Up All Night Page 4

  Suddenly Ken is dragged under and Alma’s voice cries into the mic, so loud that all you can hear is muffled little-girl screeching. The water turns a bright red.

  “Very good effects if I do say so myself,” I say. “Just took ten bottles of food dye.”

  “My amore, mi amor!” Alma’s pony voice screams. Like, screams. We all clutch our ears, laughing hysterically.

  And then Cassandra-Maria-Francesca spins dizzily into the whirlpool—my hand whipping her around in frenzied circles.

  The camera zooms in and out, in and out, making me queasy.

  Baby Alma’s screams fade, and baby Britt’s voice speaks gravely over the bloody and chaotic images. “I told you this was a tragedy.” From off-screen, you can see my hand splashing some clear liquid into the tub, hear a match being lit, and then—then the entire tub catches on fire. A second later my mom’s voice shouts from off-screen, “Son of a bi—”

  The screen cuts abruptly to black and white letters spelling out, “THE END . . . OR IS IT?”

  “Genius!” Alma declares, pumping her fists into the air.

  But it isn’t over. The credits roll with “Music of the Night” from The Phantom of the Opera playing.

  Written and directed by Pepper Kang

  God: Brittany Leigh McIntosh

  Cassandra-Maria-Francesca/Reporter Luigi: Alma Edie Ríos

  Special effects: Pepper Kang, Brittany Leigh McIntosh, Alma Edie Ríos

  Stunts: Pepper Kang

  Cameraperson: Brittany Leigh McIntosh

  Acting coach: Alma Edie Ríos

  Thank you to our parents and families and God for the funding and support.

  The music ends abruptly, and a new image comes up on screen.

  “Mom?” Britt’s screech cuts through our laughter.

  Britt’s mom is standing on her front porch, squinting a little into the camera, the sun shining on her face, highlighting all the sharp angles. She looks like those old 1980s drawings of women in hair salons—all glamorous planes and defined points.

  “Hi, brats.” Her voice echoes in the empty theater. “Your next clue is this: From fake ponies to real, remember when horses taught Alma how to feel? Go where she had to learn a lesson hard earned, once bitten, twice spurned.”

  The film ends and the lights turn on. I’m proud of that particular clue.

  Alma scrunches her forehead. “The Topanga Stables?” She glances down at her phone. “It’s like one a.m. How in the world are you getting us into all these places in the middle of the night, Pepper?”

  I pull my black beanie out of my fanny pack. “You leave that to me.”

  Alma used to be obsessed with horses in a way that was totally off brand for her. She read all the horsey books that girls read but then took it beyond. She saved up allowance money for her own horse. She started wearing knee-high socks to mimic riding boots. When her parents wouldn’t let her take riding lessons right away, she pretended her bike was a horse and her garage a stable. Her dad caved. It just made him too sad to watch her run a hairbrush down the metal frame of her sky-blue ten-speed.

  I jiggle the lock on the entrance gate to Topanga Stables, the light on my headlamp bouncing with the movement. We can hear the soft nickering of the horses, smell the sweetness of the hay.

  “Really? You thought you could open that?” Alma whispers loudly.

  I stand up and sigh. “No, I’m trying it just in case. The reason we’re all dressed like this is because we have to sneak to the side gate and climb it.”

  Alma whoops in excitement, but Britt shakes her head. “No way.”

  “Come on! No one’s going to see us.” I adjust my fanny pack. “I already scouted the place last week. They don’t have security.”

  “Just how much planning was involved with all this?” Britt asks, staring at me.

  The question makes me pause and I tug at my beanie. “Not that much.”

  Alma snorts. “Right.”

  “That wasn’t meant to crap on her,” Britt says sharply. “Not everyone speaks in thinly veiled shade.”

  Ugh.

  Alma’s head swivels to Britt. “Excuse me? I would actually beg to differ. You’re the queen of passive-aggressive shade.”

  I tense, thinking Britt will stammer and back off. But if the past few months were any indicator, I should have known better.

  “Whatever.” Britt walks up ahead even though she has no idea where we’re going.

