I drop down on my bed and a sigh spreads across my bedroom. "I'm screwed."

"You're not." My head spins towards Brooklyn, my roommate, and I throw her a look that screams my words without telling them. "Okay, you got fired and it sucks balls, but, I mean, it's you. You'll have a new job in a split second." She shrugs, trying to settle my frustrations down, and although her 'everything will be fine' speeches most of the time work, I still feel my heart racing from irritation.

"Maybe." I silently say as I try to believe her words, but it's hard to see the good scenario between all the bad ones playing inside my head.

I had a job, I had a plan and to be blunt, I had a future. It's so frustrating that just one person can make it all fall apart by saying those simple words:

I'm sorry, but I have no other option than to let you go. I'm really sorry, August.

It's like my mind recorded it and the memory is stuck on repeat. Again and again. And again. And again. And-

A loud groan escapes from my throat in an attempt to relieve some of the anger building up inside my chest. "You know what's the worst part? I can't even be angry at Jerry. I can't even be angry at the one who scattered my dreams. Because, you know," I rapidly lift my body from the bed and turn myself towards my roommate. "It's Jerry." I sigh realizing how grateful I actually am.

"Sweet, huggable big bear Jerry," I whine as I let myself fall back onto the bed. My eyes are focused on the ceiling as if it is my own little theater screen displaying all the memories of Jerry and the movie theater I work at. Worked at. 

Past tense, August.

"How can I hate him when he gave me every possible shift or when he let me study in the theater during my shift, just because he knows how important my grades are to me. How important every penny is for me. For three years he stood there, waiting for me after school with his Friday specials." My mouth is already watering just thinking about his cooking skills. "How can I hate Jerry, Brooke?" I pout looking at her desperate for her to give me something to direct my anger at.

She drops down on the bed next to me and meaningfully looks at the ceiling. "You can't, but you know what you can do?" I raise my eyebrows expectantly. She inhales deeply before shooting up and slapping her hand on my thigh. "Little August over here can leave her pity party to go to an actual party, with real people and not with all her miserable jobless future selves trying to take over her positivity."

I cross my arms on top of my chest and lift my head a little to look her in the eyes. "Oh come on, you clearly need the distraction and what better way to distract you than going to a party with me and Luus?" She awaits my reaction opening her arms as if she's exhibiting her proposition on her hands. I stare, I blink and stare some more. "Okay, let me try that again."

She turns her back towards me and clears her throat before spinning around to show me her overly dramatic expression. "August, my dearest darling!" Her arms fly through the air as she sings my name and I press my lips into a thin line to fight the smile wanting to break free. "Your frown, it's depressing. I, mighty warrior against pity parties summon you to attend a real party. Are you ready for your quest to," she pauses to build the tension, "have fun?!"

"You know, I wonder why you never joined the drama club."

"You, who was summoned for this quest, did not answer my question. Are you ready to," she drags out the last syllable, "have fun?!"

"I appreciate the effort and enthusiasm but-" Before I can finish my sentence she cuts me off by repeatedly humming 'no' as she walks toward me.

"You need to dance it off. You need a drink. You need to raise your cute, elegant, little middle fingers to the sky." She grabs my middle fingers and points them at my ceiling. "You need to scream at life to go fuck itself, because if you don't make it, then no one will." That's quite a dramatic statement that doesn't come close to reality but I appreciate her confidence in me. "You need a party, a real one, not a pity party." She walks towards my closet but spins back around halfway there. "Plus, Lucie is already expecting you and I don't want her cupcake eyes shooting me when she notices you're not by my side. Cupcake eyes are not meant to shoot so don't put me on the stand, woman." She points her index finger at me daring me to still decline the offer.

"I'm not having a pity party." I try to dodge the bullet by changing the topic not feeling in the mood for a party because I am, obviously, having the biggest pity party ever.

Her eyebrows shoot in the air. "Then how would you describe this exactly?" Her hand motions to the mess on my bed that is me and I bite my tongue to suppress the feeling of a grin matching hers bubbling up.

"An I'm-trying-to-find-a-reason-to-hate-Jerry-for-the-fact-he-fired-me-although-he-had-no-choice party." Jerry had no choice. He was just like me, a pion in the big game of chess played by the big boss of Cinesomnium.

Big Bear Jerry, as all the employers like to call him, is the boss of a movie theater close to my hometown, but as much as he likes to actually be the owner, he too is working for a boss. Cinesomnium is known for investing in successful movie theaters and building new ones, but I guess Jerry's Cinesomnium wasn't successful enough as they decided to cut the budget, forcing Jerry to cut me loose too. Aside from the fact that he just has to follow orders, the look on his face combined with his hurtful words just made it impossible to blame him.

