Arabian Thief

CHAPTER FIVE

                                                                      

Twenty three. Twenty three missed calls from my mother. I knew I shouldn't have brought the phone. I groaned deeply as I flip open the phone. "Are you there yet?" She asked through the breaking lines.

"Yes," I tiredly brushed my hand through my hair.
My eyes absentmindedly roamed across the car seats then it stopped at Richards who mouthed, "who is it?",

I rolled my eyes and placed the phone on my chest, muffling her voice from the other line, "my mother."

After persuading me for more than twenty times, my mother convinced me to come back home for something urgent, and since I hadn't gotten far with the map, I decided to come back home to shut her up.
Obviously nothing great or strong could shut the woman's mouth but if I didn't come, I'd hear her scream from the house.

After her nonstop rambling, I ended the call.

"You have big buildings here." I turned around to the heavily accented voice of Nylah.
The buildings of New York City quickly shoot passed by in the moving vehicle, but I got a glimpse of tall skylines of each one.

"Yeah, they are called skyscrapers." I told her and her eyebrows drew together before muttering the word, finding a new interest in them. New York City the largest city in the country—most likely highly populated but yet apparently, the price of houses or rent was horrendous.

My eyes traveled at Nylah's choice of attire and I cringed. We argued about that, as immature as that sounds, the girl just wouldn't agree on wearing a simple pair of shirt and jeans, but to my dismay, she refused and insisted on wearing harem pants. Harem pants. To New York.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and looked at her in frustration, "do you seriously want to wear that?"

She huffed, "yes."
Her grey eyes seemed to have turned darker in annoyance ready to protest on what I say. So far, I have hated my encounter with her which isn't very promising.
Nylah was hard to handle—at least to me, she'd argue with me about anything, she never seemed to agree to anything I say, which made me rethink about letting her help me.
 
"Let the girl be." Richards simpered.

"Look," I say trying to make my voice seem soothing but instead she gave me a pessimistic look, "just wear the jeans—it's not like you're going to die or something."

Nylah looked at me in disdain, "I will not wear your white people things."

I cringed at what she said, white people things?  "can you not say that again? You make me sound racist."
Then she started saying some things in Arabic I'd rather not know the meaning.

I heard Richards mutter, "it's like dealing with toddlers"