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Track 16 Antwan's Alley: Part One

Marcello sat at the small glass table. Through the decorations of light and trees, the slightly chilly morning wind blew his and Zoe's hair into a frenzy as they scanned the outside of the cafe—its aesthetic matching Ayla's gothic attire. Ayla sat bored, scrolling through her phone in her right hand. With her other, the straw swirled around the green caffeinated slushy drink. Sliding it across the table, she handed it to Zoe.

Politely, she took it, taking a small sip from the straw. "Mm," Zoe hummed. "Sumptuous," she passed it back to Ayla. Her eyes drifted to Marcello's clasped hands, the shiny rings occasionally catching the light. One had a large emerald diamond in it, another was oval, and the orange rock inside had a crudely cut image of a fire. The last one she could see was a blue opal and what looked to be a game controller etched into it.

Earlier that morning, Alder had made her and Marcello drag Ayla from the hotel room. Weeping in Zoe's stiff, awkward arms for minutes on end, apparently, a fit of moodiness that had been so common in the girl as long as he could remember. Alder had just retracted an earlier promise. A miserable look on Marcello's face as he watched the banker's daughter sobbing and pounding the floor with her feet, salty tears running down her face.

Ayla put her phone to her ear, and sighed, "Yes, mom?" There was a long silence. Suddenly, Ayla swore loudly, slamming the glass table with her fist, and threw her phone to the cobblestone sidewalk. Ignoring her bodyguard's look of surprise, she glared at one of her friends, a girl from a lower tax bracket, who followed her around like a shadow.

Wincing, Zoe glanced around at the crowd, their eyes, like spotlights were on them all, 'Don't cause attention to us like that.' Ayla looked to the phone and back at her friend, who sheepishly got up from her chair, putting the phone back in Ayla's palm.

"Can you honestly believe them?"

"No," her friend agreed.

"Did your mother want us to bring you back?" Marcello asked.

"What a fucking bitch," she ignored him. "She has to be SO controlling all the time."

"That's exactly what I was thinking," her friend nodded.

"Okay, hold on," Marcello said.

Zoe looked over, seeing Marcello's glare, but Ayla either didn't notice or didn't care.

"And my father...what a joke. It's like he doesn't even love me. I actually wish I had different parents, or they died!"

Her friend smiled, "I totally feel you on that."

"You really shouldn't say things like that," Marcello muttered.

Ayla turned to him, sneering, "What!"

Sighing, he said, "I'm just saying that you should appreciate them while they're here."

"Tch, whatever," she rolled her eyes and started scrolling through her phone once more, and talking to her friend.

"I was always taught to address my parents with deference," Zoe whispered under her breath.

"Yeah," Marcello mumbled.

Later. Ayla leaned, picking up the pamphlet from the counter. Smirking, she showed her friend, and they both burst out laughing, walking out of the backroom of the convenience store. Before she followed them, Zoe glanced at the man behind the counter and then at the pamphlet. 'Brazilian Butt lift? What in the world?' Her face scrunched in confusion, leaving before she put too much thought into it. She almost walked right into Marcello as he stood on the sidewalk outside; his sight fixated to a man across the crowd.