You hate the gym. It’s hot and smells like some hairy guy’s underarm and if you’re completely honest with yourself (which you like to think you are), you only come up to wear your cute little uniforms and stare longingly at the attractive trainer: Ashton Irwin. You’re too shy to go up to him and say hello. Maybe it’s because he’s just so tan and muscled or perhaps it’s because he’s the type to date those cute runner girls on the front of the catalog with awesome bods and great hair, and you literally just ate an extra-large cheese fry before coming to do your pseudo-workout… either way you’re not going within the safe five feet away. You step onto the treadmill, setting it on a low setting. You slip your headphones into your ears and turn on something soft. Every time you think you see that lovely, just barely sweaty mop of curls, you step up the pace by at least five. You don’t want to look weak, just in case he’s looking. “Hey!” You feel a tap on your shoulder. You turn around and see the tall redheaded girl from your Anatomy Lab standing there. She’s gorgeous with “I kicked butt for these” abs. You envy her, but you know if you would actually try and work out instead of just keeping a walking pace, you might gain a healthy figure, not that yours is bad in itself, you rather like it. “Hey,” You smile, “You’re Sadie, right?” She nods, pulling her hair up into a tight bun and wiping the back of her neck with the little red towel in her hand. “I was wondering if you wanted to come do Abs Class with me?” You swallow and glance around, looking to see if Ashton is near. You’re not going to go in there and bust your butt if he’s within ten miles. He’s not there, so he must have left early. You stop your machine and gather your iPod, towel and water bottle, “That sounds like fun, sure. Is it hard?” She gives a chuckle with no answer, you wonder what exactly that chuckle mean. Chuckle because it’s so easy you’ve got to be kidding or because you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into?” You follow Sadie back into a little room with about a dozen other women. They’re all stretching and warming up on their little yoga mats. You follow suit, grabbing a blue mat from a stack in the corner and setting it down. How bad can it be if you get to use yoga mats? You could use a nice, relaxing cool down. You smile to yourself as you sit down, twisting your back until it pops on both sides. “So,” You lean towards Sadie, “How hard exactly is this?” She grins, “Oh, this class is the reason I look like this.” She gestures towards her toned stomach. You find yourself gulping. Oh God, it was a “you don’t know what you’re getting into” chuckle! There’s still time to leave! You go to stand up, about to feign illness, when a sound clap from the front of the room startles you. You whip your head over and your jaw drops. Ashton-Freaking-Irwin is standing there in his running shorts and that stupid blue tank top that makes you see everything, a red bandanna pulling back his curls. His eyes skim the crowd, landing on you with a smirk, “Hello ladies! I see some familiar faces, as well as some new ones.” You gulp and pick at the bottom of your two-toned tank top. You’re about to run away. This is not what you signed up for when you were persuaded into joining this gym for the New Year. You were promised low rates and the added bonus of looking at cute boys. Not dying because of them! Ashton walks over to the CD player with an iPod attached, giving you ample time to check him out. He’s gorgeous, really, it makes your heart hurt. “Okay, ladies, let’s start with four reps of toe touches, a twist and then we’ll go down for maxing our push ups. I trust you’re all well-oiled machines, all stretched up?” You gulp, you’re a little rusty. Some upbeat music starts and Ashton turns to face the mirrored wall at the front of the room, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, “And one and two and three and go!” He yells. You don’t even know what’s going on because between every repetition of exercises, you lose count and have to pause. Ashton keeps grinning and smirking at you every time he sees you get flustered and you want to slap yourself, he probably thinks you’re an idiot. “Push ups, ladies, and remember: I challenge whoever hits the floor first. Loser buys me lunch!” You want to gag on that stupid towel lying on the ground. You’re sore and sweaty already and you’re ten minutes into the workout. You go down into a haphazard push up position and begin doing baby push ups, you can’t be blamed though: last time you did a push up was in sixth grade when you were still built like a twelve year old boy! Ashton starts walking around, “Embrace the burn, Susan! Don’t give up now, Wendy, you’re halfway there!” Just as he’s standing over you, your belly hits the floor. You curse under your breath, “Uh oh! It looks like we have a dropper!” Ashton gets down beside you, his full lips pulled up, “You know what that means, babe?” You peer up at him under your sweaty bangs, “I’m new here, I don’t really think this rule applies to me. Plus, you’re so much fitter than I am…” Ashton wraps his hand around your bicep, “Come on, then. I see you working out all the time, this’ll be a cinch! It’s either win or buy me lunch, and I’m a growing boy so your pocket might be feeling it in the morning.” Was that a double entendre?! You gulp and get back into push up position. You have to win or be humiliated forever. You get into push up position one final time, your arms and lungs burning. “Go!” Ashton’s fast, lightning fast. He winks at you as he grins. How does a guy smell good even when he’s sweaty? You’re struggling. He moves to one hand and then a diamond position and you want to strangle the cute trainer with his little bandanna. You feel your elbows give out as you hit somewhere around fifty, falling over and rolling onto your back, ‘I lose.” Ashton leans over you, his face only slightly sweaty, “I really like that little café on the corner of Main and Park. See me after class and we’ll figure out the details.” He grins as if he’s won something and stands up, “Okay! It’s sit-up time!” What have you done, what happened to the safe five feet?!
