Every day I have been reminding myself that New York is the city that never sleeps. From the sound of chirping crickets to the rustle of thick leaves settling in their tree branches, there was no way I can concentrate.

As though my bare legs have been covered in frostbite, I couldn't walk, run, or shift my toes inside these damn black shoes. The luring scent of pinecones and needles rushed through my nostrils as I trotted behind Kristy, forcing myself to stay awake.

Blood and cigarettes from earlier became my afternoon dinner because I couldn't get rid of the taste out of my mouth.

Brownish-blonde ribbons of hair dusted on the back of my neck as a fly—bigger than the size of my thumb—whisked by, delivering a loud buzzing noise inside my left ear.

Shooing the despicable pest away, I caught the old woman and Kristy laughing about something I didn't hear.

Their arms were linked on each other's shoulders, their smiles were like a breath of summer, and their cheerful personalities reminded me of two old friends chatting about the golden days.

Catching up to Austin, who is approximately twelve miles away from me, I asked if he knew the old woman.

Bobbing his head yes, Austin leaned over to my ear then told me that her name is Maple Frost.

"What does she do?" I ask Austin.

"She writes for the Wall Street Journal," he began, shuffling his feet over to mine.  "But sometimes, Maple would write scripts for Elle Jones."

"Really?" I ask in amazement. "So, did Elle Jones—"

"Hire an all-female staff to assist her in her movies?" guessed Austin. "You are right as rain."

I give him a modest look.

"I wasn't going to say that," I said in a disgruntled voice.

"Sure, but you were thinking it," said Austin, smirking. "Anyway, legend has it that she became the first female director in Australian history."

"I think have heard about it," I say, burying my hands inside Austin's coat pockets.

I ran my tongue across my dry lips, hoping the saliva can warm them. However, it didn't; my spit only absorbed the dead skin like a sponge.

"Although I do think it wasn't the case."

Austin frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well," I began. "I read in a news article that Elle Jones was also a professor who surrounds herself in cinematography, directing, and screenwriting."

"I may not be accurate, but during the 1980s, Elle said in an Oscar interview that she became a director so she can give representation a fighting chance."

Austin looked up from his dirty shoes. "Representation?"

I nod, swaying my hair back and forth.

"It's like people of color, gender, sexual orientation," I explain. "Everyone thinks that Elle is like the Martin Luther King Jr. of directing."

"She hires those who deserve the roles, pays them respectable wages, and whenever they get discouraged, Elle gives them advice."

The cold wind gave my hair another toss, but for once, I didn't mind. In fact, it helped me brush the impeccable wisps away from my eyes.

While Kristy and Maple resumed talking, Austin and I casually strolled behind them. Neither of us felt the urge to scamper after them.

Although our aching feet begged us to stop, we continued walking, ignoring the tightness in our shoes.

Looking straight ahead, Kristy and Maple are now walking farther away from us; heels scraped the dirt and grass from their shoes, as the two women continued discussing something.

"Probably they were talking about Elle Jones." I think.

Their smiles suddenly vanished from their lips, talking to each other in hushed whispers. Traces of concern lingered on Kristy's withered, yet beautiful face blossomed when she mentioned the name "Warren Cole" to Maple.

Warren Cole? I wondered.

Thinking back to my childhood years, I remembered that Warren Cole is Elle Jones' grandson. I hear that he used to work with the Facebook billionaire, Mark Zuckerburg, for fives years, but then Warren quit because he decided to build his own company, Warren Enterprises, right here in New York.

Warren Enterprises had wealthy co-workers sell cars, lavish automobiles, and motorcycles all over the world to create an enormous profit.

Word has it that Warren's company dominated various car selling establishments, like Toyota and Ford. New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and other newspaper companies gossiped that Warren was the 'Messiah of Motor', 'The King of Cars', and 'The Man of the Future'."

Everyone gave Warren so much love and praises, that I became nauseous hearing his name splashing across news outlets.

Now that I remembered his name, it kinda made me wonder why I have stopped watching TV.

Shaking me from my daze, Austin asked if I was daydreaming. 

"No," I replied. "I was just thinking about something."

"Like what?" he asked, raising his eyebrow.

