Written

Chapter 2

When Wednesday morning rolls around, I wake up at 3 a.m. even though I don't have to take Ryan to his appointment for another four hours. My body clock is set, and so when I roll over at 3:03 in the morning, I jolt awake the way I used to in high school when I overslept.
I remember that I don't have to be at the studio until a little later and roll over and try to get some sleep because I can. Nighttime sleep hours are hard to come by for me, so I like to take advantage of them when I can.
Unfortunately, my mind has already started grinding its gears for the day and I can't turn it off long enough to drift back to sleep. I sigh and stumble into the kitchen, putting on a pot of coffee. I grab my phone off the kitchen counter where I leave it charging and check my text messages. I have one from my mom, reminding me about Ryan's appointment, and one from Gail.

*Catherine has requested that we all dress up for the One Direction interview today. Her exact words were "Dressed up but don't dress up too hard." Good luck figuring out what that means.*

I groan a little, but laugh. Catherine is obsessed with appearances. Not her own really, just the show in general. She takes her position very seriously and we are a part of that. She takes pride in her work. And since today is her "big break" interview, I decide to humor her.

*Fine. Not like we're being filmed or anything. Does Catherine need me to bring her some tea? Or like a tranquilizer? How is she?* I send back.

*We actually are. Surprise! Since it's the only interview they're doing, they're bringing in a camera crew. Cat's in a panic. Send help.*

Great. I don't particularly mind being filmed, but I am terrified of the judgments that will be passed by the viewers. In the past week I've gathered a clear idea on the demographics and psychographics of One Direction's fanbase, and I know that their bad side is not a good place to be.
I sigh and walk to my closet. ­­I have exactly two dresses, one red and one black. I decide on the red one, because I usually wear the black one to funerals. I hang the dress up and get into the shower, letting the water reinvigorate me. I linger in there too long, trying to keep the interview butterflies at bay.
I go over names and faces in my mind, desperately hoping that this goes well. Interviews are always my strong suit, though I don't think I or anyone else at the station has ever done an interview of this magnitude before. The more I think about it, the more nauseous I feel. I turn the water off and take a deep, steadying breath.
I've got this, I think to myself. I put on the dress, liking the way it flatters my figure. My hips have always been a little too wide, my thighs touch in the middle, and I have tiny translucent lines across my skin in places. I am not perfect, but I've never minded. My mother used to tell me that I was tall enough that it didn't matter. At 5'9" I towered over most of friends, and my 5'1" mom.
While looking in the mirror, I start to think about the thousands of teenage girls who will see me in this interview.
My breath comes a little faster and I feel my heart racing. I need to take a minute to sit down. Calm down. Calm down. I splash a little cold water on my face and push the thoughts to the back of my mind. I grab my hairdryer and flip my head upside down, blow drying from all angles. My dark brown hair falls into gentle waves around my face without being styled, the only physical trait I've ever appreciated. I line my eyes with a charcoal pencil, apply a little mascara and I'm done.
Catherine would probably rather I put on some foundation or eyeshadow, but this works for me. I am not a Barbie doll.

When I am satisfied with my appearance (and satisfied that ten thousand teenage girls will be at least slightly satisfied with my appearance), I head out the door. It's 6:30, and the streets around me are just beginning to get busy. I chuckle; it's late for me. I have no idea what it's like to drive to work at 6:30 in the morning.
My mom and Ryan live a short drive away from my apartment. It takes under ten minutes for me to get there, and that's with a decent amount of traffic. The only reason I moved out is because Ryan and my mom got tired of being woken up at 3 a.m., and their daily routines always interrupted my odd sleep schedule.
My dad had been out of the picture since I was ten, he left my mom and promptly got remarried to another woman and took on her children as his own. It was as if he had forgotten us, except for the hefty monthly checks and the long rambling phone calls about how he hadn't forgotten us. He and I don't have much of a relationship, but I do answer the phone when he calls (which has been a rare occurrence these days), only because he puts up about half of my rent money. I know that I should be grateful, and he was chomping at the bit to "support" me. Still, buried somewhere deep inside of me is a little girl who needed her dad, and he wasn't there.