Captured

Today isn't exactly different from all of the days that have passed by. Normally, he eats breakfast with me and announces that he'll be leaving (again) for a business trip or something at insert country/another state here.But today. he spends more than fifteen minutes with me to discuss serious matters also known as bullshit.

"Austin, I already talked to my friends from NYU and Brown. You will be having an interview with them in two months," he says, keeping a straight face as he eats his meal.

And yes, he actually named me Austin, a constant reminder that he has a deep-seated loathing with the fact that I am a girl.

"Dad, I'm not yet ready for college," I tell him, "And besides, I still have no idea what course I'm supposed to enroll myself in." That is not really true. I've always wanted to take filming and study in Rhode Island School of Design, but surely, my father would disapprove.

He took a sip of his Grand Mimosa and said, "My decision is final, young lady. You still have until your graduation to figure out what course you'll take."

"Bullshit." I mumbled.

"Watch your mouth, Austin."

I rolled my eyes and left the breakfast table, my father, and the barely touched Parmesan and chive egg souffle.

Later that afternoon, when I heard my father's limousine drive away, I opened my cellphone and dialed the number of one of the only people who understand my emotions.

"Happy Birthday, Bridget!" I said.

"You bitch, where are you? The party is already starting! Come here already" she answered.

"Seriously, Bridget. It's like five in the afternoon. Who celebrates a party at five in the afternoon?"

"Uh, me. And wear a pretty dress, okay. You know who my special guests are," Bridget giggled.

Right, she invited her favorite boy band to her eighteenth birthday party. Backstreet Boys? No. One Direction. That British singing group that thinks wearing bright colored shirts and pants is cool. It took a whole lot of persuasion, and Bridget's parent's money to get that boy band to say yes to her invitation. Of course, One Direction won't perform for free. If you ask me, I find them kind of lame. But if I tell that to Bridget, she's going to strangle me to death.

"Aw, guess who's excited?" I replied humorlessly, "I'll be there in an hour, okay. But don't expect me to dance to What Makes You Beautiful.

"You just really love me, Austin. See you!" she said goodbye and made a kissing sound.

I took a bath and put on a lace dress with a black ribbon around the waist that matched my pumps. I curled my dark brown hair and put a headband on. With a fluffy brush, I applied a light dusting of bronzer duo on my temples, cheekbones, and the bridge of my nose. I put soft shades of brown make-up around my eyes, and brushed the arches of my brows upwards. I examined myself in the mirror, and wow, my eyes never looked this good. Finally, I applied a pretty shade of pink on my lips, and finished it off with a low-intensity gloss.

When everything I needed was in my purse (few cash in case of emergency, my phone, keys, credit card, and Bridget's present), I went downstairs and told Lauren, my nanny, that I will not be home until tomorrow. "Tell Bridget I said happy birthday!" and Lauren waved goodbye.

Since I am such a good friend, I allowed Bridget to hold her birthday party on the rooftop of Schneider's Hotel in Manhattan. Minutes later, I was outside the entrance door of the hotel I know so well. I instructed the driver to just go home and that I'll call him in the morning if I needed a ride.

The receptionist in the lobby, Christina, greeted me with a full smile, "Hello Ms. Schneider! Your friend's guests have already arrived."

I smiled back, "She was serious when she said her party starts at five. Oh well then. How about One Direction?"

When I said I love Bridget, I really mean it. And because I love her dearly, I also agreed to let One Direction stay in the hotel.

"They've checked in already. We had a little screaming fans problem earlier. And the paparazzis, too. But our security took care of that, so I hope Ms. Bridget's party runs smoothly."

I nodded, said thank you and went into the elevator. I pressed '23', the floor where my room is. I just have to leave my things before going to the rooftop. My school is near this hotel, so it makes perfect sense why I have a room here.

After a while, the elevator stopped on the 16th floor. I groaned. I hate a lot of things, and it includes sharing an elevator with people.

The door opened, and it revealed a guy in a black button-down long sleeve shirt tucked under fit gray pants. I know this curly haired guy. It's Harry Styles.