Realize Your Potential (H.S)

Chapter Three

I take Nat's advice. Although, to be fair, I hadn't even thought about approaching Styles in the first place. I'm not sure if she thought I was the kind of girl to saunter up to guys and start hinting my interest, but I most certainly am not.

And who said I was even interested in Styles?

Sure, he's cute, but anyone with eyes can see that. That doesn't mean that I was thinking of acting on anything,

Instead, I don't go out of my way to visit the fine arts building in hopes of running into him. The only time I allow myself to go into the building is during my acting class later that week and then again on Monday. Both times I leave the classroom I can once again hear the music coming from just a few doors down, almost making me want to tiptoe over and peek in the window once more.

Not to see Styles.

Just to see the process of their music coming alive.

But I resist temptation; especially because Nat is at my side each time I leave the classroom. I almost feel like she watches me every time we leave, expecting me to sprint to the other door at any moment, but I try to convince myself that I'm just paranoid.

On Wednesday, Evan, Nat, and I leave the acting room as usual and head down the hallway to the sign up board for auditions. It's the day of our audition and we only have a half hour to attempt to ease our nerves. Then I'll be expected to walk into the theatre and deliver a one minute dramatic monologue for Daniel while hoping with every fiber of my being that I don't make an idiot of myself.

"Nervous?" Evan asks, cutting through my thoughts.

I clear my throat, giving him a nod as I look down at the sheet in front of me.

We're all currently sitting outside the theatre, filling out our information sheets for Daniel while he prepares inside the theatre. The sheets ask simple information like our name, character preference, acting experience, school and work schedule, and a few other selected items. They're all easy questions and yet my hand still shakes as I jot down each of my answers.

"Don't be. I'm sure you're going to do great," he reassures me, offering me a wide smile.

I look up and offer him my own small smile, but still my stomach is tied in knots. I wish I had his confidence, but sadly I don't hold as much self-assurance. I'm about to attempt to prove my acting abilities in one minute for a show that I've wanted to be in desperately since I read the play script back in my high school.

To say the least, smoothing my nervous thoughts away isn't exactly the easiest task.

After I'm finished filling out my form, I sneak away from the table and find a corner away from the others to quietly recite my monologue to myself. The last thing I need is to suddenly forget my lines and completely bomb the entire audition.

Once I've run through it a few times I give myself a nod as I take a deep breath and let it out. I then turn around to head back to the table, but am stopped suddenly by a figure standing in front of me.

I'm staring at the person's chest due to the fact that they're a good six inches taller than me, causing me to tilt my head back slightly to see their face.

I'm met with green eyes, curly hair, and a dimple pressed into a smiling cheek.

"You lost?" he asks, and his voice almost makes my breath hitch in my chest.

I can't tell whether it's the tone or his English accent that causes this strange reaction from me, but I end up just blaming it on both aspects.

"Not at all," I finally say, shaking my head.

He lifts a brow, a smirk still taking over his lips as he stares down at me.

"So, talking to yourself in corners is just a normal thing for you?" he asks. My throat instantly runs dry, but I quickly swallow to smooth it over. I hadn't realized he had witnessed that.

"I was practicing my monologue actually. For the play auditions," I tell him, pointing in the direction of the audition table around the corner.

He turns his head slightly to look off in the direction that I've pointed, giving me a chance to study him. He's currently in a black shirt, black jeans, and, shockingly, black boots. His shirt sleeves are rolled into cuffs to expose even more of the tattoos coating his arms, which also disappear under the fabric of his shirt to promise more ink lays underneath. The top of his hair is carelessly tossed upward out of his face while the sides sweep forward in a slight curl. It's so effortless, yet so put together somehow.

A guitar case is pulled onto his shoulder, but the weight doesn't seem to bother him as his hands remain lazily in his pockets.

As soon as his gaze turns back to me, my eyes are lifted to meet his as I keep my features smooth.

"You're one of those theatre kids then?" he asks, and I realize all he's done is ask me questions so far.

"I'm one of those theatre kids," I say flatly with a nod.

"Yikes," he says, pulling a face as he begins to step to the side and walk passed me.

I turn to watch him, furrowing my brow.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I ask him.

He lets out a small laugh.

"Nothing," he states with a smirk.

"Do you have something against theatre people?" I press on.

He pauses now, no longer moving towards the door.

"Just not my kind of people. With your tap dancing, constant show tunes, and, what is it that you all call it, showmances?" he says.

"Well that's very closed minded," I state. "Not all theatre people are like that."

"Closed minded, huh?" he says, smirking at me.

My mind almost goes cloudy as I see the dimple in his cheek, but I quickly blow away the storm.

"Yes. That would be like me saying that because you're a musician that you're some pretentious jerk who just wants to sleep with dozens of girls and get wasted," I say quickly.

He now lets out a bigger laugh, his shoulders shaking as he moves his head from side to side.

"There's only one problem with your whole argument," he tells me.

"What's that?" I ask, my annoyance growing.

He smiles at me for a moment, before lifting an amused brow.

"I am some pretentious jerk who just wants to sleep with dozens of girls and get wasted," he states.

Before I can say anything, he's pushed out the door and is striding down the walkway with his hands still inside his pockets. He doesn't look back, just keeps moving forward with such ease and confidence that it's as if our conversation never happened.

But it did, and I'm definitely feeling the repercussions.

My heart is racing and my throat is aching as though it's tensed. I'm almost dumbfounded, but I'm not sure why.

Maybe it's because his assumptions about me were completely ridiculous and false.

Maybe it's because of his claim about fitting my provided stereotype perfectly.

Or maybe it's because this was my first interaction with Harry Styles and I wouldn't say it was exactly ideal.