Cats and Carrots (A One Direction Love Story)
This is a group story by me, KeadyKi, and my amazingly talented friend ElMundoEstaLoco. She knows relatively little about 1D and I'm a huge fan.
This story is told from the POVs of twin sisters, Hazel and Delilah. Hazel hates 1D but Delilah's a directioner. What happens to them is totally amazayn!
Rate and comment! :)
Enter the FemiNazi
When I got the call from the man at the One Direction autograph-signing-whatever-it-is (something, under normal circumstances, I would not have attended if you paid me), saying that my sister had fainted and I was needed to come pick her up because she was in no state to drive, I was majorly pissed. But I calmly told the man that I'd be there, hung up the phone, pulled my thin, mousy-brown hair into a messy but tight bun, and started up my foster mother's car.
Now I'm on my way, attempting to abate my anger by playing the radio ridiculously loud. Music usually calms me, but today it sets me on edge, considering that music is what caused this. Well, Delilah's taste in music. More like the people who make it.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel until my knuckles are white-- why does she have to do this? Why does she have to play stupid, play sick and faint, in order to get what she wants? Delilah is pretty enough to win over any boy she wants--tall enough, skinny enough, naturally blonde enough to match any male's definition of perfect. I don't understand why she has to dumb herself down as well.
I get to the parking lot, which is so incredibly crowded that it'll be a miracle to even park within walking distance to the entrance. Great. Biting the inside of my cheek in annoyance, I park in a neighboring Chinese restaurant's lot and congratulate myself on wearing my most comfortable sneakers.
There is a crowded tangle of girls--ranging from young children to teenagers and adults--curling out of the front entrance of the building like smoke. As I near it, a new thought occurs; how am I supposed to find Delilah in all of this mess? And is this the kind of thing where you have to pay to get in? I've never been to a One Direction concert--or signing, whatever this is--and I never had any intention to before just an hour ago. All I really want to do is grab Delilah and leave so I can yell at her for making me do this.
As it turns out, nobody is at the door to stop me but the horde of girls, who stare at me as if I'm an alien species. I probably look that way to them, with my hair in a ratty bun, the bottoms of my jeans flaring, my muddy sneakers, and my (accidentally) paint-stained olive-green army jacket. I mean, who doesn't dress up to meet One Direction?
People who don't give a damn. Or people who are rescuing their sister from...herself.
When I neared the crowd, I almost imagine that they'll part like the Red Sea for the strange girl who obviously doesn't belong, in order not to touch her. But no--exactly the opposite. They acknowledge that I don't belong while I elbow my way through them, muttering apologies as I receive glares for stepped-on toes. I feel like that lion in The Lion King 2--obviously rejected.
When I finally get up to the front, I see a long table covered by a salmon-colored tablecloth, with five empty seats and five black markers, haphazardly placed. There is a red rope in front of the table, and I feel my irritation about to boil over. If they're gone, and Delilah woke up, then she'll have found a way to worm back home and I'll have come here for nothing!
I'm starting to hold a bitter grudge against One Direction. They may be the love of my sister's life, but I'm supposed to be at home, studying.
"Excuse me, miss?" a surly, gruff voice over my shoulder inquires deeply. I freeze, not recalling a single male presence in the entire building as I came in, but as I turn around, I see a scary, bouncer-like man with a badge who must be a bodyguard or something. Somehow, this is extremely comforting.
"Yes, hi," I respond, still feeling a little snappish and reminding myself to tone it down, because he did nothing to provoke me. "I'm looking for my sister, Delilah; someone called and told me she fainted? Is she here anywhere?"
The bodyguard looks down at me (not difficult, I've never been particularly tall) with no emotion; a completely unflinching expression on his face. "She's in the back." How eerie--as if she were an object I had come to buy from him, or a car.
He turns and lets me enter through the red rope, which immediately starts some protests from the crowd, and leads me into a back room that is virtually empty save for another long table (this one without a tablecloth), a refrigerator, and six people.
