INFLUENCER BO B💋TCH (Lesbian)

Chapter 1 (II) NO SUGAR SUBSTITUTE, NO ALMOND MILK, NO GLUTEN FREE PASTRY

⩔ Ava ⩔

I knew it would take her some time to come back, because she was talking on the phone with her bestie. I could hear her voice from the storeroom.

It was 11:30 and empty in our coffeeshop as usually. Having taken a book, I perched on the edge of the round table ready to dive into "Gardens and Design" by Jane Poe. I felt bitter taste of unfairness mixed with shame: mom was right it was me who failed entrance exams. I could be a landscape designer or botanist now! I could say that it was dad's fault, because at that time he decided to betray our family with aunt Camille, mom's younger sister. I felt nauseated at the thought of them having sex and making babies, disgusting. He could have chosen literally anyone on the planet, but he picked up my auntie instead. My sweet dad and my adorable aunt!

"Americano, two spoons of sugar substitute, almond milk and gluten free croissant, please."

I raised my eyes on her.

She sneaked into the coffeeshop like a spy without making a sound. The girl was tall and mildly athletic with nice tight ass and resilient boobies, her face was very nice, but her makeup and outfit was too much as if she has just left Gossip Girl set. I never understood beautiful girls who spent hours to put layers and layers of expensive makeup on their already gorgeous faces. I could be too hypocritical, because I can't afford literally anything, but I found heavy makeup cult ridiculous even doing it for fun.

I slid off the table, fixed my gold-red wavy hair, and put my book on the counter. I didn't want to look ugly and foolish before rich girls like her. I never liked them, neither at school nor now. They have always been fake and arrogant: they thought only about parties, fashion, and boys. I didn't even want to convince myself otherwise, I was too sad right at that moment to be a good Christian girl.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," I said, putting my chin up, "but we have no sugar substitute, no almond milk, no gluten free pastry."

She brought her face up from a super expensive smartphone of the newest model. The girl cocked her pitch black eyebrow up in disbelief. She stood akimbo in front of me glowing with gold highlighter (Jeez, she put it not only on her nose, upper lip, and cheeks, but inside her outer ear!). She wore a black crop top with two green and one red stripes, super tight high waist leggings and a black bomber with gigantic, dazzling, almost blinding sequin roses on it, surely the girl had a black choker on her neck and an ideal high ponytail.

"I've never been to a place with no sugar substitute," she sniffed, texting something, her glistening gold rings, that were placed on almost every finger, were moving too fast thus distracting me: what recklessness, what if I suffered an epileptic seizure? Jokes aside, her image was so annoying.

"You can go to At Monica's, there are two of them five minutes away from here. Just around the corner. I'm sure they have all sorts of shit zoomers adore."

She eyed me in disbelief, as if trying to read my poker face, "Are you serious talking to me like that?"

"I'm dead serious. What else I can do for you, ma'am?"

She turned on her heel and was about to walk off when she changed her mind and came to the counter again.

"So what do you have after all? And I'm not a zoomer, I'm that 90s kid, for your information."

"December, 31, 1999?" I snorted.

"August, 15, 1996," she pouted her damasques red lips.

"Good for you. I can get you French filter coffee made of coffee with kofein, simple white sugar, and a good old croissant full of gluten."

"Deal."

"To go?"

"I want to stay here."

She paid with her platinum card and sit herself at the big window waiting for the order.