I longed to tell Austin what I have overheard from him mom and Maple, but I didn't want Austin to think I am too obsessed with Elle Jones' personal life.

"I was thinking about Elle Jones inspiring me to become a director," I said sheepishly.

"Really?"

"Yeah, " I replied shyly. "I mean, I know how to operate a camera and stuff, but I want to know how to make films come to life."

"What about 'My Last Breath'?" Austin pointed out. "The critics called it 'a thrill of a lifetime'."

"Jacob and his friends helped us make that film." I reminded, walking around a small ant hill.

"And Mr. Keswick," added Austin.

I chuckled, "yeah, and Mr. Keswick."

Still gazing at me from his right, Austin snorted, "I thought you wanted to be a cinematographer and a filmmaker."

I rolled my eyes, swiping a hungry fly that was close to my face.

"I can do all three!" I exclaimed. "That's if I can put my mind to it."

"Don't you think it's kinda overwhelming?"

"Says the person who creates models in his bedroom." I teased.

Not only was Austin good at handling cameras, but he learned how to do makeup, make clay cars and monsters, and animate objects on his computer.

Rolling his eyes, Austin told me he didn't want to make models anymore.

I looked at him in surprise.

"What?" I ask. "How come?"

Austin shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know, there is hardly any inspiration in New York City."

"Aren't you being just a tad bit dramatic?" I ask.

"No." he pouted, shifting his feet across the brown sand. "I am just being realistic."

"Come on, Austin—" I snorted.

"I'm being serious, " he stated. "Whenever I am in my room, I try to mold a zombie out of clay. I read the instructions front to back, I watch a YouTube Channel on how to make it, but when I take out a can of clay, I don't know what to do with it."

Although his hands were buried deep inside his pockets, I can see traces of his fingers forming into massive fists.

His teeth sank his bottom lip, but his eyes didn't grow wet from the cold breeze, unlike mine who allowed the tears to fall down my face.

Annoyed, I wiped the salty liquid off of my cheeks, then urged myself to keep going.

However, all of a sudden, the gust of blistering air stopped blowing. Loud, lazy locusts finally silenced their eerie tune as they hear our footsteps trampling on the bed of grass.

Straight ahead, Kristy, Maple, Austin, and I have noticed an enormous circle of forty people, joined together by a swarm of hands, holding together like two slices of wonder bread stuck together with sticky peanut butter spread.

Just like Austin, the men wore solemn black mourning suits. However, the females—like Maple, Kristy, and I—wore black low cut dresses with matching shoes or high heels.

In the center is a tall, well-dressed man around in his late fifties or sixties; snow-white hair was combed to the side, revealing folds of old skin.

Meanwhile, his eyes are the color of dark butterscotch, his nose was large compared to an elephant's, and his thin lips wrinkled like crumpled paper. 

He wore an Italian black suit, with silky black slacks, and glimmering brown men shoes. A dark red tie looped around his black neck collar, as the man tightened the fabric close to his double chin.

Clearing his throat, the man wiped something off his nose, then said a few words about Elle Jones. 

"Elle Jones was like an incredible muse," he began, grinning at the crowd. "a thousand people pulled out their wallets to see her works on a humble theater..."

As the man went on, Maple leads us into the outer layer of the circle. To Kristy, it was just a small group of mourning loved ones, but to me, I picture the circle as a chart of the earth.

The outer section has several men, young and old, watching the man from a farther distance, while forty crying women and tired children make up the inner layer.


Giving a nod of thanks to Maple, Kristy takes both of our hands, then squeezed us inside the circle. 

In the meantime, I turned my head to take a quick glance at the old woman, but like a fog, Maple vanished into the melancholy sea of people.

"Thank you for coming to my grandmother's funeral, " he said gratefully. "I am sure that all of you are aware of how you cherished her films."

"The fuck?" I said aloud, alarming a dozen women. "You're Warren Cole?"

The man gave me a proud nod.

"Why yes, I am." he beamed. "Pleasure to meet you, my dear."

I frowned indignantly, loathing the sound of his voice.

Although he had seemed to be a nice man, his voice sounded arrogant and cocky, almost like a football player who won many trophies.

As he continued his speech, my confused best friend asked me who Warren Cole was.  

