guilty for the spotlessness of your wonderful temple, tell her she's a god."

The Polaroids inside the big wooden frame above my bed instantly caught Zayn's attention. He walked over and gazed at each image with pleased eyes.

The camera was my mother's. I found it one day while scavenging through my father's office. He never looked for it, so I never returned it. The photos consisted faces of Bridget, Marcus and mine, skyscrapers, the Brooklyn Bridge, coffee shops, our trip to Hawaii when I was fifteen and Marcus was seventeen, more New York, and random individuals and stuff. Other photos from my childhood are stashed away in the attic, and some in the beach house. There was a time when I was obsessed with the camera. Then suddenly I felt like I didn't have a right to use it because it was my mother's. So I stopped, gathered all the photographs and arranged them in a frame and kept the Polaroid safely hidden in my bedside table.

"These are cool," Zayn whispered, and then his attention was shifted to the box on my bed, "Is that your dress for tonight?"

I stared at it like it was some cryptic receptacle that contained a perilous object. "Uh, yes." My voice was trembling. Get hold of yourself, Austin. It's just a dress.

No. Stop lying to yourself, Austin. It's not just a dress. It's the dress that Harry got you all the way from Brooklyn. It doesn't matter if he got the right size or not. The point is, he went in a shop for girls in fucking Brooklyn, bought a dress that you're pretty sure is going to be fabulous even if you haven't taken it out of the box yet, prepared a Valentine's Ball proposal with a red-haired kid and helium balloons, and yet you let him down. Or something like that.

It kept me up all night. I have not even discussed this issue with anyone. Not Bridget, who surprisingly haven't hollered at me or anything about whatever happened yesterday. Not even Marcus, and most of all, not Harry. The incident has taken up most of my thoughts, and thanks to it, I am hardly mentally sound right now to even function.

"You're going to look lovely in it," Zayn snapped me back to the real world, "How'd you manage to find a dress so quickly?"

Please don't ask me that question.

"Marcus. My friend Marcus got it for me."

"Marcus as in Bridget's big brother?"

"Yes, that Marcus."

Good luck, Austin. You're going to need that.

***

Zayn and I had enough time to finish Michael J. Fox's Teen Wolf, which we really didn't pay attention to, before my make up artist arrived. He was asked to move into the guest room when his suit came in ten minutes later.

"That dress is pretty," Lana, the aforementioned artist, commented as she applied a Scottish Heather kind of pink blush on on my cheeks. I sputtered unknown words in response. If I had a choice to skip this Valentine's Ball, I would. But my future is at stake. I may be a rebel but I care about my life.

Moments later, Lana whispered, "Open your eyes," and there, staring back at me is a very comely version of Austin Schneider. Her brunette hair were curled and fell gently off her shoulders. Her eyes were lined with black pencil, which looked really great because it complemented her light-brown eyes. The lids were smeared in eyeshadows of white and sky blue. She had the dirty mute pink lipsticks.

This is not Austin Schneider.

"Lana, oh my god, this is beautiful," I said.

"No, you're beautiful," she replied and shot me a wide smile, "Now, let's get you in that dress."

For a moment, I was petrified. I don't want to wear that dress. It screams Harry-bought-me-all-the-way-from-Brooklyn all over it. And I'm sure I will feel shamefaced wearing that dress. The guilt will consume me, especially after what happened yesterday. Especially when that dress reminds me so much of how Harry looked like when he walked away. Just no.

"Miss Austin, what are you waiting?"

I'm waiting for a miracle.

"Oh what the heck," I finally gave up, and Lana looked very confused.

She helped me tie the laces of the bodice from behind, while I examined myself in the mirror. When she was done, I made a slow little twirl and was amused by how the dress fit me perfectly. The beadwork is indubitably impeccable, and the ruffles felt soft. It made me look like an ice princess.

"See, this gown was made for you," Lana looked gratified with her work. I thanked her and said I'll be fine on my own. The housekeeper showed her the way out and I was left alone in my room. Later, I heard a soft knock on my door. I yelled, "Come in," as I was walking back and forth in my room.

Zayn looked really good in his sleek black suit which he left unbuttoned and that matched his skinny slacks and the bow tie around the collars of his white button-down shirt. He looked too good for me, I thought.

