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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3. Scares, Secrets, But No Longer Summer

 

 

                 When I heard those words my heart dropped to my stomach. Was it because of the elevator innocent? What did I do? What was wrong with me?

                “What did I do wrong?” I asked, trying not to cry.

                “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Mss. Coral said, looking from her computer to me, “I found someone else for the job, her name is Hope Carter.”

                I don’t freaking care what her name is I screamed in my head.

                “She’s you,” Mss. Carol said, simply.

                “I’m really confused,” I said, squinting at Miss. Carol.

                “You’re middle name is Hope and your mother’s madden name was Carter. You’re new name is Hope Carter,” she said, leaning across her desk and looking at me as if that was supposed to clear everything up.      

                “Why?” I asked, “Last time I checked my first name was Summer.”

                “I’ve got a new project for you,” she began, “About a month ago your aunt Annabelle was showing me a video of you playing the piano. She told me that you had gone to a special piano school that allowed you to complete the levels above what most people can complete. You competed all across North America in your school's band and was offered a scholarship from Julliard, but you turned it down. So when I heard that One Direction just lost their keys player right before their world summer tour, I jumped at the opportunity. You are One Direction’s new pianist,” Miss. Carol said smiling proudly at me.

                “So, I’m not fired?” I asked, still confused.

                “No, I want you to do a series on their tour. You will have access to the jokes, the drama and the backstage everything!” she announced, excitedly.

                “And you didn’t even ask me about it before you went and signed me up for this?” I asked, still paralyzed.

                “I thought you would be overjoyed!” she exclaimed. “Of course you will have to go through an audition with the boys before it’s final. But they want you,” she said, pointing at me.

                “I’m just a little shocked,” I said, looking down at my hands, they were shaking. “Wait, I just interviewed the boys yesterday. They’re going to know who I am if I just show up and say I’m going to play keys,” I said.

                “I already thought about that, we’re giving you a makeover and you don’t need to worry, these boys see thousands of girls every day,” she said smiling. “You’re not a real blonde are you?” she asked, smugly. I knew she was.

                “No, I’m not a blonde. I’m naturally a bit darker than this,” I said, staring down at my long hair, that had faded curled.

                “What were you like when you interviewed them?” she asked.

                “It was in a bun and I was wearing fake glasses,” I admitted. When I caught Mss. Carol giving me a surprised glare I told her that I was trying to look older.

                “Well, you’ll get your hair dyed back to your natural color. You’ll get bangs,” she looked at me for a moment as if she was evaluating my appearance, “And you’ll do your makeup completely different than what it was.”

                “This is never going to work,” I said, “I spent two hours with Niall Horan in an elevator for crying out loud! He’s going to recognize me. And what about the legal stuff. They’re going to run a criminal record check on Hope Carter and find out that I don’t exist!”

                “Calm down,” Miss. Carol said, looking back at her computer, “I’ll take care of everything,” then all of a sudden she stopped and stared at me, “You got stuck in an elevator with Niall?” she asked, smiling.

                “Don’t give me that look,” I said, leaning back in my chair.

                “What did you get out of him?” she asked as if she had just won the lottery.

                I shook my head as I got up out of my chair, “It will be a good article. I can guarantee you that.”

                “Summer,” she called back to me.           

                “Mhm.”

                “Why did you turn down that scholarship?” she asked.

                I leaned against her door post, “It wasn’t the right thing for me to do at that time.”

                She nodded understandingly, “Oh, so I’m booking you a nine PM flight for Sunday to London,” Miss. Carol said, eyeing her computer.

                I poked my head back in her room, “Sunday! It’s Wednesday!”

                “Exactly! You also have a hair appointment tomorrow from twelve till two,” she said, beginning to type at her keyboard.

                “You’re telling me I have three days to get ready?” I asked, stunned.

                “Don’t worry, you’ll be in London for two weeks for the choreography and organization of the tour and then you’ll be on the road. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to buy whatever you need. “I looked at her in disbelief. “Hun, you’re working two jobs now, you’ll have the money. Oh and Summer, I want you to keep a journal while you’re on tour. Just write down everything,” she said in conclusion.

                “You mean Hope,” I said, offering a smile.

                She smiled back at me, “That’s my girl.”

 

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