Misfits | m. clifford

1; "Do you need help?"

I had never really fit in in the celebrity world. I know this, because I unfortunately found myself in the company of celebrities more often than the average layman. My best friend, Sarah Farain, was a famous singer, and she invited me to accompany her at just about every red carpet event she could. She thought she was being nice and that I enjoyed myself, and I was too polite to tell her otherwise, but in reality I always felt awkward and out of place.

And that was the position I was in the night I met Michael.

Some member of One Direction had thrown this massive party, and Sarah had ended up on the invite list, which of course meant I went too.

I awkwardly hung behind Sarah, feeling underdressed in my skinny jeans and plain black t shirt. Every other girl was dressed in a skimpy dress, including Sarah. I apparently had not gotten the memo.

"We should go dance," Sarah suggested.

I tucked a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. "Um, you can, I think I'll stay here." I said, leaning against the wall. Everywhere, famous couples grinded on each other, kissing and dancing and sloppily raising glass bottles that swished with overflowing beer. The music vibrated through my body, and lights flashed everywhere.

Sarah shrugged. "Suit yourself," she said, and walked confidently into the crowd of people.

I stood there for a long time, staring at nothing, before finally deciding to go and get a drink. I found my way to the kitchen, and grabbed a beer from the nearby cooler. Might as well enjoy myself.

Except maybe not. I struggled to get the bottle cap off, groaning at myself. It can't be that hard to pop a metal cap off, can it?

"Do you need help?" A voice asked from my side, and I jumped.

I looked over at the boy, who was a sight. The room was dark, And I couldn't see that well, but even so, I could tell he was quite the punk. His blond hair was partially covered by a backwards SnapBack. I spotted an eyebrow piercing reflecting the flashing lights, and an earring glinted as well. His eyes were red and puffy, as if he'd been crying. He fit into that party about as much as I did. He and I, we were alike.

I eyed him. "Um, yeah, actually." I handed him the bottle, and he easily twisted off the cap. He handed it back to me. "Thanks," I took a swig.

"No problem,"

We stood in silence for a minute. He did not seem to have plans to leave, and I did not have plans to be the one to start conversation. "So," he said finally, pulling at the hem of his black shirt that read SEX PISTOLS across the front. "I've never seen you before."

The implications were obvious. The party was for the famous. And the famous generally know each other. So what the hell was I doing there?

I coughed. "I, uh, came with my friend. Sarah Farain? She sings that song they play on the radio all the time, the one about getting revenge on her heartbreaker." I described her until a look of recognition crossed his face.

"Oh yeah, my girlfriend- um, my ex girlfriend loves that song," he said, his tone turning glum.

I chose to ignore his slip. "Yeah. She thinks she's doing me this huge favor by taking me to these things," I laughed a little, in spite of myself, "but I can't bring myself to tell her that I actually hate being around all her celebrity friends." I said, without thinking about my listener. When I realized what I said, my eyes widened, because the chances of this boy I was talking not being a celebrity were pretty slim. "I mean, uh-"

"No, it's okay. I don't really like these people either. Too snobby, too. . . manufactured, no offense to your friend." I noticed the slight accent in his voice. Australian.

I shrugged it off, because I secretly thought the same thing. Only Sarah had been my best friend since third grade, so I never told her that. "So why are you here, then?" I asked.

"Same as you, I guess. My friend took me." He nodded over at a tall blond boy who was already shitfaced, playing beer pong at such a degree of horribleness that only a drunk person can manage.

I nodded, containing a smile. If drunk people are funny to watch, then this guy's friend was practically a comedian. But I soon found my attention back on Michael.

"I'm Thalia," I said, after a brief silence.

He looked at me. "Michael," he replied.

"Michael," I repeated, feeling the way it slipped out of my mouth. Michael. I decided I liked that name.

He smirked at me. "So Thalia, tell me, what do you aspire to be?" He asked out of the blue, and there was a hint of teasing in his voice, the kind that can only be used by someone who's already made their mark.

I blushed a little. "I'm studying to be a writer," I replied shyly.

"Mmm, that's interesting. What do you like to write? Adventure novels? Sappy Romances? History books? Or is it a completely different type of writing, like journalism or something?" I could tell Michael was warming up to me.

"I like reading everything, but I'll admit I'm a sucker for writing romance," I said, giggling a little.

"And by romance, do you mean the horrid, tiny paperbacks with titles like The Bad Boy Next Door, and My Secret Love Affair, or do you mean the beautiful, heart-wrenching novels that make you step back and reevaluate your life as you cry over the story of the two love-stricken characters?" Michael asked.

"Um, definitely the second option," I answered, shaking my head.

He smiled. "Good. I thought for minute that I'd have to leave and find someone else to talk to, which would've been a shame since I am so enjoying your company," he gushed for my amusement.

I laughed and shook my head. "Yes, that would have been disappointing,"

-

Unedited and probably shit but wOw this is gonna hurt to write good bye