He did not say anything. He just started walking towards my direction, stopped in front of me and tied a cloud white corsage to my right wrist, similar to the boutonnière he was already wearing. Then he kissed me gently on my left cheek and whispered, "You look wonderful, Austin."

"You too, Zayn," I grinned and decided we were both ready to conquer the Valentine's Ball.

The Grand Ballroom at The Plaza was a 4800 square feet of astronomic space. There were two chock-full highfalutin' chandeliers hanging from ceiling, which added to the majestic state of the room with its tall Greek Corinthian columns and gold embellishments on the wall. I was raised by a hotel entrepreneur and spent some time in my life traveling from one hotel to another, so maybe I learned a few architectural stuff and knows whether a hotel's event venue is good or not. Without doubt, The Grand Ballroom is the perfect place for Everson Prep's Valentine's Ball, and yes, it passed my standards.

As Zayn and I made our way through the ball gowns and tuxedos, a Sundown mix of Steve Appleton's City Won't Sleep Tonight filled the air. "Stupid DJ," I thought, "It's a formal ball and he's playing funky music." Some students were moving their heads or feet or both to the sound, others were sitting down, chatting. The rest, their eyes were on us. I guess no one really brings a British pop star as her date.

I spotted Mister Powell in the long table that's exclusive for the teachers and school administration. He was wearing yet another duck tie. Oh how I wanted to tighten that neck tie and choke him to death.

When we found Bridget in a round table in front, she was alone. She looked incredibly stunning in her light pink gown that had exquisite and intricate design, but she looked sad. Zayn pulled an empty seat for me.

"My date is not here yet," her voice was trembling and I bet she's close to tears, "It's been forty fucking minutes since this ball started. Oh my god he's going to ditch me."

"Calm the fuck down, Bridge," I said.

"Easy for you to say because you have your date with you," she looked up and was bowled over to see Zayn, "Wait, I thought..where's Ha-"

I kicked her from under the table.

Bridget shuddered, "I.. I mean, where's Niall? Where is that stupid leprechaun?"

Zayn giggled, "They're probably on their way already. Don't worry, Bridget."

That didn't really lessen the anxiety my best friend was feeling. I'd feel the same way too. When your date didn't pick you up, or is running late, you just can't help but feel like he's going to ditch you and blow the entire thing up. For Bridget's case, she prepared for this ball for such a long time. If something wrong happens, for example, Niall not showing up, my best friend is most likely to have a nervous breakdown.

We're still girls, you know.

And as Zayn's comforting words did not pacify Bridget, it made me apprehensive too.

He said they're probably on their way.

They. As in not only Niall.

Stop it, Austin, 'they' could also mean that Niall's got other non-One Direction friends going to our ball with him. Niall is outgoing. He's probably got so many friends.

But I was wrong.

"That's a lovely dress you've got there, Austin," a familiar raspy voice said. He didn't sound amused. In fact, his tone lacked the mood.

Bridget practically jumped out of her seat, "Thank god, Niall, you're here." She threw her arms around her 'leprechaun', while the others, filled the empty seats. Liam was too distracted by the announcement of pointless awards on the stage to even notice us. Louis fixed his neck tie and was making faces at Bridget and Niall who were being lovey dovey.

"Ugh, Valentine's Day," Louis sighed. I feel you, bro.

Harry sat beside me. For god's sake, he had to sit beside me. I noticed he was wearing a charcoal gray tuxedo, but I didn't really want to dwell on how he looked very elegant in his outfit. Because he was sitting beside me and I felt the tension come between us. I could feel my sweat trickle down my forehead despite the strong blast of air-condition. Harry still had the same blank expression from yesterday. Looks like he decided to wear his cocky attitude tonight.

"Are you okay, Austin?" Zayn asked, "You're sweating."

"Be careful not to ruin the pretty dress," Harry said, but he wasn't even looking at us. Instead, his eyes were on the wine glass in front of him. "Whoever bought you that dress will not be delighted to see you not appreciating it."

Finally, he looked up and met my gaze, his green eyes filled with weight and enormity, "You must hate him that much?"

"Wait, Marcus is coming too?" Zayn asked once again.

Bridget butted in, "Why's my brother coming? He's in Maryland. And he bought you a dress?"

"You told Zayn that Marcus gave you that dress?" his voice shifted from deadpan to enraged, "Ain't that a great way to thank me for going to Brooklyn and buying that stupid dress?"

I am so screwed.