I really like this one. Feedback?
He has Monsters inc. on his shirt.
She has Nemo on her dress.
Violet has murder in her eyes.
***Trigger warning: self harm & mild language***
***Trigger warning: self harm & mild language***
"Come on!" Your overseeing editor shouts down at you, "This is literally the chance of a lifetime. You get to grab a few interviews with these boys before they hit the big time, spread their rags to riches story around. You know their EP hit shelves less than a month ago, they’re number two in the US. They’re going to tour with One Direction… they’re all attractive and you’re trying to tell me you don’t want to interview them?!" You gnaw on your lower lip, trying to pull your skit down over your thighs. No, you don’t want to interview 5 Seconds Of Summer. You don’t want to interview anyone. You want to crawl in bed and sleep and sleep and sleep until you go numb and can’t feel this gnawing feeling inside your chest. "Why doesn’t Macy tackle this one? She’s got the people skills. Girls want to see boys being asked about boxers vs. briefs, not "what is your muse for your music?" You tuck your hair behind your ear, "Why not her?" Your editor pinches the bridge of his nose, "Because Macy will hook up with them, I need someone who can go in and get the job done. Jake is off for the week because his wife had a baby and we want a young face to represent us. You’re fresh out of high school, you know what kids these days are into. Please just do this." You swallow and gather your list of questions, "Okay, sir." He pats you on the shoulder, "Atta girl! You’re onto big things, kid. You get a good interview with them and you’ll be doing big stories." That’s what you’re doing at this rinky-dink late night talk station, you’re trying to make it big in journalism. Unfortunately, they give you baseline stories instead of letting you tackle humanitarian issues. You go down the hall to the interview room and open the door. Seated there is only one tanned boy, where are the rest? You close the door behind you and the boy looks up, his smile breath taking. You swallow, "Hi, I’m the interviewer from KWTV." The boy reaches out his hand, "Pleasure, the name’s Calum Hood. My, um, band should be here any minute. Luke’s thong broke and the rest of them decided they’d accompany him in finding new ones at… Walmart?" You pull your skirt down, the rough material rubbing your thighs wrong, making your teeth clench. You sit on the chair across from Calum, "That’s fine. Um, thongs?" Calum laughs, his eyes crinkling on the sides, "I always forget about you cute Americans being confused over our terms. Thongs are flip flops or sandals." You nod, tucking your hair behind your ear, "I see." Cute Americans? You pick at the edge of your skirt, trying to avoid the gaze of the cute Australian sitting across from you. "So," Calum says slowly, "What made you want to be in the TV business?" You look up with a raised eyebrow, "Journalism, this is sort of temporary. I want to do nightly news, breaking stories and all that instead of interviews… Aren’t I supposed to be asking questions?" Calum chuckles, running a hand through his hair as he pulls his legs up under him Indian style, “I think it’d be cool to do reporting, you get to be the first to know what’s going on in the world.” You cross one leg over the other, leaning forward. Maybe it’s the way his eyes light up while talking about your dream makes him seem like the most interesting person in the world, “Yeah, that’s why I want to do it. I love being able to convey things to people in a way that is personable.” Calum nods, his eyes flitting over your face and down your torso, coming to rest at your leg. You glance down and notice that, just your luck, your skirt has hiked up ever so slightly, the little red marks from last night visible. You look up and shake your head, seeing he wants to ask about it. You place your hand over your thigh and swallow, “No.” “B-but… why do you do that?” You shake your head, “I don’t really feel comfortable talking about that with you, Mr. Hood.” Calum’s eyebrows furrow, “You’re about to invade my personal life as soon as my band gets here, I just want to know what hurt you so badly to make you take it out on yourself.” You don’t want to tell him about your ex calling you names, you don’t want to cry for attention from this beautiful almost-famous guy. It’s not okay. You shake your head again, “I c-can’t talk about it.” Calum looks down at the ugly blue and yellow carpeting, “You know, if someone’s treating you like shit, you shouldn’t put up with that. I know it doesn’t compare, but my band gets a lot of hate and people tell us to die and stuff and we just have to let go of our negativity towards those people so we can focus on the good. The good fans, the good music and the good memories.” You clench your eyes shut and Calum’s hand reaches across the divide and cover your own shaking palms. It’s not a romantic gesture, it’s friendly. You appreciate it, Lord knows you haven’t had much support lately. You swallow, “Thank you.” Cal squeezes your hand, “You’re welcome.” You sit in silence for a moment before the door pulls open, revealing three disheveled boys. The multi-colored haired one cusses under his breath, “Thought we’d beat the reporter here. Sorry for being late. They introduce themselves and Calum holds you gaze a little longer than necessary before you get up and set up the camera, ready to proceed with this interview. The words Calum said ring in your ears, if someone’s treating you like shit, you shouldn’t put up with that. He’s right. You deserve to be treated better, you deserve to think about the good and feel better about yourself. You’re worth it.
NO ONE EVER TAKES PHOTOS WITH ME
Boldly going … again.
Dave Franco attends the 2014 MTV Movie Awards at Nokia Theatre L.A. Live on April 13, 2014