Stereotypes (A Harry Styles Fanfiction)

Chapter 1 - Skylar

~~

-Dream-

“Move you worthless little wretch!” my father shouted before shoving me out of his way. Why was I always in his way? Would I ever learn? Would I ever get it right?

I tried to say sorry but he was already gone. I heard him and mother start to fight again.

~~

“Get up punky!” Ugh.

“I told you not to call me that, dad.”

“I don’t see how it’s possible for you to already be so cranky when you’ve just woken up.”

“Well that’s because you’re a morning person and I’m not.”

“Then you’re not an afternoon or a night person either cause you’re always like this.”

“Can you leave now so I can shower?”

He gave me that usual look, the “Why do you hate me so much” look. I probably see this look at least once a day, I’d probably see it more but I often try to avoid him. It’s not that I hate my dad, I love him, I do, it’s just, I don’t know, he annoys me a lot. He doesn’t understand me. Nobody does. I’m not even sure I do.

My name is Skylar, Skylar Kaye Yailen (Yes, believe me I’m well aware of the fact that my initials spell out the first three letters of my first name). My dad adopted me when I was eight from the orphanage. He had a wife then, she was lovely but she was diagnosed with lung cancer about six months after they adopted me. I was lucky I guess, I was only in the orphanage for two and a half years when Tim and Kathy came and rescued me; some of the other kids there had been there since they were born.

I had a twin brother once, after the incident with our birth parents the Child Protective Services or whatever shipped us off to different orphanages. His name was Scott Kale Yailen. I always talk about him in past tense, like he’s dead, which I guess he could be, I have no idea where he is. We were close back when we were five, hell, he’s the only reason I’m alive today. He saved me that terrible night, the terrible night I’ve been dreaming about more often than usual.

“Please don’t dye your hair, Sky,” my dad said as I walk into the kitchen. I’ve just gotten out of the shower so my dark blonde waves are damp and lying against my back, making it itchy.

“Black suits me better. Having a big chest and blonde hair while living in L.A. makes people assume things about you that aren’t anywhere true, like the fact that I don’t drive a pink jeep or sleep with anything that has a penis.”

“Dying your natural blonde hair such a dark color will look awful. Can’t you make a statement with a light brown?”

I just roll my eyes in response and pull the orange juice out of the fridge. I hate living in L.A. People always think “Oooh, you live in L.A.? You must be so cool, you must know so many celebrities!” Which, actually I have met quite a few celebrities but not because of the city, but because that’s my dad’s job. He works for a record label here, one of the most popular ones. Beyoncé, Miley Cyrus, Kesha, Rihanna, Bruno Mars, and those are just a few. I’ve only met some of them, and it wasn’t on purpose. Either they were over for dinner to talk business with my father or I had to go to work with my dad for whatever reason and they were there. Everyone my dad works with sings in one genre, and one genre only. Pop. More like gag.

He couldn’t have signed people like Escape the Fate, or Hollywood Undead, no, Demi Lovato instead. I mean, she’s pretty and all, and all of those singers can sing sure, but I don’t know. It’s just NOT my thing. I almost made a friend college (I’m in my first year at a community college) but as soon as she found out I don’t like Justin Bieber or One Direction, she was out. She said something about “If you don’t find five sexy ass guys with accents hot then I can’t be friends with you”. I mean, how can you tell if they have accents? I guess if you listen to their videos but whatever. And I’ve seen pictures of them but they’re like, perfect. Not a flaw, what’s exciting about that? Nothing!