The Marcel Makeover

Chapter 6

Marcel's POV

Zayn Malik? I must have heard wrong. Yeah, probably. But now that I think about it, he isn't all that good at Maths, so he might need tutoring...

Oh no.

Just as the teacher was about to say something, Zayn bust through the door, looking slightly flustered.

"Sorry, sir, I was go-," He stopped talking when he spotted me, and he narrowed his eyes, raising a questioning eyebrow at me.

I looked away quickly.

"Ah, yes, Zayn. Marcel, please stay, don't leave yet." Milligan said.

Uh, just let me leave...

"'Sup, sir? What is it you want to tell me?" Zayn asks, completely ignoring me.

"Well, Zayn, I'm sorry to say, but your marks have been dropping drastically this semester."The teacher says.

I remained silent, staring at my shoes.

"Yeah? So?" Zayn asked.

I adjusted my tie, and gulped.

"You'll need a tutor." Mr. Milligan replied simply.

If only he knew...

Zayn groaned, "Who? What's the bloody point of a tutor?"

"Zayn, it's my duty to make sure you get good marks. So, your tutor will tutor you about three times a week."

"THREE BLOODY TIMES A WEEK?" Zayn boomed.

The teacher didn't move.

"Yes. Three times a week. Zayn, I
want you to get good marks, it's just so important, you simply don't understand. I know you don't want to do anything concerning Maths in your life, but it's important."

He ran a hand through his hair, sighing in frustration.

"Fine. Who's my tutor anyway?"

"Marcel." He says, acknowledging me for the first time since Zayn came in.

"Marcel?" Zayn asked, a smirk forming on his face.

"Yes, that's right. Marcel."

I was standing there, trying my best not to cry or shout.

"Huh, ok then. When do we start?" Zayn asked, casually, as if he didn't mind that I was his tutor.

"Actually, now. Today. I'll see you boys tomorrow then." The teacher replied, putting a few sheets of paper in his briefcase and waving his hand, signaling us to leave the classroom.

We both left the classroom, Zayn in front.

"C-Could we s-stop at m-my locker? I n-need to g-get some b-books." I managed to stutter.

"Yeah, yeah, sure. I gotta grab somethin' too." Zayn said, surprising me.

"'K-Kay."

"Oh, Styles?"

"Ye-Yeah?"

"Quit the stuttering. It doesn't sound manly."

"OK." I said, slightly more confident.

Zayn flashed me a toothy grin, before fishing the keys out of his pocket and opening his locker. Mine was right beside his, locker number 289.

Why was he being kind to me?

I mean, normally, he would have dumped me and punched me in the jaw.

Strange.

Zayn's POV

Marcel.

Marcel.

Marcel Styles.

Shoot.

This kid was tutoring me? I don't even want a tutor. This is bad, real bad.

I hate him. I hate him, I hate him.

Urgh.

I need to hit someone.

Marcel!

Oh wait, that's not a good idea. Yeah, nah, won't go for that option...

But this dude likes my girlfriend. I don't like him. I... I dare say I feel sorry for him.

Maybe, maybe I could- No.

Might as well be kind to him.

I shut my locker door, and a few seconds later, he did the same.

"So," I said, breaking the awkward silence, "where are you gonna tutor me?"

"How about, we go to my place, or yours?"

He stopped stuttering, hey, we've made a start.

"Let's go to yours." I replied.

"Uh, y-yeah, um, s-sure."

"What did I say about stuttering?"

"Right. Sorry."

"Hm, yeah. You should be sorry. Sorry for laughing when I got a detention slip. You think that's funny? You're lucky I didn't call Louis to come and 'help' me out, eh? You think it's funny that I got a detention slip? Well, let's see how funny you'll find it when I break your glasses." I threatened, pushing him up against his locker.

He was speechless. Time to mess. I grabbed the collar of his white shirt.

"And on top of that you like my girlfriend. No, mate. It doesn't work like that. Do you understand?" I asked, gritting my teeth.

"Y-yes."

"Now," I said, slightly calmer, letting go of his collar and stepping back, "bow down to me."

I know what you're thinking, why would I make him bow down to me. He's a peasant, I'm the king, that's why.

He went down on one knee.

"Repeat my words," I told him, "I love Zayn Malik. He is my role model, my idol. I would take a bullet for him. He is the only significant person in my life. He is the king. He will tell me what to do. I shall never ever talk to his girlfriend, think about her, hear her speak or even look at her." I smiled inwardly at the last sentence.

He repeated my words, still stuttering.

"Get up." I said, and he did so.

"Can we go now?" he asked

"'Course. Move." I retorted.

When he started walking, that's when I realised it.

This boy was constantly bullied, because of everything he did, how he did it, what he wore. I wouldn't like to be in his position, definitely not. But he must feel really depressed, he has no friends. I felt really bad, because I was the one making his life miserable.

"Hey, Marcel," I said.

He stopped in his tracks, slightly tacked aback that I had called him by his first name.

"Yes?" He replied.

"Let me be your first school friend."