The Other One {Harry Styles AU}

8. Now

(Author's note: first, please vote and comment and share. Second, I recently revised the early chapters of this book, including taking out the references to real songs in this chapter. I have replaced those lyrics with my own. Not that I write songs. Finally, the pic is from the Rose Bowl 9-12-14).

"You looked like a slut," my mother says to me when I finally answer her call. It has been a week and a half since the Emmys, and I have avoided her for a reason. "That dress was too short. I mean, the people in the front row could probably see all your lady parts while you were on stage."

"Mother, I was wearing underwear. My vagina was not on display, I assure you." Her shocked gasp satisfies something in me. Why is the use of the scientific term so controversial, anyway?

"It was way too revealing, and come on, not at all for your body type."

"My body type?"

"If you would just lose that last ten pounds..."

I hang up on her. I can't listen to another lecture about how fat I am from my crazy mother. She doesn't even know how much I weigh, for gods sake, to know whether I need to lose ten pounds.

A rerun of "The Fashion Police" agrees with my mother, the host complaining from the tv in my kitchen about the length, cut, and color of my dress. She hated my hair and make up (which were mild and understated compared to the dress, and which I'm sure will devastate Lou). The only thing she liked was the jewelry. I really wish I didn't own a tv right about now. I consider smashing it when the pink-haired young Brit on the panel jumps in in my defense.

"I disagree with you completely. I loved her dress. She's one of my best dressed of the night. I thought it was young, and fun, and it really made a statement." Her accent makes me think of Harry.

"What statement is that? Open for business?" I guess it was a little too harlot for her taste.

The other panelists laugh. People are always fucking laughing at my expense. When I am the one delivering the jokes, I like a laugh. Even if it is at my own expense. But it drives me fucking crazy when people, like my professor and fashion pundits, take such cheap shots.

"No," the Brit bites back. "It says, I'm an adult. I'm not a kid anymore. Take me seriously." Yes.

"I guess that's why she's leaving the show," the host says sarcastically. And I feel a twist in my gut that might be regret, but I can't quite tell. "She just used that show as a springboard for her career." I am disgusted. This show is my whole career. How is nine fucking years a springboard?

They move on, arguing about which nerd from "The Big Bang Theory" was nerdiest. I love that show, and I think it should have won. But we beat them again, for the fourth straight year.

I can't take it anymore. I need to get out, to run. To run past his house. Shut up, I am jogging down to Sal's. It's a Sal's kind of night. Every night, frankly, is a Sal's kind of night. Especially since he started working there. Shut up. As I approach the boys' duplex, I see Louis and Zayn in the yard kicking a soccer ball around. Just as I pass the intersection before their place, Louis kicks the ball hard, and it heads straight for my face. I put my arms up to block it, or catch it, or I don't know, anything that will stop it from hitting me in the eye. It bounces off my forearm and back to Louis, who tucks it under his arm.

"Hi, Zayn. Louis." Zayn grins at me with those twinkling dark eyes, but he doesn't speak.

Louis steps closer, calling, "Sorry about that, Maddie. I usually wait until I've known a girl longer before I hit her in the face with my balls."

Jesus. I laugh so hard tears leak from the corners of my eyes.

"Yeah," I take a deep breath to stop laughing, "At least buy me a banana split first," I joke. Harry gets up from a chair on the porch and walks into the apartment with a scowl on his face. "Is he all right?"