One In A Million

xlv

     It's been five months. Five months since I've last seen the boys in person. My heart twists in place when I think about them. All I want to do is go back to Liverpool, sit down in the media room and watch an old Disney movie with the boys; just until my eyes feel droopy and I pick a boy to lay my head on and fall asleep. I want them to talk to me about rehearsal for their next tour, and what response they think I'll get from mine when it's released.

That's all I want. I just want to be home.

Instead, I'm in Los Angles, in a stiff apartment (I was corrected by my new manager. I shouldn't call it a flat) with the constant buzz of people who cared about the album they were creating more than I did. Again, they were creating it. I had no input.

The songs were cheap, full of mechanical music, and held all of four words over a period of three minutes.

Pretty sure that image is what they were creating with me, as well. My brown hair was bleached white, my piercing was taken out and in went a truly nasty tongue ring (it tasted like copper). And "somewhere along the way, you need to put aside your track clothes and pick up a sense of style." Words by my new manager.

So now I'm wearing only braletts and short shorts wherever I go, along with sky-high heels and makeup so thick I couldn't see my pores. Now, if I had a choice, I would wear these with reason (but not the makeup) But since I'm forced to, I hate it. I feel like a slut.

My manager, Kylie Kurvink, was a stout blonde who wore too much makeup. Her voice was higher than a kite and hurt my ears whenever she spoke. Tre had a fluid voice, and was tall and fit. I missed him. I missed Mark and Izzy too. Now my bodyguards were two fat men who never talked to me.

Kylie had a daughter, Brittany, with the same hair (blonde, but dyed. You could see their red roots.) who worshipped me to the extent of taking pictures of me when her and her mom came over and posting them to her Facebook. Her voice was just as fake as her hair, I couldn't say much more for her friends. They (Jessie, "Rach", and Morgan) loved me just as much.

Do you know how weird it is to see your face all over someones bedroom? Not posters. No, that would be different. But, little did I know, those four stalked me. They had pictures of me out with the boys, out with Josh, out with Missy, setting up for concerts, or out by myself. It was creepy. So creepy.

But, due to Kylie being my manager, I had to be nice to her daughter and her friends. Oh, the amount of times I wanted to bang my head against a wall. Oh, the amount of times I did.

Now, I was standing on the coffee table as I was poked with sewing needles as my stylist (Who sucked, might I add. Definitely not Andi.) sewed together the most revolting costume I've ever worn. Then again, I've only ever worn normal clothes. That's all Andi ever gave me. Jeans, heels, Toms, t-shirts, dresses, and the lot.

Never, ever had I worn a neon pink leotard with a neon green tulle skirt with flashing lights sewn into the hem, glitter on the sleeves and waistband, and fake chains hanging from my hips. Also, it itched. It itched so bad. Fake material always hurt.

But, I had the kick-off concert in just a few weeks, the one where I would reveal the worst songs known to man, so I needed costumes. Costumes, not clothes.

Had I forgot? my songs were taken. The ones I wrote with the boys, with Leo, with Ed, with Missy, with Jenna. All gone. All replaced by the awful songs I described. When I heard this, I started crying and yelling at Kylie that she couldn't do that, but apparently she could. All the songs currently out under my name were withdrawn from iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play. I was left to start from scratch with sings I only put half of my heart into.

"Lillian-"

"Don't fricken call me Lillian, dunderhead." I bit, cutting off the stylist (who seemed to change her name every time I met her, so I gave up) as she spoke.

"Then what do you suppose I address you as?" She sassed, scoffing.

I kicked my foot back, hitting her thigh. Her laugh stopped momentarily. "You may address me as James."

"Wrong!" Kylie came in with my four worshipers tagging along behind her. Kylie looked up, walking over on her 8-inch heels.

Before she could open her mouth, the girls were awing over the horrid costume. "Oh, Lillian you're so pretty!" "I love your tutu!" "Could I try it on!" "I would love to be y-"

"Girls!" Kylie snapped. She turned to me with a red smile. "Danté, you may address her as BooBoo!"

"What?!" I screeched. "No way am I going to go by BooBoo. How retarded is that?"

Kylie laughed, as if not catching my anger.

I stomped down from the table, causing Danté to whine.

"It's catchy!" Kylie's nasal voice replied. "People will love it! I even have a name for the album! BooBoo's Bam Jam's!" She sighed contently.

"No!" I yelled, not even fazing anyone in the room.

"Yes!" Kylie mocked, laughing again. "Not shut up and let Danté fix your tutu, it's all wrong."

"Dang right it is!" I huffed, getting back on the table.

I want her dead. I want them all dead.