One of which is Delilah. She is leaning against the table, clutching her stomach like she's having a cramp, her face screwed up in a little pout that would make any boy from our little town to fall to her feet in worship. As it happens, the five boys are fawning over her like she's some novelty.
Blonde. Tall. Skinny. That's the only standard a guy truly needs, isn't it?
I can't help the scowl that crosses my face, even as I ask "Delilah, are you okay?" Six pairs of eyes zero in on me; nobody saw me come in. The bodyguard silently stands guard at the door.
It's not like I haven't seen One Direction before; Delilah's bedroom walls are plastered with them. But everyone's different up close, and seeing all of them, in front of me, wearing tuxedoes, suddenly makes them more...real.
And the fact that they're fussing over my sister makes them appalling.
"Hazel," Delilah states uncertainly, as if she doesn't get why I'm here. She's as dressed up as it's possible to be, for Delilah; she's wearing heels that she could probably kill someone with. I have no idea where she bought them. "What are you doing here?"
The fact that she doesn't know--or is pretending not to know--does nothing for my temper. "Someone called and said you had...an episode." Her face flushes bright cherry red, and I cross my arms over my chest in an attempt to hide my satisfaction. "Apparently I'm your chauffeur, since you're not fit to drive."
Delilah is giving me the most murderous look I have ever seen, her face still as red as a tomato. One of the boys, the one with lighter brown hair and brown eyes, decided to attempt to break the tension.
"Yeah, it's probably good that you're here," he says in a quiet voice, a British accent slightly noticeable. "She full-on passed out...didn't wake up for a few minutes."
I don't know his name so I only nod in his direction, grateful for the update. Glaring at Delilah, I ask, "Are you ready to leave?"
She opens her mouth to argue with me, but one of the guys interrupts her, saying, "We've got to get back to the signing. Break's over." I've never seen Delilah look so furious!
The bodyguard removes himself from the doorway and the band files through, Delilah and I following suit. The adoring crowd outside starts to scream, cameras flash, and Delilah shifts her glare into an award-winning smile in case one of the pictures ends up on the internet. I keep my head ducked low, wishing now my hair was down so it could hide my face. The flashing lights alone are enough to make me nervous.
Just as the bodyguard raises the red rope and puts it away signaling that the band's break time is over, Delilah steps on my foot, letting me know that when we get home I am going to receive hell for taking her away from this.
My anger flares. Excuse me? Who interrupted her study time to come take your sorry butt home? She has no right to be mad at me!
Just as we're about to exit the through the crowd, Delilah turns to the band and says enticingly, "Thanks for saving me."
One of the band members--the one with the insanely curly hair--winks at her and replies seductively, "I'd have given you the kiss of life if you needed it, babe." Delilah's cheeks flush, and she grins flirtatiously at him.
Okay, that's enough. I'm done with this.
"Look here," I snap at him, turning around and folding my arms over my chest. It feels like I'm trying to keep myself from falling apart, or from exploding, I'm so angry. "What in the hell gives you the right to talk to my sister that way?"
The only blonde boy in the band starts to snicker, but I keep my gaze locked on the curly-haired one. His face burns, and he opens his mouth to reply but I cut him off.
"Why are guys all the same? You think that you can get whatever you want from girls with just a few pretty words. Women are not toys that you can flirt and play with and then leave on the side of the street the next morning like trash. It's these chauvinistic views of women that society gives you, I swear, it makes you so stupid." I take a breath. Suddenly, I recognize the one I'm talking to, and I have something more to say to him. "And you know what else? I saw your little comment about 'cats' in 2010; that's very classy. Based off of that, I know exactly what kind of person you are."
"Hazel!" Delilah snaps sharply, grabbing my arm to pull me away, but I stand my ground and glower directly into the curly-haired boy's bright green eyes. The blonde one is cackling, but the one I have confronted just stares, openmouthed, at my outburst.
The last thing I hear before Delilah manages to drag me into the horde is the bodyguard's voice, saying to someone in the crowd, "Please stop recording, miss."