Twenty hours passed like twenty long slow years. I tried wasting time by sleeping, going on the computer, reading, and writing. As a result I was rested, annoyed, wrote four songs, finished Interview with a Vampire, and began the Vampire Lestat. The boys played video games, strummed guitars, and got some rest. Their sleep schedules seemed regular. They were up during the day and slept at night. I did the opposite. I was sleeping randomly throughout the day and stayed up all night, twiddling my thumbs. Morning couldn't come fast enough for me.
Around five, our driver pulled into a busy McDonald's in the middle of Union City just outside of New York. The city was busy with Jersey citizens. Most of them didn't speak English. The cashier at the fast food restaurant had a thick Hispanic accent. It was hard to understand her at first, but at five in the morning I couldn't really understand any one.
I asked her for a simple medium, caramel, mocha latte, and took my seat next to Dennis in a small booth. As they discussed our interview, only hours away, I sat and watched people enter and leave. Everything went by so fast. It felt like people walked in and then walked out in ten seconds or less. I thought I counted at least forty people in the ten minutes we were there, but I'm sure I just lost track or counted people twice. Union City is a busy place in the morning. Its right outside of New York City and everyone was going to work.
I watched them scurry around like field mice, searching for food and caffeine. I thanked whoever was listening to my thoughts that I never had to work a normal job. Life has spoiled me quite a bit. I've been given good friends who take care and look out for me, a nice, comfortable home with someone who loves me unconditionally, and a dream that actually came through. I've never had to work an actual job or fill out a resume. I do work hard though. Writing comes easy. I can write a decent song in twenty minutes if I focus, but touring can be hard. Being away from home seems easy at first. I have no family to miss and I only have about four good friends. After a while I miss the family drives around town and seeing the same old things. In the beginning of the year, I was happy to explore the U.S. I wanted to drive around different states, see different things, and meet different people, but after a few months it all got tiring.
I was stuck in the same bus with the same four boys for months at a time. We never got a break from each other. We fight and threaten each other like a dysfunctional family. If it weren't for Dakota and Connor, I'm pretty sure we’d all be dead. Kyle enjoys picking at everyone's patience. He's only manageable in small doses, so to withstand him for months is difficult. We all end up snapping and yelling. Somehow, Dakota or Connor is able to calm us down. They sort of fix the cracks in the foundation. Without them, the entire of house would tumble down.

I sat in the booth, thinking of everyone's roles in the band. Dakota and Connor is the foundation that holds on the house up. Dennis is like the basement, everything there keeps the house working and functional. Kyle is the roof. Without him the house wouldn't be complete. Where do I stand? Where am I needed? Am I the empty rooms? Am I just a comfortable space?
These thoughts made me sad. I peered down at my hands and picked my nails as my mind cluttered with negative emotions. I instantly thought that I wasn't needed. The band could go on without me. I tried to hold my emotions back, swallowing my sadness, and locking everything away. I had to throw on a happy face and pretend I was okay. We had an interview in a few hours.

We had to board the bus again to cross the bridge and make our way to New York. There was morning traffic which caused a dely. I wanted to sleep through it but the constant honking kept me away and aware.
It took an extra half hour just to reach the city. I thought of New York as a fun place. Whenever I visited, I always had a blast and craved more, but this morning I was less than enthusiastic.
As we drove through Time Square, fond memories passed through my mind. I remembered coming to New York City for the first time when I was fourteen. My high school choir planned a field tripped to Broadway. We were all assigned to groups with a parent chaperone. The groups were given twelve hours to run around the city and do whatever we felt like. My friends and I walked around, went shopping, and ate a ton. I found a cute, small, punk shop while we searched for a restaurant to charge our phones in. It was called Trash and Vaudeville. The shop was small, but the owner packed in hundreds of clothes in the tiny space. I remember shuffling through the shirts, pants, and jackets. The tags ever overpriced, but I didn't mind because I took two-hundred dollars from my parents before leaving. I left the store with a thin, white, skull patterned shirt and a pair of tight, black, skinny jeans. I still had them. I wear them all the time.
I remembered taking our class picture in front of the red stairs in the middle of Time Square. Sixty of us huddled together as our teacher's husband snapped three pictures. I think one of the pictures still hangs in her class room.

