We Own the Night Page 5

  “Yep. Well I’m all tuckered out. You think you got the show for the next hour?”

  “Don’t I always?”

  “Just don’t do anything that’ll get our station sued—again.”

  “That was an honest mistake.”

  He mutters something under his breath and scrubs my head. “Safely into that good night, girl,” he says in good-bye and shuffles out of the recording booth.

  I spin back around in my chair and begin to flip on the channels and mixers. The studio hums to life with lights and whirrs and level readers that waffle like seesaws. The digital clock over the computer monitor blinks 11:59.

  One minute until show time.

  Time feels like it stretches for eternity. My heart hammers in my chest, the taste of anticipation on the back of my tongue like steel and courage, waiting for the red numbers to flip to midnight.

  I am Ingrid North. Shy, going-nowhere North. But I take a deep breath, and I close my eyes, and when the clock strikes midnight I can be anyone.

  I flip my microphone on as the LIVE light blinks on above the studio window. I lean into the microphone, becoming who I want to be.

  RADIO NITEOWL

  SHOW #157

  JUNE 4th

  NITEOWL: Happy midnight, my owls! You’re listening to 93.5 KOTN, and tonight’s topic is leaving. About the Great Perhaps. The big What-If’s knocking on our door and you better answer it, right skippy! Grab life by the horns—isn’t that what the Dead Poets Society taught us? To carpe this diem! Caller One, what do you think? You’re live and on the air, so please don't curse. Caller One?

  CALLER ONE: . . . Uh, he-hello?

  NITEOWL: Glad you could join us.

  CALLER ONE: Oh my gosh, hi! I’m actually on the air! Geoff, I’m on the air! I never get picked for shit—

  NITEOWL: Cursing!

  CALLER ONE: Sorry! Sorry! Like can everyone hear me?

  NITEOWL: Everyone who wants to listen, sure. So, what’s stopping you from carpe diem-ing?

  CALLER ONE: So, there’s someone, right? And I really like him—I can see a future with us, you know? But I don’t think his parents will approve of me. His parents are superrich, and my family owns a dive bar. It’s . . . it’s pretty much heaven. It’s my favorite place in the world. But I think that’s why he hasn’t, you know, told them about us. And I’m just worried that I’ll have to choose. I just . . . I never thought a guy like him would like someone like me.

  NITEOWL: What’s that supposed to mean?

  CALLER ONE: I just thought—

  NITEOWL: If he doesn’t want to go public with you because of who you are, he can sit and rotate on my middle finger—forgive my frankness. You sound like a wonderful girl, and I don’t know anyone who actually likes working with their family, but you sound like you love it. If he really loves you, then he will love all of you—who you are, where you work, what you want to do for the rest of your life . . . and you'll feel the same way about him because you’ll like the sound of whatever future you’ll have with him. You’ll—

  CALLER ONE: I’ll like the sound of us . . .

  NITEOWL: Exactly! I know it’s not what you want to hear, but I think you deserve more than someone who thinks you should be a secret. So talk to him first. Let him know how you feel. No one deserves to be a secret. Then I think you can figure out your future; you just need to figure out your present first.

  CALLER ONE: Okay—okay. Maybe you’re right. Thanks, Niteowl.

  NITEOWL: Good luck—and call me with what happens! Caller Two, you’re live on the air, what’s cookin’ on your side of the world?

  CALLER TWO: Honest to God, do you have any advice that doesn’t read like a Lifetime fortune cookie?

  NITEOWL: Oh, it’s you again. The dark and brooding one. Did you tell her yet? Your lover girl?

  DARK AND BROODING: Have you told yours?

  NITEOWL: You can’t answer a question with a question.

  DARK AND BROODING: I just did.

  NITEOWL: Totally not allowed! Haven’t told her yet, have you?

  DARK AND BROODING: What’re your plans, Niteowl?

  NITEOWL: Fine, fine. Don’t answer me. And you're not supposed to ask me this stuff.

  DARK AND BROODING: So you have it all figured out? Look, if you want me to take your advice, then you gotta prove you know what you're talking about. Pretend it’s not about you. What’s in your future? Not Niteowl’s but yours? What are you striving toward?

