hater ⇔ c.h.

two; when the flatscreen breaks it don't breakeven

The mall is crowded; even more so than usual. People everywhere, especially the food court. I get the evil eye every time a group walks by and notices that I am the only one sitting at a four-seated table. Understanding that it's a Monday and everyone is cranky, I simply ignore it.

Tori works at Holister here in the Central Coast Mall. She's one of only two girls who work there. Her and a girl named Gemma. The rest are all highly attractive guys that are ordered to simply stand around and look, well, attractive. It's not like they actually know how to use the cash registers or make a sale, they just lure teenage girls into the store long enough so they can be convinced to buy something.

I'll admit, I did buy a 40 dollar pair of shorts because one of the brunettes asked me how I was doing.

Curse their chiseled jaws and toned abs.

"Hey, Tegan."

The familiar voice of my best friend brought me out of the thoughts of the delicious guys just standing around with her all day.

"Hey," I smiled, following Tori's movements as she sat down in front of me. "What's up?"

She seemed to be in a better mood. Probably over the pounding headache and queasy stomach.

"Just got off work. How was your day?"

I dreaded speaking about it.

"Turns out clients is the new word for client."

She nodded, searching through her purse, glancing up every few seconds.

"Some girl who thinks she's a hardcore rocker but is really nothing more than a living doll with a leather jacket and a scratched up voice box."

Tori laughed, finally finding what she was looking for in a little zip-up pocket. "So, what I'm hearing is, you hate this one too?" I nodded, lips pursed, ready to go home and have a long shower.

"But enough about Miss Emo-Barbie-Doll. How was your day?"

She pulled the item into my view. Within her manicured fingertips was ripped piece of scrap paper. She slapped it down on the table in front of me, a knowing smirk playing on her lips.

"Oh, you know, pretty good. Just found out what you were hiding from me on the TV the other day."

I read it over, confused, then mentally face-palmed when I finally understood the messy hand writing on the little piece of paper.

AMA's. Tonight at 8:00. Channel 349.

"I knew you were trying to block that channel," she shook her head, still smirking as I sunk into my seat.

Sighing, sealing my eyes shut, and mumbling in a low grumble, I said, "Tori Janice Manchester, you know very well what you're like when you watch music award shows."

"I promise I won't throw the remote at the TV this time!"

You could say we've had some bad experiences with these kinds of things. Her favorite artists lose, her least favorites win. Her favorite band presents, and her least favorite people on the earth perform. These things don't mix well with an overly excited fangirl like herself. She screams at the celebrities she stalks daily and throws things at our poor television, still not understanding that Nick Jonas cannot feel her phone connecting with his face.

"Tori, the last time we watched something like this you broke our television with the clicker just because Sia didn't win song of the year."

She gave a serious look.

"You and I both know that Chandelier was the best song of 2014."

I rolled my eyes, taking in the look of enragement on her face.