The Bucket List

She's that crazy musical genius who received a scholarship to Julliard, but vowed she would never play a note of music again, turned down the scholarship and moved across Canada to pursue journalism. Most people saw Summer Terrace as a lost cause, but she needed an escape. She decided that this was the time to do the things that she's been yearning to do. She was going to start on that Bucket list that had been sitting in her notebook for all those years. When this eighteen year old journalist's newest assignment is to go undercover as One Direction's pianist and write articles about everything that happens on and off the stage of their summer world tour, she is overwhelmed to say the least. Summer, now known as Hope Carter, has no clue how difficult it will be to keep her secret as she slips deeper and deeper into trust with each boy and get's swept off her feet by the 'the blonde Irish one.' After all, is it possible to be genuine when you're lying about you're very identity?

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2. Niall, Notes, Never Coming Back

 

                Have you ever heard of an elevator pitch? It’s the ability to pitch a product to someone in the amount of time it takes to ride the elevator from the floor that you leave to the floor that you get off. Being a journalist, I didn’t have a product to pitch Niall Horan. But being a journalist, what do you ask Niall Horan while riding an elevator.

                “You’re the really young reporter girl, right?” Niall asked, interrupting my thoughts.

                “That’s what they call me,” I said, pushing the floor button.

                “Really?” he asked, “That’s silly.”

                I smiled to myself as I looked up at the decreasing numbers at the top of the elevator.  Eight, seven, six- then all of a sudden there was a shaking halt.

                “What was that,” I said, sort of panicky.

                “Well,” Niall said, walking over to the array of buttons. “It looks like we’re stuck.” 

                “No, no, no, no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening,” I said, taking out my phone. “And there’s no reception in here.”

                “Because nothing is worse than spending five minutes with me in an elevator,” Niall said, looking amused at the amount of distress I was in.

                “No, it’s just that I have a Coldplay interview I need to be at in a couple hours,” I said.

                “Don’t worry, it will take ten minutes for them to fix, at the most,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

                “Are you sure?” I asked. “I’ve seen movies where this happens and it never takes ten minutes,” I said, paranoid.

                “That’s because this is real life,” he said, smirking.

                “I’m sorry, I’m not usually like this,” I said, walking over to the side of the elevator and sliding down the wall till I was sitting on the floor, “I’m just stressed. “ he watched me, laughing. “This is a journalist’s dream,” I said, looking up at him.

                 “Really?” he asked, sitting down next to me. “So now that you have my full and undivided attention, what would you like to ask me?” he asked, looking straight into my eyes. It was then that I realized just how think his Irish accent was.

                I leaned my head back against the wall, thinking. “Does it bug you that Liam and Harry get more solos?” I asked sympathetically.

                He turned to look at me, shocked, “No one has ever asked me that before.”

                “I’m not just anyone,” I said. I waited for him as he thought about it.

                “I think it sometimes does. I mean, all the lads have amazing voices,” he stopped to think, “I’m doing what I love and that’s what matters, I just wish that we all got to sing the same amount… but that’s management for you.”

                “That’s silly,” I quoted him as I caught a smirk from the blonde boy sitting next to me.

                “Alright, it’s my turn to ask you a question,” he said.

                I turned to him, a little surprised, “Okay, whatever you want.”

                “How did you get to this job at such a young age? Don’t journalists need degrees?” he asked.

                “You know it’s funny,” I began, “I’ve always loved writing and so when I moved out to Toronto a year ago, my aunt, who is an editor at the magazine I’m working for now got me an internship. After a couple months I was hired to write one of those small ask Tracy columns. You know, the ones that give teenage girls advice on boys and family and school?” I said as Niall nodded. “Then one day, I was in the office and my chief editor was freaking out because her media journalist was sick and there was an interview set up with this kid that had just been signed and had put a single out. I had never heard of him, but since I was one of the only writers in the office at that time, I offered to take the interview. My chief editor reluctantly gave it to me and it ended up turning out really well. The person who originally had my job was more than just sick. She had some sort of disease, I don’t remember what. So when she resigned, I was given the job.

                “Just like that?” Niall asked.

                “Yeah, I guess my chief editor was so impressed with the job I did that she gave it to me.”

                “Congrats,” he said, nodding.

                “I just wish that so many people wouldn’t doubt me,” I said, trailing off.

                “It doesn’t matter who doubts you, as long as you don’t doubt yourself, you’ll be amazed at the things that you’ll accomplish,” he said. I knew he spoke from experience.

                We talked for what seemed like hours and I suppose that I eventually dozed off because the next thing I knew I was in an empty room with Henry and his camera gear.

                “Where am I?” I asked as I sat up in the chair I was sitting in.

                “You’re back stage at Coldplay’s concert. Remember, you’re interviewing them before their concert,” he said, adjusting the camera lens.

                “But I was in the elevator with Niall Horan! I swear I was!” I said, looking around me.

                “Yeah, he dropped you off about fifteen minutes ago.”

                “What?”

 

Niall’s journal: April 20, 2013

                So today I got stuck in this elevator with a journalist. I think her name was Summer. But the weird thing is that she wasn’t interested in getting the latest gossip out of me. She just wanted to talk, like a normal person. She was young, younger than me even.  We ended up being stuck in the elevator for about two hours. About half an hour before we were rescued, she fell asleep on my shoulder. As she sat there, she looked like the realistic version of sleeping beauty. Her makeup was smudged, part of her blonde hair had fallen out of her bun, and her glasses sat crooked on her face, yet she was beautiful. When we were finally rescued, I checked her phone to see where she was going, grabbed one the cars we used to get to the interviews and carried her to the parking lot. Once I got to the stadium I texted her camera man from her phone. I also left her a note on her phone. I don’t think I’ll ever forget today.

 

 

 

                “I loved talking to you today,” I read the note Niall had left me after the Coldplay concert to my aunt Annabelle, who I was living with. “I know you’re going to grow up to be an amazing journalist. Who knows, maybe I’ll run into you again one day. I just wanted you to know that you’ve encouraged me. I didn’t think there were people like you in this business, but now I know there are. Thanks for the best time I’ve ever spent in an elevator. Keep your head high love. –Niall xx

                “That’s so cute!” Annabelle squealed.

                 “I doubt I’ll ever see him again,” I said, shoving my phone into my pocket.

                “You never know,” she said, sipping on some tea she had just made.

                “Well, I’m off to bed,” I said as I headed to my room.

 

 

                “You wanted to talk to me?” I asked as I walked into the office of my chief editor, Mss. Carol.

                “Yes, have a seat,” she said, sliding her glasses down her nose to look up at me. I quickly slipped into the seat that was placed in front of her desk. I looked down at my hands that were nervously grasping each other, then I looked up at Mss. Carol in anticipation.

                “I’m firing you.”

 

 

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