Our bus stopped abruptly behind the Good Morning America building. I didn't even notice we were there. A few stylists met us outside the bus doors, separated us, and escorted us throughout the building. My stylist was a woman with olive skin, thick, long, brown hair, which she pulled into a tight pony tail. She was tall and extremely slender. She towered over me.
I followed her through the sea of people that crowded the hallway until we reached my dressing room.
She sat me down in a tall black and proceeded to run her fingers through my hair. She stared at me in the mirror for a while until an idea popped into her head. Never once did she talk to me about her ideas, but I didn't mind. It was her job to get me ready for the camera, so I put my trust in her hands.

The stylist ran her manicured nails through my hair, giving me a puzzling look in the mirror. I could see all the hair styles and ideas flash through her mind. As she did this, the door opened, and I saw from the reflection in the mirror, a tall, official-looking woman step into the room. She hardly ever looked up from her clipboard that was pressed against her waist, and held in her arms. Her light brown hair was pulled into a tight bun on the back of her head; she wore sleek, dark red glasses, and a grey suit with a matching pencil skirt. Her pink lips were pressed together like she was in an intense state of though, but I could really read her face. She just looked angry and harsh.
I watched her walk to the right corner, stand there for a moment, and inspect me with her eyes. She pressed her lips tighter before speaking to me.

"Sadie?" she said to get my attention, "You go on in about half an hour, but we have to get you out of here in ten minutes because after your interview, One Direction will be taking the stage and then they have their own interview to do. Two of the boys will need this room to get ready, but someone led you to another room to wait," she spoke harsh and quick, her tight lips moved rapidly.
A lump developed in my throat when she said One Direction. I couldn't help but feel a bit excited. My cheek flushed a light shade of pink as blood rushed to my face and my heart began to beat brightly. I sound feel a soft squeal in my throat, but it was quickly hushed by the lump.

"One Direction?" I asked with a gleaming face. The thought of seeing Harry again made me blush and more excited. I felt like a little girl, getting all giggly, but the woman had to snuff that dream.
"Don't get all fangirlie on me," she snapped, "I don't need some teenage girl, wetting her pants over a boy band. You won't even be around them."

I felt like a little girl still, only being scorned by an overbearing mother. My excitement dwindled to self-consciousness. I kept quiet and still. My face went back to its normal color and my heart beat steadied. The lump remained in my throat.
The stylist wanted to curl my hair. Unfortunately, she didn't ask my opinion, but I still trusted her to make me look nice. She twisted lochs on my red hair around the curling iron, and let them fall into loose curls. It didn't take her too long because my hair is only about shoulder length.
She then moved to my face. She began to smack my face with foundation and powder until my skin was an alabaster white. I could've past for a walking, flawless faced, corpse with the amount she caked on.
In the mirror I watched the official-looking woman searching the floor with her eyes and then meet my stare with a stern, angry expression.

"Where are your clothes?" she asked with her eyes wide.
"On my body..." I replied in a questionable way. She didn't look amused at all.
Her gazed narrowed and her lips pressed tighter, like she just ate something sour.
"You were supposed to bring a change of clothes for the show," she muttered harshly. No one told me that I needed clothes. I assumed that I was wearing the clothes on my body and that would be fine.

The woman pressed her finger to the Bluetooth headset in her ear and said, "Sadie Manson needs clothes," then there was quick pause, "no, they can't be. This room isn't ready." She went silent and looked at me with a hatred you see in high school girls when someone wears the same outfit as them.
"The boys are here," she exclaimed as calmly as her rage could managed.
I would've allowed excitement to flood back into my body, but the fear of being yelled at by her was too strong.

The stylist began applying more make to my face as swift and delicately as she could. She outlined my eyes with black eyeliner and tried to smudge it a little under my bottom eyelid. She went to apply mascara but a sudden burst through the door snatched her attention, might as well.
I swirled around the chair to see the two boys walking into the room. Harry's face appeared, smiling at me with a bright and cheeky smile. His eyes lit up like Christmas lights as he ran towards my tiny frame. He held me in a suffocating hug for what seemed like hours. Behind him I spotted Niall, strutting through the doorway with a sly smile and a slight wave of his hand.

"I've missed you Sadie!" Harry screamed happily.
"I missed you too, Harry," I replied awkwardly with a giggle.
"I'm sorry, he had a lot of sugar on the plane," Niall apologized like a mother speaking for her child.

