Megan
*Windshield-like laughter* Phone. Ringing. Who could be calling me at this ungodly hour?
Sniffling, I reach into my pink purse and fish out my pink phone, which I press against my left ear after swiping the green Answer button. "Hello?" I whisper, unsure if there are other people here in the ladies room.
"Shark! I miss you. How's it going over there? Is New York treating you well?"
Mason. Of course it's Mason. I reply, "Aren't you in California right now?"
When he says, "Yup," I mentally calculate the time difference between NY and LA: It's Saturday, 10:13 pm here, so over there, it's 7:13 am.
"Sun," I tell my younger brother disapprovingly. "You should be asleep."
"I could say the same for you," he counters. "Aren't you usually out cold at nine?"
"Well.." I trail off, stalling on purpose. "I'm at an acquaintance party for freshmen right now."
"Woah woah, hold up. You, Megan Era Young-Hernandez, have skipped your curfew for a college party?"
"Yes," I answer in a defiant manner. "I'm in a different world now, Sun. People change."
"Just don't do anything illegal, alright?" he says from the other line.
"I won't," I assure him. "And guess what? I have friends!" I boast happily.
His delighted laughter fills my ears. "I told you so. You're too sweet, Megan. People would be nuts not to befriend someone like you."
Simply talking to Mason makes me smile. "Have you eaten breakfast there?"
"No. I was busy working on a new choreography."
"Mason," I say reprovingly into the receiver.
"I'll be fine, Shark. Don't worry about me. You should focus on yourself."
Releasing a weary sigh, I respond, "Please eat and rest well. I'm not the only one who cares about you. Your fans are also worried about your health." I pause. "I heard that your resigned two days ago? Is that true?"
He chuckles dryly. "You still keep updated on articles about me, huh? She quit because of a family emergency. It's personal, so I won't go into details. What I can tell you is that my boss hired a new manager, whom I'll be meeting tomorrow afternoon."
A part of me knows I should tell him about my injury.. and my diet.. and my new/first part-time job ever.. But he has a lot on his plate, and I'll just add onto it if I spill the beans. I know he's busy composing, recording, practicing and preparing himself for his upcoming concerts, and I shouldn't bother him with my troubles anymore.
After exchanging I love yous and goodbyes, I end the call, stand up, and exit the cubicle.
Only to freeze at the sight of Jazz washing her hands in the sink. Her luscious golden hair is in a high, loose ponytail, and she's wearing black stilettos and a navy blue, sleeveless dress that makes her blue eyes seem darker.
I swallow hard, feeling my heart beat faster. How long has she been there? And how much did she hear?
"Hi, Megan," says Jazz, twisting the faucet closed. "Enjoying the party?"
"Not really," I admit, with a head-shake. "I'm going back to my dorm."
She yanks some tissue from the dispenser and wipes her hands dry. "I see," she remarks, her blue eyes traveling to my right hand, still wrapped in white bandages. "How's your cut?"
