Never Trust A Delinquent

   “Oh great,” Ricky murmured under his breath as the streaks of water fell from the puffs of grey in the sky. The heavy rain mounted on top of the windshield, blocking the view of the parking spot he had his eyes on a few seconds ago. His eyebrows furrowed in frustration. First the parking ticket and now this? Bad luck always seemed to have an attraction to the young man. Sighing, the teenager drove away.

     After five minutes of chasing taken parking spots in the crowd of vehicles, his rusty, beat-up, vintage van finally caught a spot not too far from the entrance. The rain still dropped down as if it were cats and dogs as pieces of ice started to get caught in the midst of it all. Hail was pounding onto the roof of the van. Ricky had no option but to get out of the car before the rain really brewed some more and caused a storm.  Nobody liked getting stuck in a storm. His burlap satchel was held over his head as he made a run to the exit a few feet away. His eyes squinted through the drops of water presenting itself.

     The first thing he thought to do once he reached the doors and escaped the pounding rain was to breath. The infuriating smell of wet grass did not pass well with his tastes. As soon as he entered into the building, he was taken aback by the elegance nestled inside. Rich, velvet curtains draped from the high ceilings as paintings of all mediums hung from the walls. As he walked closer, he noted that most of them were signed by artists even a delinquent like him knew. He couldn’t help but be impressed with how professional the museum was compared to the rest of the ratty town. Walking away from the paintings, he started to take deep breaths to try and calm the goose bumps bulging from his hands.  The smell and taste of pure, clean air felt like a glass of nice, cold water on a hot summer day. Ricky ran his fingers through the curtain next to him, and of course, he felt as if he was touched by an angel. An angel with velvet wings and clothes of gold. An astonished smile danced on his lips.

     “May I help you?” a questioning voice entered his ears from behind.

     Ricky turned around momentarily, his face in shock to see a security guard less than a metre away. A suspicious grimace sat on his lips just from the pure sight of Ricky. Of course he looked suspicious. It was a stereotype Ricky had been trying to break for years. That stereotype alone had prevented him from doing specific activities that he had every intention of pursuing. With a light hearted smile, and the best attitude possible to impress the man, he answered, “Hi. I have to complete this assignment of an artifact in this city, and I heard the Auralious Diamond was here. I’ve been trying to come here for days, but always got busy, and the project is due tomorrow. The diamond is here, right?”

     The guard listened to Ricky’s words intensely, picking up on each vowel said.  The frown that used to live on his face turned to a pleasant smile. He was frankly impressed a kid who looked like Ricky even knew about the diamond, and was vaguely interested in the object. Teenagers were nuisances that had to be locked up in their homes until properly taught how to act in society. A frown would overtake the man every time he saw a teenager roaming the streets, and he for sure thought that this one was here to disrupt the peace. Although, the boy was interested in the rock. The museum had been known to draw people from all places because of the diamond, “Yes it is. Why don’t you follow me?”

     “Will do,” Ricky joked politely as he was lead into a hall draped by maroon curtains and ancient torches. The hall resembled what Ricky could only assume the Whitehouse had looked like in its early stages. His eyes widened in awe, scanning from one artifact to the next. But what he was really engrossed in was the diamond.

     “We can only allow three people in the room at a time. There have been thefts going all through the city of priceless objects. Because of that, we are in very high alert, and everybody will have to participate in a bag-,” the guard looked down at the drenched satchel hanging from Ricky’s shoulders, “or satchel check on their way out.”