"He is Elle Jones's billionaire grandson," I explained, glaring at the man with intense eyes.

"Elle's grandson?" Austin asked, marveling at Warren's boastful appearance.

"Wow, he must be a celebrity or something."

"Yeah right," I said in disbelief. "The only thing Warren only cares about is his bank account."

After listing his praises to the crowd, Warren had once again cleared his throat, then announced the big news.

"In honor of my late grandmother," he says cheerfully. "I have decided to build a memorial here at this lovely park."

"That way, when we grow weary of age, people will remember Elle Jones as a kind, devoted woman who had risked her life to become a role model for females all around the world."

Friends and relatives became amazed by his generosity, while I stared at Warren in pure shock.

Build a memorial? I thought. Does he mean to tear down the park?

As much as I agree to honor Elle Jones' memory, surely Warren has to be making a mistake; if he destroys the park, then there will be massive complaints regarding the safety of the animals.

Tapping on my friend's shoulder, I leaned over to his ear then whispered: "Are you sure this is what Elle wants?"

Austin shakes his head at me.

"Not really, no." he murmured.

"Someone needs to do something about it."

"I know, but don't think we should interfere." Austin insisted. "He's a celebrity."

"And a dick," I added bitterly, raising my right hand up high for people to see.

Staring at me in horror, Austin begs me to put my hand down, but I refused.

Warren needs to know that this isn't what his grandmother wants.

"Excuse me, sir?" I began. "Can I ask you a question?"

The billionaire glanced in my way again but he kindly allowed me to speak.

"Forgive me for my intrusion, " I say, " but wouldn't the memorial endanger the animals' habitats?"

"What?" Warren inquired, frowning at my question. "What about the animals?"

"Well, they deserve a chance to live." I explained. "What you are going to do is very risky, and you should worry about—"

"Thank you for the warning, young lady," Warren replied, blowing me off. "But as you can see, there is nothing to worry about. Any more questions?"

I raised my right hand again, then a bitter Warren called me.

"I have watched your great-great grandmother's 1987 interview about her recent film, Silent Women," I started to say. "I don't remember the interview very well, but she did mention that she wanted her ashes spread in the Tasman Sea."

Warren gives me a long look.

"Since she was born in Australia, " I went on. "Elle used to love being with nature—"

"I know, " Warren interrupted me again. "That is why, after the funeral is over, I am building a memorial to commemorate my grandmother's legacy."

"Wait, what?" Austin cried.

Warren nodded in Austin's direction.

"As soon as the funeral is over, I am going to tear down this park, then create an Elle Jones' memorial."

"What about her ashes?" I asked bitterly. "What are you going to do with them?"

"There will be no worries," Warren insisted calmly. "I am simply going to find a beautiful well and—"

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" I cried, cutting him off.

A thousand people widened their eyes as they turn to gaze at my angry face.

My messy hair steered clear away from my hateful eyes, and my hands looked as if they wanted to strangle Warren. 

Speaking of the dick, Warren's weary eyes became surprised at my sharp voice.  

"I beg your pardon?" he says, curiously. "What did you say to me?"

"I think you heard me," I roared. "You're basically saying that you don't give a shit about your grandmother."

"You're implying that you are going to force your entire slaves to bulldoze a park, so you  wouldn't have to waste your shitty money honoring  your dead grandmother."

Several people looked at Warren and me in surprise then dispersed words to each other. Never in their lives have they seen a sixteen-year-old girl swearing in front of a celebrity.

Nervously, Kristy tries to get me to pull away from the crowd's shocking stares, but I blissfully ignored them.

"You know, several people think you are a god to them; that you sell cars around the fucking planet." I went on. "That you save people's time, money, and all that other bullshit."

"Well, here is what I think: I think you are a fucking spoiled cocksucker who has no intentions of honoring a dedicated icon."

Several people, including Kristy, stood completely frozen by my rude insult. The children's ears were covered by their spiteful parents.

Baffled and angry, Warren's calm face became dark red as his tie. His hands are clenched together and his lips squeezed on top of one another as if he tasted a bitter lemon.

After finishing my shocking speech, I turned my heel, pushed the paralyzed men and women out of my way, then headed over to the direction of Kristy's parked SUV.