Contest (chapter 1;part 1)

The cab moved sharply to the left avoiding the red Honda that was using through the New York Street by millimeters, our bodies shifting with the move. I was thrown against the door, and was then stabbed by Rita’s elbow as she came crashing against me. I rolled my eyes at what I knew was coming. A small gasp left her lips, and then she began laughing her shrill, squeaky overly energetic, fake laugh.

“I’m so sorry,” she managed between breaths, a toothy grin still plastered on her face. “The cab just swooshed, and I kinda just swooshed too. It’s so funny. Right? ” She looked at me expectantly, as another giggling fit took over her.

I knew she wanted an answer so I stated a stiff and simple one accompanied by a quick but absolutely unreal smile. “Yeah, sure.” She was starting to get on my nerves, and I couldn’t be more thrilled we were changing partners today. This week had contained the hardest clues yet, and I had done most of the work myself, while blocking outrageous solutions and ideas from Rita. I guess it might be my fault a little bit; maybe I was being too picky. But who could blame me? My last partner had been marvelous Rick. He was perfect. Fine, maybe not perfect, but as close to it as anyone from this game and most of the world could be. Rick was smart, fast, strong, handsome, and he knew a lot about a vast amount of things. What can I say? He was just great. It wasn’t like I let him do all the work, no way that’s just not like me; but he did his half, and that’s almost one hundred percent more than what Rita does. She tries her best, at least I think she does, and it’s not her fault she’s a complete and total airhead, but how on earth did she win a spot on the contest? Luck. It has to be luck. There just isn’t another explanation. That is what it all comes down to, and I’m sad to say I have very bad luck. Yes, I did make it into the contest, but that was done with ability, knowledge, and patience. My thoughts were interrupted by another violent shift of the cab, followed by more exasperating laughter.

Miraculously the driver stops the car, almost killing one of the stupid New York pedestrians who refuse to use the curb. “Here we are,” he says with a thick Arab accent. “Twenty one bucks.” No please, no thank you, no sorry for the terrible driving. That’s New York for you. I’ve been here a day, and I’ve almost forgotten these words myself. I open my wallet and hand over the cash, reluctantly, if I may add, while Rita thanks him and waves good bye. No response whatsoever from the driver, of course. I look around me, spotting a big sign that says Dylan’s Candy Bar in bold, pink letters. Under the name there are three bizarre looking, colorful, geometrical drawings of what I think are lollipops.

“Come on,” I say taking the lead. Rita strides behind me eagerly mumbling about the crazy cars, the cute guys, the lovely logo, and the huge glass doors under it. As we go closer we can see that the biggest candy store in the world is filled to the brim. From the outside it seems as if the gigantic glass building was stuffed with different colored packing peanuts. I can see from across the street someone dressed in a striped apron telling a couple of bouncy attempting to go in to make a line. We wait for the light to change, and then cross the busy 3rd Avenue with surprising ease, making our way towards the line which now also contains a punk with big earphones, an old cuddly couple, and a mom with a young boy. Rita races up behind me and taps my shoulder.