  (pause)

  NITEOWL: I’ll tell you when you tell that girl you like her.

  DARK AND BROODING: You might be waiting awhile.

  NITEOWL: Then so will you.

  Chapter Eight

  Gram’s French toast is the only way to start off the first morning of my adult life. I grab a piece of bacon from a plate on the kitchen counter. Grams hums “You Were Meant for Me” from Singing in the Rain as she cooks. It’s her favorite movie. She knows every word by heart, even when she can’t remember her own name. I kiss her on the cheek with my bacon breath and tell her good morning.

  Grams gives a start. “Oh my word,” she breathes, patting her heart, “why aren’t you dressed? School’s in half an hour.”

  “Nope, graduated. It’s my first Monday as a free woman.” I pour a glass of orange juice and sit down at the breakfast table. I jut my chin out toward the stove. “What’s the occasion?”

  She gives me a hard look. “Ingrid, when you get accepted into a college you should be proud of it. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

  I pause with my glass of OJ halfway to my mouth.

  A letter sits in the middle of the table. I should’ve hid it better after the last time she found it. “Oh, that—I’m sorry . . . I thought I told you.”

  “I’d remember if you’d told me something like that. You’ll be the first North to go to college!” She plops the French toast onto two plates and brings them over to the table. She slides one to me with a smile. “I’m so proud of you, sweetie. Oh! Where’s my head, you need syrup.”

  “I’ll get it.” I stand before she has a chance to say no and retrieve the syrup from the pantry.

  I had told Grams.

  I told her the moment I slit open the envelope. I told her the next day, too, when she found the letter on my nightstand. I told her after the doctor’s appointment, when they said they needed to run more tests and whether I’d be available. It was the weekend I was supposed to catch a flight, all expenses paid, to visit NYU. I told her the day the hospital called to break the news of her disease. The last time I told her was the day I deferred my application.

  The worst was, she’s the only one I ever told. I hadn’t even told the gang—Micah, Billie, LD . . . I was going to, but I never found the time. Billie talked so much about going to Iowa University that I didn’t want to rain on his parade, and LD didn’t want to talk about college after what happened at Juilliard . . . and Micah?

  Micah didn’t understand why we all wanted to leave Steadfast. Now after seeing him kissing Heather, I understand his allure to stay, because I consoled myself the same way. I didn’t mind staying in Steadfast as long as Micah was here too because . . . well, wasn’t it a match made in heaven? Next-door neighbors becoming sweethearts?

  But after Friday night, I was wrong.

  Very, very wrong.

  After breakfast, I excuse myself to go hide the letter under my mattress. I can’t bear to throw it away, not yet anyway. Keeping it hurt, but it feels hopeful, too. Like the last string on a kite about to blow away. This time, I shove it so far under my mattress it finds the ass end of Narnia.

  I have work in thirty minutes, so I fish out a bubble-gum pink apron from the laundry basket in the corner of my room, white slacks, and a “HEY, SWEETEY” T-shirt. I look like a walking gum ball. Wearing the same uniform for five years has actually scarred me in ways I never could have imagined. For instance, I will burn every pair of white slacks I see for the rest of my life.

  Micah always jokes t
hat I can come be a receptionist at his dad’s auto place, Perez and Sons Motors, but I'm stubborn. I got my position at Sweetey’s Sweet Shoppe on my own. (The pretentious “-pe” in “Shoppe” has been mysteriously short-circuited on the neon sign above the store for four out of the five years I’ve worked there, and I will take that secret to my grave.) It’s probably the worst job known to mankind, but it’s mine.

  Bossman warned me that I’ll get first shift now that I’ve graduated. He knows I don’t do kids. Unluckily for me, neither does Heather, who also works at Sweetey’s because her father, the mayor, is best friends with the Bossman.

  Heather Woodard is arranging the Twizzlers by color when I finally get to work. She flips her dark ponytail over her shoulder and gives me one of her scum-of-the-earth looks. “You’re late. Again.”

  “Missed me that much?” I dump my backpack in the storeroom and clock in, flubbing my time by fifteen minutes. Bossman never notices.

