~*June 2002*~
“C’Mon, Tots,” Deon Ann Sampson literally pulled her cousin’s latest literary treasure out of her hand and chucked it behind her, Deon’s metallic blue nail polish sparkling in the June sun, sea breeze lifting from the Hudson river shuffling through her short dirty blonde locks. It was a crisp, cloudless early summer day, the day begging Deon to drop the top of her pride and joy. Deon flicked her electric green eyes up at the rearview mirror holding the cliché fuzzy white dice and sequence of key chains from dozens of places all around the US of her hot pink 1969 Pontiac Firebird convertible to check her lip gloss that was smeared across her thin lips. "You can’t read this whole summer.”
“It just seems so redundant, Dee,” her cousin, Wyllah Rae Sampson replied morosely, reaching blindly behind her for her self-help book “100 Ways to Live to 100” on the black leather seat. A deep, tired yawn crawled up from her swollen throat, Wyllah nearly immune to her discomfort. Wyllah’s long, wavy black hair stayed obediently behind her in a leather clip, the wind dancing over her sky blue princess cut tank top and white peasant skirt.
“Please don’t sick SAT words on me, Willy,” Deon begged dramatically, adjusting her leopard-print rimmed sunglasses and checking her strategically ripped tank top for the appropriate amount of cleavage from her red push-up bra. Deon glanced at her cousin, taking note of her pallid face and droopy eyes. “You feeling alright, Willy?”
“Yeah, sure,” Wyllah replied quickly, leaning up towards the rearview mirror as if she didn’t even perceive her fallen features. Her almond-like, hazel eyes, her full cheeks, her lightly speckled, her little bunny nose, her perfectly-shaped lips, all seemed to dissolve away from her pale complexion. “I just can’t shake this flu-like thing I’ve got.”
Deon agreed casually, not concerned if Wyllah wasn’t concerned. “I thought we’ve been having fun?” Deon suddenly veered the conversation back on course, lobbing her arm on the back on the black leather seat, trying to give full attention to Wyllah while also trying to not run over anyone’s toes.
Wyllah scrunched up her little bunny nose, despising Deon’s nickname for her. It sounded so…dirty. “We have, Deon,” Wyllah assured her, thumbing over the soft pages of the hardcover, reflecting silently over the escapades of the last 2 years, “But you can only travel so much before you get tired…”
Deon couldn’t help but frown at Wyllah’s response, the streets of New York buzzing with rush hour traffic, the city preparing for another whirlwind weekend. “Well, you have your wish, right?” Deon responded lightheartedly, giving Wyllah’s knee a gentle tap. “We’ve got the permit and the building for the café. We should be able to get it on its feet by the 1st of next year, if not by Christmas.”
“Shouldn’t we work on the cafe this summer?” Wyllah suggested heatedly, straightening up in her seat and staring into Deon’s face, hoping her headstrong cousin would humor her. Wyllah and Deon graduated from Illinois University in the spring of 2001 with degrees in Culinary Arts and Business Financing. The unanimously agreed to a road trip to celebrate their hard work and growth, but neither of them imagined it would last a year! The freedom was incredible, and the highway never veered towards home. There were just so many fascinating places right underneath their noses that they needed to stop everywhere…not to mention the many cuties they’ve encountered along the way. “It would make things a lot less hectic.”
“You of all people should appreciate what this country, this world is offering us,” Deon tsk-tsked, drumming her fingertips against the pink fuzzy steering wheel as she waited for a light to turn green. College had been a dire struggle, especially for Wyllah, and they figured this endeavor was their reward. “Besides,” Deon began on a lighter note, smiling widely at your typical tall, dark, and handsome on the corner of 5th and Wall, “It’s our last summer of freedom before becoming strict, boring entrepreneurs.”
Wyllah laughed slightly, tapping her nude French manicure against the armrest. She supposed Deon was right, Deon never steering her wrong before, Deon never worried. Wyllah was just glad that their little road trip was finally winding down, not believing take-out and static televisions was the way to live forever. It wasn’t that Wyllah was Deon’s righthand man or anything, but with Deon, there was always excitement and adventure. Wyllah always felt complete when Deon sends her on a wild ride. Wyllah had traditional values, and she wondered if Deon had any. “You’re right,” Wyllah finally responded, letting down her thick tendrils as they twisted in the sea breeze like live snakes, Wyllah running a hand gently through it.
“Atta girl,” Deon congratulated Wyllah with a wry smile, then adjusted her rearview mirror to get a better view of the cute blonde driving a BMW behind them.
“So where to?” Wyllah asked casually, searching through her bashe hemp bag for her last piece of Winterfresh.
“Well,” Deon began devilishly, scratching her head as if she couldn’t think of a thing to do, “There’s an amateur stripping contest at a club on 45th.”
Wyllah chuckled after Deon yelled happily into the air, Wyllah never certain about what Deon says as they burned rubber down town.