Sleepyhead

Fruity Pebbles

It’s safe to say I’m related to the devil incarnate. The she-devil, if you will. Toil, broom stone, and all that mumbo jumbo were all wrapped up in the tiny, unsuspecting form of a pigtailed ten year old girl wearing a Hannah Montana pack and carrying a massive stuffed rhinoceros.

Looks can be deceiving, let me tell you.

Little Bailey Lark, my older brother’s daughter, is about as unpleasant as a child is capable of being. She’s loud, snotty, knows how to utilize a fake cry, and makes smudges everywhere. By everywhere, I mean quite literally everywhere. The girl isn’t so much as a regular child, as a super villain out to ruin my life. I’m Clark Kent and she’s that bald guy. Granted, I suppose I am quite a messy person, I’ve been known to a few tornado-like messes, but alas I don’t have jam on my fingers and all over the walls around me.

“Sutton,” she whined, tugging at my hand as we stood off to the side of the stage, waiting for the boys to come out. We’d been waiting for no more than ten minutes and she’d already pulled the Good-Cop-Bad- Cop routine on me twice. I was certain this was no different. Children these days have no idea how to get what they want. Back in my day, we had pizazz. Jazz. Fireworks. A little semblance of creativity, at least.

“Sutton.” This time, she quite literally moaned my name. It was unsettling. I ignored her again, turning my eyes back up to the stage and imagining Zayn Malik, near the side of the stage, serenading me with the beautiful lines of More Than This. Fuck yeah.

“Hmm, what?” So far the only things on state were several unopened plastic water bottles and the opening act, some obnoxious, popstar-wannabe from Essex who wore a little bit too much pink. (Alright, confession time, I usually didn’t mind her set. To be completely honest, Bailey was just making me rather cranky. She made my sunny disposition rather prickly.)

“Sutton.”

“What?”

“Sutton.” She yanked at my arm with such strength that I stumbled a bit, catching myself on the wall behind us. Fucking super-powered ten year old villains, man, they can’t be trusted.

“God dammit, what?” I snapped, gaining a few looks from security. Most notably, the man who called me chicken legs earlier. Yeah, that’s right buddy, see me doing my job. That’s right, I’m a real employee.

“I have to pee.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No.” She smirked.

A roar exploded from my throat as I grabbed the little shit’s arm, yanking her backstage to the toilets. I knew the way well, seeing as she’d had to go wee at least three times already. I told her, firmly, that drinking so much tea would have such effects. But no, don’t listen to Aunt Sutton, because she’s, as my father would put it, “poorly driven and going nowhere in life.”

As Bailey went in for a wee, I leaned against the toilet’s door, arms folded over my chest and feeling more menacing than I probably looked. Technically, I didn’t feel so angry. Bailey might have been my arch-nemesis, but truth be told I was nervous to see Zayn on stage, especially after all that had happened earlier in the afternoon. Not that much did happen really, but I knew how to interpret looks, and there was some heavy eye-sexing coming from both parties.

I had all afternoon to dwell and think it over, but instead I chose to fall asleep back on the bus whilst the girls moved into the hotel for the night. Maybe it would have been better to help out and get settled so I didn’t have to do it after the show, but honestly, when have I ever taken the initiative? Besides, I was so exhausted from all those dirty glances I needed to rejuvenate.