I look up at my teacher standing in front of my desk. She looks at my book with distaste. "So Megan you have decided to join us for school today." I don't say a word. There is really no good way to answer her statement. No way to deflect the scolding that is sure to come. I scan around the classroom for a friendly face to latch on too. Instead I find all eyes trained on me with glee. There is nothing my fellow classmates love more than the bad fortune of others. Vultures. Still I don't get what the big deal is. I don't get math when I'm listening and if I'm just going to sit there and stare uncomprehendingly I might as well put my time to better use and read my book. Something I actually like to do.

Of course my teacher doesn't see it that way. I don't look around. There is nothing to see except the disgruntle glare of my teacher or my sadistic piers (sadistic- to take pleasure in others despair. It's an SAT word). So instead I fix my glaze on the bare white walls. I think that if they painted the walls any color but white school would feel less like a prison.

Luckily I am saved by the bell. I grab my stuff and rush out to the classroom. I'm just at the door when I hear "Megan, would you please stay awhile." Damn, so close. There are two types of teachers. The ones that give a damn about you and the ones that don't. The second type have usually been teaching longer and they are prickly and defensive. They have long since learned that kids don't give a damn about anything they have to teach. I haven't quite pegged Ms. Moorse- my teacher.

"Megan, I don't understand what your problem is. I know your smart. Anyone can tell that by the ten pound books you bring to class. But you don't apply yourself. Are you aware that you are currently failing my class." Actually, I didn't know that. I knew I was doing badly but not that badly. I stare at the floor avoiding eye contact. This is worse than getting yelled at. I can deal with that. But disappointment is another matter entirely. "That is why I expect you to meet me in my classroom every Thursday." I feel an objection rising in my throat. Who is she to tell me where to spend my time. "But- you can't- that's not fair!", I sputter out. "I can call your mother and see what she has to say", Ms. Moorse responds. My shoulders slump. She has me in a corner and she knows it. We both know my mom would say yes in a heartbeat. "You may go now." I hurry out the room before she can expect me to spend more time with her after school.

"Megan are going shopping with us today?", my friend Jenny asks. "I've got a gig tonight.", I say with pride. I love performing, it's the one thing I'm good at. She frowns. Of course it never crosses her mind to actually come and see me play. It used to bother me that she didn't want to see me sing. It's such a big part of my life after all. I've learned to squelch the hurt that rises up in me. "Oh, that's to bad. Maybe next time." We both know that that I'll probably say no next time to. I hate the name brand stores- holister, Abercrombie, those kinds of stores- they drag me in to. They hate the kinds of stores I shop at too. They can't possibly understand how I can feel comfortable in stores where it is practically a requirement to have a piercing to work there.

I can't fathom why they shop at stores where the clerks look at me like I am so kind of roach that needs to be squished. I pick at my vegetarian lunch- another source of friction between me and my friends. My friends and I do not see eye to eye.

I survey the coffee shop where I am playing. It's a good turn out. I see a couple of people who I recognize for some of my other gigs. I do have a bit of a fan base. The intro to my first song comes on. I grab the mike and start singing. For the first time that day I don't think about mike or the flaws of my friendship. I just sing. To me a song is like an ocean. I listen to the rise and fall of the waves that carry my voice. The song ends all to soon. "I would like to thank you all for coming out today. I really love to be able to perform for you guys." They cheer in response and I start the next song.

When I finish my performance I'm covered in sweat. A boy in dark features walks up to me. I gasp because I recognize his face. He has a baseball cap on but if anyone really took the time to look at him they would know him immediately. Because he is Zayn Malik.

"You were really good.", He says. I rack my brain for something witty or clever to say but what comes out is "Don't you have some super-famous place to be? I mean it's not that I'm not thrilled you're here- this is coming out wrong. I'll start over. Hi, I'm Megan Flanagan. Thank you for your support." He laughs but I barely process it because I am still kicking myself for being so stupid.

"Look my band is looking for an opener. You seem to connect with the crowd well. I like your style. Would you grab dinner with me and we can talk." I relax. I love music and I can talk about it for hours. It doesn't matter if you are the queen of England I can talk your ear off once you get me going. "Sure. Do you have a car? I rode my bike here and I can always get it later."

I'm probably the only 18 year old without a drivers license. It just happens when I get behind the wheel. Speed limits just don't agree with me. He walks me to a car which has a rental drivers plate. Which makes sense because it's not like you can take a car with you on tour. On the way we talk and Zayn is surprisingly easy to talk to. His sense of humor is dry and witty. By the time I get to the restaurant the culture shock of talking to an international pop star has worn off. We pull up into a sparsely populated Denny's.

"Can I ask you a question", I say.

"Sure", he shrugs.

"What's it like being an international superstar?", I am honestly curious.

"It's like being a superstar but it's international."

And though I didn't realize it I think that's the first time I fell in love.