I'm so sorry, August. I tried everything, but-

It was that little word that hurt the most.

But.

But I can't save your job.

But I have to crash your plan.

So yeah. I might be feeling sorry for myself, but I'm not even close to feeling sorry about having a pity party.

"As someone who's an expert at parties, I'm not sorry to say your party sucks balls." My narrow eyes follow her movement as she walks to my closet and swings it open. I push myself onto my elbows only to watch her scanning my clothes as if she's searching for something. I know the movement. I'm familiar with the tactics because this exact thing happens every time she tries to convince me to go to a party. She waltzes in, proposes to go to a party, I say no, then she swings open my closet, decides there is nothing party-worthy there, waltzes back out only to come back in, throwing a pile of her own clothes at me, telling me she can see my muscles being tense from all the pressure I'm putting on myself and how unhealthy it is for me. Then she throws in the argument that I study something health-related and so – OBVIOUSLY – I should be able to connect the dots between stress and physical and mental health issues.

Have I mentioned she's an expert at convincing people?

However, we're only at the 'scanning my closet' part, so I might have a chance of erasing myself from the equation.

"If you're not enjoying my party you can always leave," I shrug, "or join me so we can watch Love Rosie again, eat brownies, and drink hot chocolate. Or wine if that's what you prefer." The tone in my voice suddenly cheers up at the sound of my own proposal. I'd love to snuggle into the warmth of my bed and ugly cry throughout the movie. Isn't that stress-relieving too? Perhaps I should use that as an argument when she initiates the last stage of her convincing plan.

"No, I'm not going to leave you here all alone moping and I sure as hell am not going to help you mope some more." She glances over her shoulder pausing for a mere second. "How bad of a friend do you think I am?" Although I am really fighting it, her mocking my misery makes my lips twitch.

"Do you want me to honestly answer that?" The tone in my voice implies the smirk on my face. She shoots me a daring look before leaving my room.

"Well, at least you're still taking every opportunity to bruise my ego." She yells from her room and I can hear the smile of accomplishment in her voice. The apartment falls silent making it possible for me to listen to her hangers ramble against each other.

We're officially in the 'choosing an outfit' part. 

Shit, shit, shittyshishit.

"You know, thanks for the pep talk, but I'm going to go to sleep so I'm well-rested for my job hunt tomorrow." I quickly glance at my watch seeing it's already half-past ten making my excuse sound legit. A few seconds pass as I prick up my ears in await of her response. Hangars rambling, shuffling, a door slamming shut, some more shuffling until her feet abruptly stop.

"Oh no." She leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms in front of her whilst holding a small package of clothing in her hands. "Don't you dare try the 'well-rested' excuse on me."

"It's not an excuse." It totally is. "I mean it." Kind of.

"Fine, you need to be well-rested to use your brain to pick out a good-paying job, I get it. But half a brain and another half make one." I frown not really knowing which way this argument is heading. "So count me in and then we can both be not well-rested. Negative multiplied by negative equals positive." She explains, satisfied with the plan she came up with.

"You have a solution for everything don't you?"

"Is that a yes?" Her eyes spark with excitement but she tries to tune it down in case I would still decline.

"On two conditions." The squeal of accomplishment she's been pushing down, bursts through. She claps her hands together and jumps on the bed right beside me.

"Yes, whatever it is, yes. As long as you're coming with me."

"I'm leaving at midnight and you set an alarm for 9 am." Her face falters.

"Are you kidding me?" The shaking of my head makes her squint as if she's determining how serious I am. "You stay till 3 and we wake up at 2 pm."

"Midnight and 10 am." My voice is firm as I put a new offer on the table.

"August Young." She drenches my name in disapproval.

"Brooklyn Donovan," I answer challenging her, trying to win the staring contest we're having at the moment.

"3 and an alarm at 1 pm."

"Midnight and 11 am."

"3 and noon."

"Midnight and 11 am."

"4 and half past 1," she proposes. "I'll make you breakfast," she quickly adds to convince me.

"That would be classified as lunch."

"Is that a yes?"

"I leave at one and we're up by 11. No more. Take it or leave it." I hold out my hand for her to shake. She contemplates my offer and eventually takes my hand to seal the deal.

"Fine, I'll torture myself by setting an alarm then. If-" she holds up one finger, pausing, making sure she has my full attention. "If you promise to leave that overthinking, overanalyzing little mind of you home and have some fucking fun." I wave her conditions away, already regretting giving in.

"Yeah, yeah." Right after the words flow out of my mouth the small pile of clothing hits my head.

"Good." She says, her mischievous grin announcing nothing but trouble.