  Alma shouts at her retreating back. “For someone who’s so considerate, you’re being rude as hell to Pepper.”

  “You care about being considerate to your friends all of a sudden?” Britt yells back.

  Before Alma can retaliate, I sprint up ahead. “Both of you just shut up and follow me, okay?” I don’t give myself time to be disappointed. I think of the laughter in the theater. The car ride karaoke. That’s real. I focus on those moments and our task. “The gate’s right up ahead.”

  I had purposely picked a spot where there are no lights, and the light from my headlamp and their phone lights bounces around the murky darkness. The stables are tucked into a canyon close to the ocean and there’s a blanket of mist hanging over us.

  The gate is part of the wood fence running the perimeter of the stables. It isn’t that high and we can scale it easily.

  “I’ll go first and help you guys down the other side.” I shake the fence, checking on its sturdiness. The rattle echoes and a horse neighs in response. Alma makes a horsey sound back, and it responds.

  “Can you stop with the chatting?” Britt whispers. “Don’t rile them up. Someone might hear.”

  Alma mutters something rude and I grasp the fence with both hands, hoisting myself up onto the metal bar that runs low across the gate. “I’m going to fall and break my neck because you guys are distracting me and then you’re going to have to live with that guilt for the rest of your lives.”

  They snort in unison.

  After I get myself over the fence, I land hard, kicking up dirt. Another horse stirs loudly behind me.

  Alma goes next, slower than me and a bit more precarious. Alma’s strong but not particularly agile and I’m ready to grab her when she gets over. She falls into me, but we manage to stay on our feet. Britt hops over easily with the grace of a gymnast. Which, had her parents been able to afford it, she could have excelled at.

  “Do you remember which stall Chicken lived in?” I ask Alma, turning off my headlamp so I won’t blind her.

  Alma’s phone light stays on. “Of course I do.”

  Britt makes an irritated noise. My shoulders bunch up like they’re being pulled tight by strings. Being aware of every annoying quality of both your friends, knowing that one might bother the other, is pretty much an exercise in torture.

  I clear my throat. “Maybe we should . . . go there. To Chicken’s old stall.”

  We follow Alma as she leads the way, the walk to her old horse’s stall a permanent part of her hardwiring. She pauses a few times to run her hand over a horse’s flank, its mane, its nose. Alma quit riding when her father died a couple years ago, and she never quite recovered from either loss.

  The smell of hay mixes with the earthy scent of horses. Something about it implies warmth and bigness. It calms me down when we get to the stall. I look at Alma for her reaction.

  The stall is lit by string lights draped around the perimeter. And in the place of a horse is a bicycle. Sky blue.

  Alma blinks.

  Moments pass and it’s silent. Then Britt snaps her fingers in recognition. “Oh! Your old bike! The one you used to call . . . what was it . . .”

  “Agatha.”

  The quiet volume of her voice is unsettling. And, suddenly, I realize this is a mistake.

  This entire night is a mistake.

  “Um, the next clue is in the basket . . .” I say as I fumble with the stall door. I step inside, my shoes crunching the hay, and stand awkwardly b
y the bike. I shouldn’t be the one grabbing the clue. I had envisioned Alma doing that.

  I had envisioned a lot of things.

  And in exactly none of those scenarios did Alma’s face look the way it does. It reminds me of an illustration from those old Ramona books. One where Beezus’s face was crumpled and stricken after Ramona had been careless with an insult.

  I feel my intestines wring themselves into a tight cord. Crap.

  “Are you mad?” I manage to ask. My eyes fly to Britt’s, searching for a familiar look of concern. But she’s looking down at her feet, her hands shoved into her back pockets.

  Alma shakes her head—short, agitated movements. “I’m not mad. I’m just . . . overwhelmed.” She rubs the heels of her hands into her eyes. “This is a fucking lot, Pepper.”

  I swallow. “I’m sorry. I thought it’d be a nice memory . . .”

  Britt looks up then. “You thought a lot of things about tonight.” Her voice is gentle but the implication is harsh and I flinch. She sighs. “Can we just go home now?”

