Shine, Dream, Smile

You Can Make It Through This

Megan

New York City!

Whenever I watch Friends, I always imagine myself coming to Queens or Brooklyn or Manhattan, but I never thought I'd actually be here.

I can feel my whole body shivering from the cold. It's freezing out here! I drag my small pink suitcase along the gravelly pavement, walking around aimlessly, consulting my map, and from time to time, I crane my neck left and right, admiring the urban city.

Everything looks and feels so lively! Everywhere I look, buildings are full of lights, and everyone is dressed so fashionably in knitted hats and beautiful shawls and maxi coats and leather boots!

I squint at the map in my hand. Honestly, I have no idea where I am and how to get where I need to be. What was it that my brother told me? When in doubt, ask for directions.

I pass by several yellow cabs full of angry drivers angrily honking and cursing at each other.

My yellow eyes scan my surroundings. Should I ask that pretty brunette in a black leather jacket? But she keeps checking her wristwatch, as if she doesn't want to be bothered.

Alright, search for a different target. That bearded man wearing a tweed cardigan looks nice. I start walking toward him, dragging my pink suitcase behind me.

But then he whips out his phone and says into the receiver: "Fucking hell, I TOLD you I'm pissed off and I don't want to talk to you or anyone right now!"

Alarmed, I hastily turn away, my heartbeat hammering inside my rib-cage in terror.

I can't call my parents for help. Mom already resents my decision to study here, thousands of miles away from her. The second she finds out I can't make it on my own, she'll have me fly back to the Philippines.

Dad isn't much better. Before I left, he told me that he's proud I want to live independently, but I could tell he also has doubts of me surviving in a country I never thought I'd step foot in.

Wandering around the busy city, I swish my phone back and forth above my head, trying to get some signal, with no success.

At last, I walk onto a steep pavement, waving my pink phone around more wildly, holding it in my fat, outstretched fingertips.

Come on, phone, I mentally cajole it. You can do it. Do it for Megan. There must be a signal somewhere. You can do it..

"A-A-A-AH!" I hear my own yell of shock before I realize what happened. There's a twisting pain in my shoulder. My chubby fingers feel scratched. A figure on a bike is pedaling swiftly toward the end of the road.

I only have time to register a gray hoodie and skinny black jeans before the bike turns the corner.

My hand is empty. What the fudge--

I stare at my palm in numb disbelief. It's gone. My phone is gone. That guy freaking stole it.

My phone is my life. I can't survive without it. It's like a vital organ.

"Can this day get any worse?" I ask myself.

As if in answer, I feel a drop of rain on my head, then another, and another, until it's raining hard, the cold shower drenching me from head to foot.

I look up at the dark, unforgiving sky and yell at the top of my lungs. "IT WAS A RHETORICAL QUESTION, NOT A CHALLENGE!!"

I am wet, I am lost, and my stomach is grumbling. I walk around with my pink suitcase in tow, until I spot a beautiful blonde woman in a chic black beret and white maxi coat.

"E-excuse me," I say, my teeth chattering from the freezing downpour.

Startled, the blonde turns to face me. She smiles warmly. "Yes?" she replies in a tone so kind I want to cry.

Hugging my shivery, pink-leather clad arms, I paste a smile on my lips. "I-I'm lost. W-which way is the S-Special Express Pick-Up P-Post Office?" I stutter. Why is it so cold?! I'm already wearing three layers of clothes!

Sharing her black umbrella, the pretty blonde flashes a friendly smile at me. "It's over there," she says, pointing a black-gloved finger at the blue building on our right.

I peer up at the large signage. SPECIAL EXPRESS POST OFFICE. "Oh," I say dumbly, feeling stupid. I give an embarrassed smile at her. "T-Thank you," I say gratefully. "I appreciate it."

"You're welcome," she says, disappearing into the posh hotel.

Dragging my pink suitcase behind me, I push my way inside the blue building. I stamp the rainwater off the soles of my brown leather boots, but my pink coat is still dripping wet, leaving a trail of tiny puddles on the floor as I approach the mahogany counter.

The man behind the counter looks up, eyeing me strangely. "Good afternoon," he says warily.

I try to sound cheerful. "Good afternoon. I'm here to pick up a parcel."

Mr. Smith--according to his name-tag--vanishes under his desk, reappearing with a clipboard in his hand. "Name?" he asks.

"Megan Y-" I stop abruptly, almost forgetting my plan: I want to avoid special treatment, so I'll be using my mother's maiden name instead of her married name. I clear my throat. "Megan Hernandez," I correct myself.

After browsing his clipboard, Mr. Smith shakes his head at me. "I'm sorry, Miss Hernandez. There aren't any packages for you," he says, making my heart pick up speed.

"B-But.. there has to be a package. I sent it by Shop-E yesterday."

Mr. Smith frowns. "Sharlene?" he calls into a back room. "Has a parcel arrived for Megan Hernandez?"

"No," says Sharlene, coming out. "When was it supposed to arrive?"

"This afternoon!" I say, trying to hide my agitation, feeling a few misgivings. "'Anything, anywhere, by tomorrow morning!' I mean, this is anywhere, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry," says Sharlene. "But nothing's come. Was it very important?"

My damp, pink-clad shoulders sag in dismay. "N-no," I lie, smiling weakly. "It's fine."

I have no clothes. This cannot be happening. I'm in New York, lost, starving, phone-less, and I have no clothes. What am I going to do?

I can't tell my family the truth, not even Mason. He'll surely worry and I know he'll do whatever it takes to make sure I'm okay, even if it means skipping his dance practice or vocal lessons or whatever it is he's doing in South Korea.

Calm down, I tell myself firmly. Just.. calm down. The parcel is bound to arrive tomorrow morning, so I've only got to last one night. And at least I've got my one suitcase with me..

I zip it open and produce my pink umbrella, which I didn't have the presence of mind to use earlier. As I roam the lively streets of the city--it's still drizzling mercilessly, sheets of rain slapping onto the pavements--I muster enough courage to ask a New Yorker for directions to N.Y.U.

This too shall pass.