I cleaned my room twice that morning to make sure everything was perfect, up to par. My mother was a bit of a neat freak, especially when she’d have people looking at our house. We’ve been trying to sell it for, oh, I don’t know, probably going on four years now, but nobody really seemed interested.
Either way, she shrieked at me the first time because it didn’t look organized enough and we had “very special guests coming!” to impress. Whatever.
I’d been cleaning and organizing that room since I was thirteen to make it presentable. I changed the paint color six times, each time approved by mother and applied only by professionals. I never saw what the big deal was. It’s just a house, after all.
When we closed the deal, I realized who we’d just sold our previous residence to; I put two and two together. If the house was sold to Simon Cowell, who else but One Direction would be staying there? Surely he didn’t want our house compared to his numerous luxurious properties that barely classified as houses.
My mother had been speaking to Simon Cowell about the house for two years, and apparently it’d been his plan since the middle of when the craziness of renovating had begun. He’d been viewing it for two years and it was finally acceptable for his band to move into. Apparently, they were getting a big holiday as a reward for everything they’d done. No shows, no signings, just recording on and off here and there.
And who else but the previous owner’s daughter would be best to be their tour guide and immediate help? Nobody, I guess. I begged and pleaded, but I couldn’t get myself out of it. See, I used to be the biggest of the One Direction fans. I’d buy all their albums, merchandise, and posters, and support them in every way possible but concerts. Nobody famous ever comes to places lacking arenas for a concert. Besides, this place was mainly where old people moved to get away from the busy city. When I was finally able to go to a concert, I had the absolute worst experience. I mean, I don’t blame them, but the guys were basically on end. They were irritable and grumpy and just basically non-sociable. And when I’d scored front row, I got two fractured ribs and I was trampled by the crowd. My idols weren’t the people I’d figured them to be toward me and I was in pain. You can imagine how eager I was to further support them.
I couldn’t get my way out of it, to say the least. Though, maybe I wouldn’t regret it. Or would I?