Harry gave me one last squeeze before pulling away from me. His smile was still plastered on his face.
The official woman stepped forward, for the first time since her arrival to the room, and began speaking to the boys. She extended one arm and greeted them properly with a smile.
"I'm so sorry you have to share a room with someone. We were very behind schedule. She should be leaving any moment though," she rushed to say.
"No problem. We love Sadie," Harry smiled, wrapping one arm around me.
I bashfully smiled, starring the woman down.
"Right, of course, can I get you anything?" she asked, choking back her disapproval. The boys shook their heads.

Harry and I made a little bit of small talk as he waited for the chair. Niall stood away from us, throwing in a few comments every now and then. I got the funny feeling that he didn't like me much. But, perhaps he just didn't know me.
As the stylist was putting the finishing touches on my face, a man who looked like a body guard, or bouncer, walked into the room with a bag of clothes for me. He set them on the ground and silently walked out. The stylist put her brushes down, indicating that I was done, so I hopped the chair, and dug into the bag to pull out my clothes.
I held the torn, black, graphic tshirt and gray, faded skinny jeans in my hands as I peered around the room. I gave the boys a shy, wincing look. They have me a look of confussion in return. We sat in silence for a few seconds before a lightbulb appeared over Niall's head and muttered a reassuring, "Oh."
Harry continued to look back and forth at us, trying to put the pieces together. It wasn't until Niall turned away from me and said, "I won't look," that Harry finally got it. He clasped his hands over his eyes and giggled childishly. I turned around and quickly began to change.

"I'm sorry," I said.
"No, don't be," Niall replied kindly.
"This has to be awkward," I said with a studder. I'm around guys all the time, but I don't know Harry or Niall very well. We don't have the closeness me and my band has.
"Only if you make it awkward," Harry said. I could hear the smile in his voice and it caused me blush a sharp red. Thankfully, they couldn't see my embaressment.
I pulled the shirt over my torso quickly, but struggled to pull my skinny jeans up. They were tight from didn't washed wrong by the boys and I might have gained weight from fast food. I sucked in my stomach as tight as I could to slip the button through the hole and zip them up. Once they were secure, I let out a sigh, and turned back around.

"How do I look?" I asked. Niall turned around and only smirked, not knowing what to say. Harry kept his hands over his eyes.
"Are you decent?" he questioned.
I replied, "Yeah" and he uncovered his eyes.
"You look casual, I like it. Like one of those normal girls who don't need to look fancy in order look nice," he said.
"Thanks," I replied looking at my socks. I tried to hide the different colors my cheeks were turning. I hoped that over time, I'd get to use to being around Harry. He could say the simpliest sentence and flatter me. Maybe I was a fangirl.

Harry moved out of the chair and dove into a bag he brought, pulling out his clothes. Niall took the seat while Harry changed.
He began to unbutton his blue flannel shirt, but stopped and looked at me. He gave me a cheeky smile and said, "Aren't you going to cover your eyes?"
I smiled back at him and playfully veiled my eyes with my small hands. I couldn't help but peak through my fingers like a kid watching a scary movie. I caught a glimpse of Harry's bare chest before closing the gap between my fingers. The sight of him shirtless made me feel fluttery. My heart jumped into my throat and began to pound rapidly. I could feel my pulse in my head, echoing in my ears, as the world began to cloud with the feeling of shyness and awkward teenage feelings.

"No peeking," Harry chuckled. I could hear the buckling of his pants and the sudden "swoosh" as he pulled them down.
"I-I'm not..." I studdered clumsily.
"Liar," he said with boyish charm. I felt my face flash hot under my hands. "You can look," he said, giving me permission to see again. I uncovered my eyes and examined his new outfit.
"How do I look?" he asked, giving a model-like turn.
He had changed into a dark gray, v-neck, and faded blue jeans. There was a small, wooden cross hanging from a long thread around his neck. His was naturally parted to the right, combed over, and curly. I watched him strike a couple of poses before determining my result.
"You look really nice," I finally said. He flashed me a bigger smile.

The official woman, who I forgot about, pressed her finger to her ear piece, and then looked at with a smile. I didn't like that smile.
"You're on, go," she said, harshly of course.
Harry reached out and rustled my hair when I walked to the door.
"Be good," he said sweetly. Then I closed the door and was escorted to the stage.