As much as he hated my diabolical plans, Austin takes a deep breath, then decides to tag along with me to the library. When he told me about his decision, Austin's dark eyes lingered straight ahead, like a snake preying on the sunbaked floor for a midnight snack.

His hands stayed inside his pockets, whilst his expression didn't seem all that convinced to throw away his dreams and accompany me on a road trip.

Instead, Austin longed to go to Harvard, where he can become a famous comic book artist. Both of his moms have supported his decision, but since Harvard is expensive, Kristy and Olivia made him find a job that can pay his tuition.

Meanwhile, I have no plans on what or who I wanted to be in life. Although I have good filmmaking skills, I didn't know whether my prick of a Dad would let me walk the same road as my older brother did.

Come to think of it, Joseph has already decided on turning me into a lawyer. On weekdays, he would give me a book on Criminal Law then have me read a few chapters.

I tried reading as much as I can, but I couldn't see myself as a lawyer; quoting passages of the law and questioning morals weren't necessarily my thing.

I also don't feel comfortable going to a courtroom, wearing a blazer and defending people from their opponents. So rather than waste thirty hours on studying laws and amendments, I stowed away the book underneath my bed then lied to Joseph that I accidentally left it in my school gym locker.  

At first, Joseph went ballistic then grounded me for three weeks, but after seeing that I had no interest in Criminal Law, he decided to left me off the hook.

He knew the last thing I want is to be involved in crime, but Joseph would rather see his cynical sixteen-year-old daughter become a defense attorney than watch her make short films with a teenage boy.

Speaking of Austin, I notice the sweat dripping quickly down from his bright red face. His eyes were glued to the floor, and his lips grimaced immensely as if he had a sip of black coffee.

In the meantime, Austin's pale hands are still buried deep inside his jeans pockets. Although I couldn't see them, I can imagine the sweat and guilt soaking into his palms like a dry sponge. 

Feeling bad for him, I patted his right shoulder then told him that everything is going to be okay.

"How is everything going to be okay?"  asked Austin glumly. "My best friend is going to jail, Warren is an absolute prick, and so far, our movie ideas are pathetic."

"What?" I say, frowning. "Our ideas aren't pathetic—we've just come up with a badass title."

"I know, but still, " he grumbled. "I should have never forced you to work with me. Maybe I just want to do it so I can hang out with you."

Angrily, he kicked a small pebble onto an upcoming traffic, then cussed: "I am so goddamn selfish."

I gave him a sympathetic look.

"Austin," I began carefully. "you're not being selfish; you just have the IQ of an overbearing mother."

"Wow, that makes me feel so much better," Austin scoffed sarcastically.

"But, " I add. "you are the most incredible person there is. You have a badass friend, two amazing moms, and you are an excellent artist."

Slinging my left arm over his shoulder, I looked at him with confidence eyes. With the shifting breeze consuming like an enormous tsunami, strands of my butterscotch hair had already begun to fall out of place.

Scowling, I abandoned Austin's shoulder then tried to make a neat ponytail out of my messy curls. However, thanks to the wind, my hair squirmed out of my reach.

Like a piece of cloth in the wind, long brownish-yellow locks flew over my fingertips. Its taunting persona made me grab the back of my mane, then tie it into a fist-like bun.

Watching me intently, Austin asks: "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, I am fine," I reply, tightening my bun. "Having Rapunzel's long hair is a pain in the ass." 

"Okay, " he responded back, resuming straight. "so like you said, we have a movie title. But do we even know what the film is going to be about?"

I nodded in pure happiness, moving past two teenage skateboarders gliding across the sidewalk.

"I think I have an idea, " I began. "with my leadership skills and your artistic vision, we can make this film with our eyes closed. Maybe we will be interviewed by Jimmy Kimmel on TV."

Austin circled his eyes at me, shuffling his feet against the sidewalk.

"Yeah, " he mumbled. "and that's if we win."

I shoot him a glare.

"Stop being such a Debby Downer, Austin," I say, cringing at a taxi driver honking his horn. "You wanted to make a movie, so let's do it."

Austin tiptoed around a thick crack then groaned.

"Jack, I am just being realistic." he insisted.

"So am I." I snorted, "anyways, I was thinking at the start of the movie..."

I told him about my ideas and inspirations about Severed Ties. How we can make a tribute to the late Elle Jones by having an adventurous character with wits, charisma, and most importantly, morals.

"But first things first, we need someone who can relate to the protagonist." I continued. "Someone who could entertain the critics and the audience."

"Like a celebrity?" piqued Austin.

I bobbed my head. "Exactly, Picasso."

"Does this protagonist have a name?"

"No."

"Have you decided on the protagonist's gender?"

I glanced down at my moving feet, studying the dead leaves passing over my shoelaces. 

"No, " I grumbled.

"Then how the fuck are we going to make a movie when we have no fucking clue on what the protagonist looks like?"

I angrily looked at him.

"It's called a 'creative process', " I retorted. "Mr. Keswick always says that directing takes planning and precision. Before you make a movie, it all about taking the next step."

"It does," agreed Austin. "and he also says that you need to have a clear mind in deciding on what filmmaking project you want to make."

"See? Now, we are getting somewhere." I say, nudging my elbow against Austin's shoulder. "Can you picture our film showing in the Oscars?"

"Not really," snorted Austin, wrinkling his nose. "but I can picture us being assaulted on another episode of Beyond Scared Straight."

I recoiled at his bitterness.

Even though I had understood why Austin is cranky, it doesn't mean that he should start backing out. Not only do I need him for special effects, but I need him as a friend.