  Something snaps. Lightning fast, my concern turns into anger. I want to scream. Tear this stable apart.

  “What is wrong with you guys? Why can’t we get through this?” My shout echoes through the stables and the horses surrounding us move restlessly.

  “What’s wrong with us? Just us?” Britt says, her voice loud now, too. “Are you serious?”

  “You’re the ones who hate each other now! You’re the ones who broke up this friendship! I’m trying to do everything to save it! I spent fucking days setting all this up!” My anger is so big it fills my entire body until my extremities go numb.

  “Do not put that on us. Do. Not.” Alma’s voice is so firm, so assured. It’s like each word is deeply rooted in her body. No one can budge them. But I want to. I want to drop-kick them into space. “Creating this like, catalog of memories? It feels emotionally manipulative. Trying to make us cry or something like a freaking Pixar movie.”

  I can’t even respond. How could this all get perverted into something so shitty?

  She frowns. “No one asked you to do this.”

  Britt looks at me with sad eyes. Their default setting. “Pepper. You’ve got to let it go.”

  But I refuse to believe that. I fight it with every muscle in my body. “No! We should fix this! We’ve been friends since kindergarten.”

  Alma has her gaze fixed on the bike. “This isn’t your memory to force on me. This was mine, Pepper. Not ours. Some things are just for me. Not part of some friendship nostalgia.”

  My anger deflates and I blink back tears. “I didn’t mean to . . . it was supposed to be thoughtful.”

  “Sometimes your thoughtfulness is a burden.”

  Alma’s words are a slap to my face. I hear Britt mutter “shit” under her breath. And it becomes clear, then. There’s one thing they can agree on.

  After tossing a murderous look at Alma, Britt says, “Pepper. I know it’s hard but we’re all going to separate soon, anyway. I know how you guys feel about my decision not to go to college.” Alma and I are silent. And it feels damning somehow. Her skin flushes but she keeps talking. “It’s just another thing that separates me from you guys. It’s always been there, but I pretended it wasn’t. I’m not pretending anymore—me and Alma aren’t pretending anymore. And you have to be okay with that. Things change. Not just between Alma and me. But with you, too. All of this? It’s just making it harder.”

  I wipe at my tears. Wow, it’s complete heartbreaking shit to hear that. To realize the problem isn’t just them. That maybe they’re growing out of me, too. That I’m the only one who didn’t get the memo.

  The lights turn on. Bright and harsh. “Hey!” The shout echoes through the stables. Male and pissed. “Who’s there?”

  I look at my friends. Who the hell are we anyway?

  The drive back to my house is silent.

  In all my planning, I missed the very important fact that the owner of the stables lived just up the hill. After seeing the sad tableau in front of him, he had let us go home with a stern reprimand. Old-white-man scolding slid off our backs like water on a good day. In this current mood, it was nothing.

  I open the window in the backseat. It’s colder now. The air stings my face. Keeps it from collapsing like that Beezus drawing.

  The apology I’m waiting for never comes. Just like the reconciliation I had imagined. Every block we drive brings me closer to something inevitable.

  I had just been ignoring it this whole time.

  The car ride is long. Long enough for me to realize, as I watch the passing scenery, that what Britt said is true. I panicked not just because I was sad at the friendship dissolving—but because I was scared of a future without them. It’s just another uncertainty added to a pile of uncertainties about what lay ahead after graduation. And my attempts to fix it are actually pretty selfish. If they’re ready to move on, I have to let it go. Even if it makes me feel like my insides are hollowed out.

  When we slip inside the house, I hold my breath, waiting for the dogs to come stampeding in. I never thought we’d get home so early. I envisioned the sky pink with early morning light, the three of us exhausted when we stumbled in.

  But the dogs never come, probably curled up in bed with Mom, and we stand in the entry. Ending the night like it started.

  “You guys can still sleep over,” I say, pointing at the sleeping bags tossed into the corner.

  They look at each other. Then Britt shakes her head. “That’s okay. I think I should go home.”

  “Same,” Alma says.

  I nod, my throat tight. “Okay.”

  But they don’t move and neither do I.

