Colours that I Can't Change

Chapter One

Chapter One

//Niall//

Present – September 12, 2012

I smile into the mirror in my spacious bathroom.  Sixteen years and I am yet to grow noticeable facial hair.  It would be normally be a condemning factor when determining a lad’s hotness.  Luckily for me, the girls swoon over my so-called angelic appearance.  My hair which I had started dyeing blond since years ago and my blue, blue eyes gave me the sweet innocence of a living angel—the girls’ words, not mine!.  My soft pink lips are almost always poised in a perfect pout that girls do fight to kiss.  That was awkward, when at some carnival kiss booth, girls full-out fought in front of me.  I think that YouTube video got about five hundred views over-night.

‘Niall, honey!” my Ma calls out. “Are you done admiring yourself in the mirror yet?”

She knows me too well.

“Not quite!” I reply as I smirk into the mirror.  I inspect the stray strand of hair that has escaped the cage of hair gel and tuck it back into its place carefully. Okay, perfect.

“Well, we’re leaving in five!”

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’!”

My Ma is staring at my quite new hairstyle. “Is that what kids are into these days?

I roll my eyes. “No, it’s just me.  I dunno, some boy band on telly does this with their hair all the time and it’s catching on.”

“As long as it doesn’t devolve into a mo-hawk, I’ll be happy with it.

I’ve half a mind to retort that I’m sixteen and can anything I want to do but I bite it back.

Ten long minutes later, we arrive at the car park and she kisses me goodbye much to my disdain.

“Ma,” I whine. “’M sixteen!

“So? You’re still my little baby no matter how old you are.  Even when you’re forty with four kids, I’ll still kiss you goodbye whenever you leave.”

I abandon ship before she can kiss me some more.  As I walk across the crowded car park, a pale delicate hand darts out to swipe at my cheekbone.

“You’ve some mauve lipstick on you,” the girl says.

I turn around with a grimace.  Emma Watson, my best friend since forever (okay, only since three years ago) is stood there grinning like the world is hers. She used to be one of the less popular kids at school but some time when we were thirteen, we became a part of the popular clique. 

“’S me Ma.  I swear, she babies me even more as I age.

“It’s called maternal instincts, Ni,” she pinches my frowning cheek.

“Yeah, don’t care what it’s called ‘cause it’s annoying as craic.”

She purses her lips at that. “You really have to teach me the Irish lingo.  You Google ‘craic’ and you see things you never needed to see in your lifetime.”

I perk up at that. “Yeah, us Irish and our filthy minds.”

She punches my bicep, hard.

“Ow,” I whine as I rub the spot that is surely going to bruise. “You pack a lot of force into your punch for someone so teensy!”

“Unless you want a matching bruise on your balls, I suggest you shut up and walk me to the office so we can pick up our finalised schedules.”

Like the good best mate that I am, I link arms with her and we depart for the office.  The school building is filled with people, both familiar and new.  The cliques are already in formation, the athletic jockeys joking loudly amongst themselves; the cheerleader chicks chattering about whatever girly girls gossip about; the maths and science geeks are over by the shadows under the swaying willows, trying to stay out of the sun as much as possible; the music kids under crowded under the overhang, a couple of them with their guitars and drumsticks out; the drama people are lounging atop the stone picnic benches, some standing on them.

The office receptionist is new, a woman with blondish brown hair in a messy up-style.  She has hazel eyes and a kind smile.  Her desk plaque reads C. Flack.  She wishes us a fantastic year and we say something generic back.

I take out a cheese bagel from my knapsack and munch on it.  Emma gives me a disapproving look and shakes her head slightly.  My fast metabolism has long been the object of her envy (as well as many other girls) for a long time.  I could probably eat in my weight and still get away with my skinny frame.  Although, with Emma dragging me to the gym with her over the summer, I’ve begun to develop some muscles that I didn’t even know that I had had.  And I pulled a lot of those muscles too, stupid flexibility test exercises.

Too soon, the bell rings and we kiss each other on the cheek before we go off to our first-hour classes.  Mine’s biology in the east wing whilst hers is advanced maths in the south wing.

On my way to class, I pass a couple of the kids from my music composition class and I wave a hasty hi and bye.  Mr Burns is notorious for giving detentions to his late students and I do not want to start off the year on the wrong foot.

By the time I’m in the correct classroom (I don’t know how I still can get lost in a school that I’ve been attending for years) I’m all out of breath and sweating slightly.

Just as I unpack my knapsack, Mr Burns walks in with his signature frown deeply etched onto his face.

“Class, take out your notebook and we’ll get started on today’s lesson.”  Nice, very concise. “But before we do, we have a new student amongst us today.  Mr Malik?”

Subconsciously, my fingers grip onto the edge of my writing desk.  Malik isn’t that common in the UK, so can it be . . . ?

A leather-clad lad with an impeccable brown-black quiff and flawless olive skin walks in.  His amber-brown eyes are framed by the thickest, longest eyelashes that are a little clumped together.  And his dark lips are set in a permanent pout.

Yup, it’s Zayn Malik, the one and only.

He’s back in town.

So much for a sweet seventeen tomorrow.