The Girl Next Door

The British (This Is Why I Like Niall)

“And now for your homework,” Miss Jackson, our Math teacher announced, looking over her pointy glasses. She was this old lady with such a British accent you want to rip your head off and always smells like cats. Basically something between me and Taylor Swift in 40 years.  

I shook Haley’s forearm, “What homework?”

“You know, page 254,” she whispered.

“Oh yeah,” I think I might’ve finished reading ‘The Mockingjay’ for the third time instead of doing that. Whoops.

“Must I remind you that this homework was very important and that everyone who has for some reason forgotten it will be given an F,” she reproachfully said, grabbing a paper from one of Collin’s friend’s lap.

“Crap,” I whispered.

Miss Jackson was about two seats ahead of me when the school PA had sounded.

“Ms Carter Arch, you are being requested at the headmaster’s office.” As soon as I heard that, I had cold sweat coming down my back. Everyone’s eyes were on me, my cheeks blushing. I packed up my bag and stood up from my chair just as Miss Jackson was about to take Haley’s homework.

“Good luck,” Haley whispered as Miss Jackson was looking at the both of us like she wanted to kill us.

I got out of the classroom, and turning right, went to the headmaster’s office.

“Saved by the bell,” I muttered.

“Carter,” I heard someone calling my name behind me. I turned around. Some man was running towards me. I recognised his voice, but he looked completely unfamiliar.

“Richard?” I guessed.

“Yep, that’s me. Look we have to go.-“

“Why? What do you want with me?” he kept pushing me through the hallway until we got to the exit. There, another guy was waiting for us. I think his name was Paul. The two of them stuffed me in the back of a big black van.

“Hello,” I was to busy sticking my tongue out to Paul to notice anything, “Helloooo.”

“Holy Jesus, you scared me!”

“I do have that effect on people,” Harry smiled.

“You have no idea.” I muttered. “Why am I here anyway? I have to go to the headmas-“

“That was just an excuse to get you here?”

“Where the hell are you taking me, Styles?”

“The BRITS,” he said like I was supposed to know what that was supposed to mean.

“The what?”

“British Music Awards… Kind of like the EMAs or Grammys, just British.”

“Just British…” I repeated. “Why do you need me? I’m not going to be your showgirl.”

“Not a showgirl, just a date.”

“Go to the store and buy some.”

“You’re hopeless,” he covered his eyes with his hands.

“Not as much as you,” I continued, hitting him on the head.

“Children!!!” Paul yelled from the front of the van, “Stop it. Now, behave. We’re almost there.”

“Sorry, Paul,” we said in unison. Harry poked me on the hip, so I hit him again.

“They don’t pay me enough,” Paul muttered and turned around.