The last time I had someone to relate to, is my older brother, Jacob. We used to talk about school, friends, and share a few sips of Joseph's whiskey, but since he is busy with college stuff, Austin became my right-hand man.

Eyeing at him snarkily, I flipped my middle finger in his way, then continued: "after we print out a map of Australia, let's write our ideas down on separate sheets of paper. Let's write down the lines, plan out the scenes, and chart where—"

I let my words hang for a moment when two dangerous looking teens approached us in a snake-like manner.

The first boy has ghastly pale skin, luscious black hair, and scary tattoos of snakes slithering on both his arms, neck and across his forehead. He wore a black flannel along with a white t-shirt, jeans, and matching black combat boots.

His burnt brown eyes scanned at me directly, as his dog-like nose flared upwards. Acne decorated his long face as the kid's lips are covered in thick, black lipstick.

However, the other one is of Cuban descent: light chocolate tanned skin, curly dark brown hair, and golden plaque spreading across his teeth. Other than wearing a buttoned-up, red flannel shirt, the Cuban boy had ripped denim jeans, white NIKE sneakers.

Taking a closer look, I could see facial hair growing above his upper lip; his bushy eyebrows tightened like knotted shoelaces, and in his left hand, held a bottle of whiskey disguised in a crumpled paper bag. 

Watching them approach our way, Austin grumbled: "Shit, we're in Second Avenue's territory." 

Seeing the foul smiles on their faces, I gave him an unsurprised look.

"Wow, Austin," I say sarcastically. "You realized that three seconds ago?"

"Shut up," he said trembling.

Second Avenue is one of the most dangerous streets in New York; not only the police lost their battles on drugs, but also they also have thieves, gangster wannabes, and con artists.

Before Joseph became promoted as Captain, he told me and Jacob that Second Avenue has two notorious nineteen-year-old teenagers: Skippy Johnston and Clyde Juarez owning the block like it was theirs.

Because of them, every store, supermarket, and alley has been marked as their territory. Although people are allowed to stop by and get their products, you need to pay each of them twenty bucks to get inside.

If you pay the fee, then you're a survivor. But if not, well...Cinco De Mayo.

"Well, well," Clyde sniggered. "if it isn't Tom Petty and Nancy Drew."

"Hey, Tweedle Dicks!" I groaned. "Lay off, okay?"

Both boys turned their gaze to me.

"And just who the fuck are you?"

"I am your nightmare, bitch," I answer coldly. "now leave us alone."

"Give us twenty bucks." Skippy threatened.

"Screw you." I scoffed.

"We ain't playing." Clyde barked.

I eyed him threateningly. "Well, that makes two of us."

"You want to me to give you a knuckle sandwich?" Clyde growled.

"Please, " I snorted, "punching girls in the face is the last thing your grandma wants to hear."

"We can go someplace quiet." offered Skippy. "See how tough you are."

I waved him off casually. "No thanks, but if we did go with you assclowns, our parents are going to lose their shit."

Scanning my eyes at the two boys, I went on: "As soon as they hear you two screwing up your education, then my dad—who is a cop by the way—will arrest you for assault and soliciting."

The two boys stared at each other in fear, then switched their gaze in my direction.

"Is that true?" Skippy whispered to Clyde, whose chubby stomach clenched with fear.

He pondered over whether he should shoot us or scamper away, as his right hand gripped against the paper bag. Clyde's eyes grew big and fearful, picturing himself in a massive prison cell, getting beaten up by his distrustful cellmates.

Shuddering, Clyde hissed, "don't look at me, I don't want to get caught by some pig."

Skippy looked over at Austin, who was standing behind me, then barked: "the fuck are you staring at?"

That's when I take a step further.

"Leave Austin out of this," I snapped. "he's not your concern: I am."

Both Skippy and Clyde snorted at this.

"A white girl?" Skippy scoffed. "Taking on Second Avenue? That's a joke." 

"You noticed that I'm a girl?" I shot back.

Clyde raised his hands up at me.

"Easy, Cracker." he insisted. "We don't fight damsels-in-distresses. Not you, or that pussy little boyfriend of yours."

He points his fat finger at a scared Austin, then laughed, but it sounded like a cat trapped in a blender than a chuckle.

His friend Skippy laughed as well, until I angrily snatched the paper bag away from Clyde, uncapped the bottle, and took a long drink of his whiskey.

The laughter all stopped at once, as Austin, Skippy, and Clyde watched me chug a half a bottle of brown spicy liquid.

"Holy shit!" Skippy cried, gazing at me.

Even Austin's jaw dropped in my direction.

He couldn't believe how reckless I am becoming.

Truth be told I couldn't believe what I was doing either.

Drinking whiskey in public is the most fucked up thing I have ever done in my entire life.

And that's coming from a girl who stole Elle Jones' ash jar.

Nevertheless, the bitter mixture of sour honey and cigarettes vanished, as I shoved the now-empty bottle into the hands of a speechless Clyde.

"What the fuck?!" he gasped. "You drank all my goddamn liquor!"

"Yeah, I did." I say, bobbing my head. "The next time you harass us again, I shove that bottle up your ass."

Clyde looked at his friend Skippy, whose descended jaw had remained paralyzed at my words. 

"So before you go and bore me to death, ask yourselves this: can a damsel in distress do that?"

As pure silence came out of the boys' mouths, I grab a dazed Austin by his shirtsleeve, pushed the stunned boys out of my way, then resume my journey to the library.