Don't Pester The Ski Patrol • L.S.

5

"Did you see the pictures?"

"Oh yes. Louis Tomlinson Enjoys Lonely Day in New York. Thanks, Daily Mail. That's truly one for the books." I riffed boredly as I trudged through the snow. It's early in the morning, so it's still kind of dark out.

I'm sure others would find it weird that I chose to walk around in the snow before six in the morning, but I hardly slept last night, and years of clubbing has conditioned me to need very little sleep to get through the day. So, when Johannah texted and asked if we could speak on the phone about the new pap pics, it seemed better than lying awake and watching a spider build its web in the corner of my cabin.

"What is the injury you have on your wrist?" asks my mother, feigning concern in her posh, English accent. It's a miracle she's retained it after all of these years of selling out her American children in California.

"I sprained it while skiing. A member of the ski patrol patched it up for me."

"Well, when you come back in three weeks, you can get it looked at by a specialist."

I nearly choked on the muffin I stupidly thought to bring on a walk in the literal snow. "I'm not coming back in three weeks."

"You have to! It's Christmas! We're your family!"

"You just want me to film the holiday special, don't you?"

"Oh come on Louis, your birthday is on Christmas Eve! That's television that writes itself!"

"You said. You said I could have this time to myself." I huff. I feel a bit ashamed for being twenty-five and still needing my mother's approval for everything I do, but such is life when you're forced to be a reality twinkette and Johannah Deakin has her evil talons sunk into your soul.

"You can go back to the lodge after the special."

"No. I want to spend my birthday here." I assert.

It's not necessarily that I want to spend my birthday here, it's that I really really don't want to spend it in The Hills. It's always the same - I get thrown into this big, staged party where I get coked up and way too drunk and end up sobbing on some boulevard at four in the morning. I've cried every year on my birthday for as long as I can remember; it's just what hot people do.

"Louis," she sing-songs menacingly. "You underestimate how willing I am to freeze your assets."

I freeze. "You're serious."

"No, but yes, but also no." She laughs. Well, I'm glad that threatening her own son is hilarious to her, but I, on the other hand, am not having much fun.

"The devil works hard..." I mutter. She knows the rest.

"Before I forget, Lou, I overnighted you a copy of the Daisy Leach issue you did."

"When did I do that?" I ask, racking my brain for the last time I did a magazine shoot. I used to do them more in my late teens, but these days I don't feel like I do anything to warrant a magazine cover. Back then, I'd justify it by saying I'm pretty, and that's more than some people on magazine covers can say. Stupid, shallow little me.

"I don't know, July? I think you pick it up at the office or something. You need to post a picture and thank them and all that nonsense."

"Yeah, yeah."

As my mother talks more of her bullshit about the show and all the things I'm expected to post about, I make a beeline to the main building to pick up the stupid magazine. The transaction is quick because it's the asscrack of dawn, and my mom is still telling her same story by the time I leave the building.