  “Thanks for trying, Pepper.” Britt’s sad eyes are the saddest I’d ever seen them. I realize then that I don’t want to see her eyes that sad. That something that makes her feel that way isn’t good. And she deserves to feel good.

  Alma reaches for me and pulls me into a tight hug. It’s a rare moment when she doesn’t need words. Doesn’t need to fill a room with her presence, with something to prove.

  They grab their stuff and I open the front door for them. Watch them walk to their separate cars. They don’t even say goodbye to each other.

  And when they drive off, I sit on my front step and stare out into the dark street, lit in intervals with old-fashioned gas lamps that had been installed nearly a century ago. In the rest of the city, most of them had been replaced by modern streetlights. But I prefer the gas lamps. Intrigued by the history they’d witnessed. At the vision they conjured of a city when it was new. Not faded in sepia tones. But colorful and real and alive.

  I imagine it was perfect.

  Old Rifts and Snowdrifts

  by Kayla Whaley

  The snow started falling right as school let out. An aggressive snowfall, the kind that pelts down more like frozen bullets than fluffy flakes. The news had spent days prepping us; expect half an inch, they said, maybe as much as three-­quarters in spots. We were all suitably stocked on bread and bottled water, but even in Atlanta that amount of snow wasn’t enough to shut the city down. You needed at least a solid inch of accumulation for that.

  I made it to Prim Roses & Daffy Dills before the snow started sticking. The sidewalks leading from school to my afternoon job as salesgirl weren’t in the greatest shape, but I’d driven the route enough now that the steep curb cuts and awkwardly placed manholes didn’t faze me. I wouldn’t want to test it on ice, though. My treads were in decent shape, but decent traction only gets you so far.

  “Here, Mrs. Otsuki!” I called as the bell above the door chimed my entrance.

  My best friend Melanie’s parents ran the little florist and nursery, rated number one in the metro area eight years running, as the framed magazine clips hanging next to the door proudly proclaimed. Melanie had grown up here, surrounded by stems and thorns and bursts of blooming color. My own home was caring and warm, but utterly bei
ge in every way. Beige walls, beige carpets, beige terrier mix named Penny. Even our food was all plain roast chicken and cornbread. In fourth grade, when I grew out of my first wheelchair, I chose fuchsia for the replacement. An artificial color that nearly matched its namesake for sheer audacity.

  The store was slow today. The holiday rush had ended with New Year’s and wouldn’t kick up again until Valentine’s. We had a few weeks of relative quiet to look forward to. The only customer was with Devi over by the bouquet buffet, as we called it: premade arrangements themed for birthdays, bereavements, congratulations, get well soons, etc. The man glanced up at my arrival and stared as I maneuvered behind the counter. His eyes narrowed in confusion and his mouth puckered, arm already half-raised in my direction. I quickly pinned my nametag to my sweater and waved pointedly and familiarly at Devi. She waved back. The customer seemed satisfied (if perplexed) that I was where I should be and turned back to his conversation.

  “Mrs. Otsuki? I’m clocking in!” I yelled again. It wasn’t unusual for Melanie’s mom to hole up in her office (dealing with customers was her least favorite part of the job), but I didn’t hear the telltale synthesized sparkle of ’80s pop floating out from under the door. I knocked a few times, but still nothing.

  “She’s not here today,” Devi said from behind me. The bell above the door rang again as the man left empty-handed. Maybe he decided on chocolates instead.

  “Oh no, is she okay?”

  Mrs. Otsuki hadn’t missed a day since she had her gallbladder removed a few years back, and even then, she’d insisted she was “on call” in case some flower-related emergency came up. In her defense, flower-related emergencies come up much more frequently than one might suppose.

  “Norovirus,” Devi said. She mimed vomiting, full-bodied retching and all. Devi was the distracting kind of pretty: soft jaw, dark eyes, warm brown skin that had never even heard the word blackhead before. Even mid-Exorcist reenactment, she glowed. She was also in her mid-twenties, married, and had an adorable toddler at home, which allowed my aesthetic appreciation to remain a quiet joy instead of morphing into a godforsaken crush. Nothing good ever came from crushes.