  “As if,” she mutters, shoving a red Twizzler package onto the shelf.

  “Nice; you’ve separated the red from the really red. That’s talent.”

  “It’s by sweetness.” She points to the dietetic knockoffs, then to the other side, where the regular Twizzlers are.

  “Great job,” I deadpan, snagging a chili-powder lollipop from one of the jars, and hop onto the register counter. Sweetey’s Sweet Shoppe is a joke, but people travel from miles around to browse the petrified sugars. We have candies from every part of the world. Chocolates from Germany, cookie pandas from Japan, chili-powder lollipops from Mexico. I like the lollipops the best. Then again, I just like spicy food. Must be from my dad’s side, but I'll never know.

  Heather gives me a dirty look as I suck on the lollipop.

  I take it out of my mouth and offer it to her. “Hungry? You must be starving on saltines and children’s souls.”

  “Maybe you should try it,” she snaps in reply.

  I shrug. The same old jabs, just a different day.

  Heather’s the type of girl who’d cut off a guy’s rattail just because it invades her personal bubble on the bus. Oh no, wait—she did. Third grade. Micah’s rattail. Truthfully, I say good riddance to it, but was it really her decision to cut off a very important part of Micah’s life? His rattail was a point of pride ever since his mother first tried to get him to cut it.

  But because Heather is, well, Heather, she can get away with anything. As the mayor’s daughter, that’s her right. Like my right is to be picked last for kickball, and Micah’s is to be called on in Spanish class even though he speaks Spanish worse than the rest of us, Billie’s right to be the good old chip off the old block, and LD’s right to be a “troubled youth” who doesn’t understand how good she could have it if she could just be “normal.”

  Heather could go to any college she wants, get into any sorority, be accepted by anyone and everyone in the entire world—but she isn’t going anywhere, either.

  It’s true what they say about Steadfast, Nebraska—it’s like “Hotel California”: once you check in, you can never leave.

  Heather takes out her phone from her apron pocket, and scrolls through her social feed. After a while, she says, “God, this is so annoying.”

  I can’t help myself. “What is?”

  “There’s some stupid punk-rock singer coming to Omaha in a few weeks, and like everyone wants to go. Why do we get freaks and not, like, Justin Timberlake?”

  “Jason Dallas?”

  “Yeah, whoever that is.”

  Seriously? She knows Justin Timberlake but not Jason Dallas? “You know, the guy whose bitter rivals with Roman Montgomery from Roman Holiday?”

  She gasps. Oh, so she knows Roman Holiday, but not the Prince of Punk? Someone seriously needs to intervene before her music library turns turdy. “Ohmygod! That loser? I thought he looked familiar. Ugh, ew. Definitely not going now. He’s just so gross and overstated. I mean, does he have to wear all that leather and . . .

  I think she’s still talking to me, but I tune her out and pull out my phone, bringing up LD’s number.

  —Ingrid 10:03 a.m.

  Someone kill me. The Evil Queen doesn't know who Jason Dallas is.

  —LD 10:04 a.m.

  Srsyly??! Bless her poor unfortunate soul.

  —Ingrid 10:05 a.m.

  So sad, so true.

  “Are you even listening?” Heather snaps her fingers at me and rolls her eyes. “Whatever; it’s not like it matters anyway. All the tickets are sold out.”

  “Of course they are,” I quip. “He’s Jason Dallas.”

  “Whatever.”

  —Ingrid 10:07 a.m.

  Seriously, why aren’t you stuck on

  first shift with her? You graduated, too.

  —LD 10:08 a.m.

  I have perfected the art of scapegoating. : )

  —Ingrid 10:09 a.m.

  Teach me your ways, master

  —LD 10:09 a.m.

  These are not the sweets you’re looking for.

  BTW, I don't think I’m coming to the diner today.

  —Ingrid 10:10 a.m.

  No you HAVE to. You’re my wing woman!

  You can’t leave me with those two : (

  Please?

  —LD 10:11 a.m.

  Fine, fine.

  I’ll be a little late though.

  —Ingrid 10:12 a.m.

