"You know if I get asthma I am going to blame you."
"More for Ma to yell at me," he said, wincing.
"Where is Ma?"
"She's on her holiday. Now come on. A piece of advice: close your mouth."
"What? Wh-" I realised why. I got a squirt of powder paint in my mouth. I gasped, tugging my hand out of his and lifting up my shirt and wiping my tongue. That was horrible. It was like the colour was flying everywhere and it didn't help that it was making it hard to see where you were going.
I turned around, realising Darius was gone only to collide face first into a chest, sending me staggering back.
"Oh, sorry, girl. Didn't see you there," said a guy with a beard that was more red than grey. And who was he calling little girl? I opened my mouth to say something but the guy was gone and instead a woman said something in fast French to me. Judging by the look in her face and the fact that she pushed me aside, I believe she was annoyed.
"I guess people aren't friendly. Hey, keep that away from my face!" I snapped at a kid who was holding a sauce bottle. The teen broke out laughing and squirted at me, right on the nose. I shut my mouth and turned away from the spray. I held my breath and I saw an amused person on the sidelines.
Darius.
He was trying not to laugh as I walked, head down, toward him. "Having fun?"
"Shut up and walk," I muttered, grabbing his arm and dragging him. I had enough colour to last me a life time.
How long can five kilometres be? It seemed to be going on forever.
"At this rate we'll never be done," I told him, realising at some point that even the squirters ran past us, giving up after spraying us.
"That's because you keep taking a break," he replied as I sat down on the ground. I waved a hand, wiping my face which was probably coated in three layers of colour. Darius smiled with a shake of his head and sat down beside me.
"You look like an oompa loompa," I commented, seeing all the orange on him. He laughed at that as he ran a hand through his hair, sending orange dust into the air.
"You look like a smurf," he retorted. "Actually, more like a rainbow smurf." He cracked a smile.
"So how far away is the finish line?" I said, as even the old people walked by us.
"Three kilometres."
I groaned. I can't walk another three kilometres.
"It's five kilometres."
"Yea, but for someone who hasn't run, in over a decade, it's hard work, unlike for you. You hit the gym every day."
"How do you know that?"
"Rose," I snapped, waving a hand as my stomach grumbled.
"Hungry?"
"Duh. I haven't had proper food ever since you showed up," I snapped then realised what it sounded like. I lifted my gaze to his confused one.
"I, eh, mean, like, all you rich people keep eating seafood and I sort of hate seafood," I said. Damn. When I am hungry or sleepy, I usually get snappy. Realising what I had just said made me feel bad, really bad.
"Why didn't you just say something then?" He stood up. I scrambled to my feet, dusting the powder off my leggings.
"I-You- Okay, you were pretty scary when you came home," I admitted. He barely even knew my name then. I looked up, expecting to see him angry or something. But there was an amused grin on his face.
"What's so funny?"
"Come on. Let's get you some food," he said, grabbing my arm and tucking it under his.
I noticed the big blockades around. "The only way out is through the finish line."
"Or you sponsor the event. Come on."
He tugged me behind for a few more metres before I saw the security guard he waved over. Muttering something in French, I saw the guard look over at me, cracking a grin. What was he saying?
The guard stepped back and opened the door, ushering us through.
"What did you say?" I asked as Darius pulled me away from the event.
"That's for me to know. Now, how about some French cuisine?"
"As long as you don't feed me snails, I don't care what I eat," I said, patting my stomach. A good hard meal awaits me.
I cared. Staring at the item on my fork, I narrowed my eyes.
"What is this?" I asked, hesitantly taking a bite. Darius had sneaked us in the back of this restaurant that was famous apparently. Darius knew the chef and since no one would let us in dressed in practically powder paint, we snuck in through the back. Him and his connections.
"It tastes like chicken," I muttered, and added, "but a bit chewy." I wrinkled my nose and looked up at the chef. He was a big man who looked like some wrestler with the muscles and all and a bit intimidating with his tattoos across his hands.
"It's frog's legs," said Alphonse, whose smile showed his missing teeth. The half–chewed frog flew out of my mouth and across to the other end of the kitchen, hitting someone's back.
"Oh, gross," I spat, ignoring the laughter around me. I picked up a glass and took a huge gulp, only to spit it back into the glass. "WHAT IS THIS?"
"Escargot stock."
"What's that?" I asked.
"Snail stock."