The air was exceedingly hot and the sun was beating down on my face. The fact that I had to walk to the studio made it a million times worse. Yeah, I know. I shouldn’t complain. I only live, what? A couple blocks away? But, hey, I bet if it was 100 plus degrees, you wouldn’t be the happiest person in town either, especially if your parents are making you walk. Pulling my hair back, I messily placed it into a bun. The warm air wrapped around my neck, bringing a feeling of swift coolness. I peeled the back of my shirt that was plastered to my skin and fixed my shorts. Fanning my hand around my neck, as if it even helped, I continued to walk towards my destination-- a lightly painted building, modernized and small. Trees swayed around it, flowers danced near the entrance. It was as if the air was cooler each step of the way, which it was. I was entering a building with full on air conditioning.
Pushing the door open, I felt the cold air hit me instantly. I gave a sigh of relief. Taking a seat on a leather couch, it felt like ice was touching my thighs. It was my first day on the job and I probably look like a sweaty sock. Turning to a mirror beside me, I noticed strands of blonde hair fell around my neck. My cheeks were tinted pink and my forehead was terribly sweaty. My brown eyes met my own. I looked like I slept in an oven and didn’t bother to fix my hair.
“Dad’s definitely gonna kill me,” I mutter.
I’ve been nagging him for days about giving me this job. The least I could’ve done was look decent, which I honestly did. It was the weather, but that wouldn’t be a good enough excuse. Fixing my hair into a French braid, I tried to cool off as fast as possible. They were coming at 4 o’ clock. I only had five minutes left. To make a long story short, I’m basically a song writer. Or soon to be. My dad basically has connections with multiple singers, bands, and record companies, and the fact that he finally agreed to allowing me to write songs for a band is a once in a lifetime chance.
A door from the hall behind me opened steadily, multiple footsteps heading towards my direction. My eyes widened. I listened to the voices come closer, recognition of my dad’s becoming clearer.
“Dani!” my dad called out happily, sounding almost relieved. “You made it!”
I turned around and smile awkwardly, getting up from the couch. “Hey, Dad! Hey—,”
“One Direction,” my dad finishes for me. “These are the boys that you’ll be collaborating with.”
Turning my attention to five boys standing behind my dad, I extend my hand. “Hey, uh, One Direction, I’m Danica—but call me Dani.”
A boy with green eyes and curly hair instantly takes my hand and boldly smiles. “I don’t believe you want to call us One Direction all the time, do you? I’m Harry Styles. Call me Harry.”
“I’m Niall,” the blonde headed one says, smiling sweetly.
“You can call me Louis!” another one says excitably.
“I’m Zayn.” Putting his hands in his pockets, he quickly adds, “Zayn Malik.”
“And last but not least,” a brown eyed one says, taking my hand, “I’m Liam.”
It takes a while for all the information to enter my brain, but it all finally soaks in.
“Wow,” I laugh. “I think I got all your names down. It should be easy. You all represent your names quite fittingly.”
They grin altogether. Ruffling Niall’s hair, Louis smiles and says, “Thanks, Dani. I’m sure it’ll be a pleasure working with you.”
“And that it will. You’ll all get along just fine,” my dad says. “You’re all about the same age as Dani anyway, am I correct? Dani, you’re 18, right?”
I pierce my lips together and laugh it off. “Close. I’m 17.”
“Right, right,” he says, tousling my hair.
So much for fixing it.
We all stand in an awkward silence. I shuffle around and shift my notebook from my left to right hand.
“Well!” my dad suddenly says, clasping his hands together. “I see you have your work with you already, Sport!”
Everyone starts to eye the notebook in my hands. I shyly hide it away. “Oh! Uh, I didn’t realize that I needed a song by today…”
He shrugs. “You don’t necessarily need a song. Just give them an idea of your style.”
Shit. I thought it was just a meet and greet. I brought my notebook just so I could kill time later.
“Oh, erm, sure, I guess. I didn’t really come prepared…”
“It doesn’t matter,” Harry says reassuringly. “You don’t have to sing or anything. You could just read off lyrics or even just talk about what music you like.”
Thank God.
“Are you sure?” my dad asks.
“Yeah, it’s totally fine,” Niall says.
“She writes songs all the time in her room. I’m sure she has some ready.”
“No, really, sir, it’s okay,” Liam speaks up.
“Hey, like I said, she writes songs all the time. Don’t be fooled when she says she’s not prepared. She’s always writing. Either that or she’s on her laptop, blogging away, chatting--,”
“Dad,” I say stiffly.
He puts his hands up in defense. “Hey, I’m only trying to help.”
“You’re not exactly helping.”
The boys all chuckle.
“I guess I’ll just leave you all alone then,” my dad says, taking a step back. “Call me if you need something.”
I nod my head and wave him off. I start to feel a little more comfortable. Turning back, I try my best to make eye contact with each of them.
“Anyway,” I sing, rocking back and forth. “Judging from your English accents, you’re not from here, huh?”
“That you’re right.”
“We’ve only been here a couple times, but, y’know, only to record,” Zayn nods.
Smiling back, I scratch at my head. An idea brightens up.
“So you’ve never really walked around much then?”
They all nod their heads disappointedly.
I smile and motion my head to the door. “Why don’t I show you around then, eh?”
YOU ARE READING
Your Song
FanfictionDanica Watson has a talent that's been unrecognized for years. Finally, with the help of her father, she's been given the chance to put her song writing to the test. Being assigned to a band of five mischievous and warmhearted boys, she learns the...