  As long as you're there. <3

  Chapter Nine

  By the time I get to Den’s for lunch, Micah and Billie are already pigging out over an order of chili cheese fries. My favorite. Billie scoots over when I come in, but I slide in beside Micah, trying to ignore the way Billie’s shoulders fall a fraction. I feel weird after the sunflower maze, and yet I can’t meet Micah’s gaze, either, after I saw him with . . . after he and Heather . . .

  A kiss is just a kiss, I repeat to myself what Mick told me before graduation.

  Micah nudges the plate toward me. “Something wrong?”

  “Of course there is. You couldn’t wait. You ate half the fries before I got here!” I say, taking the fry. I hope I don’t sound fake.

  “We’re growing young men,” Micah replies. “You’d have us starve?”

  “She might get a kick out of that,” Billie says.

  I glare at both of them, stealing another fry. “You two can shove it.”

  Billie quirks an eyebrow. “Someone’s had a bad morning.”

  “If you had to work all morning with Heather, you’d hate your life, too.”

  “Heather?” Micah whistles. “Sorry but I’d probably love my life if I had to look at her all day.”

  I scowl.

  “She’s a handful,” Billie adds. He won homecoming with her last year. They wore matching blue formalwear and rode in the back of the mayor’s Ford pickup. Just remembering how they looked makes me lose my appetite, and I put the fry back.

  Micah cocks his head. “Probably a hand full, too, right Igs? Heeeey-ooooh!” He raises his hand and high-fives me.

  Golden Boy’s ears turn an acute shade of red.

  Micah goes on, “I’d rather work with Heather than you every day, Billie.” Billie feigns a gasp. “Please. Who set the engine in that truck this morning?”

  “I helped.”

  “Yeah. ‘Over a bit. No the other way. A bit more . . . a bit more . . .’” Micah mocked, rolling his eyes. “I got it in all by myself, no thanks to your sorry ass.”

  “That’s what she said,” I quip.

  “Heeeey-ooooh!” Billie cries, and we high-five, too.

  “Already talking dirty without me?” jokes a soft voice from behind us. LD, with sunglasses on, slides into the booth beside Billie, neon-yellow scarf almost blinding. She asks the hostess for a pot of coffee.

  Billie points to her sunglasses. “What's with the shades?”

  She takes them off, revealing a nice shiner on her eye. She takes a menu and looks through it, trying to ignore us. But we stare too long. Is that why she didn’t want to come to lu
nch today?

  She sighs, putting down the menu. “It’s fine. One of Mike’s goons clocked me good the other night is all.”

  “Bullshit, he did,” Billie says. “Mike knows better than to hit a girl.”

  LD gives him a deadpan look. “Save your chivalry, hero; I’m fine.”

  “He should know better than to hit anyone,” I agree.

  “And someone should learn not to pick fights,” LD adds, looking straight at Billie.

  His ears go red. “I was defending you.”

  “You have a scholarship to keep,” she argues, “and I think we can handle Michael jack-off Labouise.”

  He throws his hands in the air. “So now I’m the bad guy for helping out?”

  “I could’ve handled it.”

  “You could’ve handled it,” he echoes, disbelieving.

  Micah tries to interject, “I’m not sure who punched what first, but can we all just calm down?”

  “Yeah, take a breather?” I agree, nodding. LD and Billie glare at each other, the tension so thick I couldn’t even shatter it with a wrecking ball.

  So Micah instead asks LD, “So your parents know about it?”

  That seems to calm her down a little, at least. “No. They don’t.” LD’s parents are the town physicians, and they’re also some of the sanest people in Steadfast. When the whole thing with She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named happened, they were the first ones at LD’s side. Aside from us three. We knew Mike wouldn’t still be standing if LD told them all of the shit he put her through these last few years.

  She’s a gracious soul like that. Also, she probably doesn’t want her parents in jail.

  “It’s nothing,” she goes on after a moment, her shoulders slumping as she disengages from the fight. She sits back in the booth and picks up the menu and stands it up so it blocks her view of Billie across the table. “So, what’s everyone having? The same old same old?”

  “Yeah,” I reply.

  “If it’s not broke, don’t fix it,” Micah adds.

  And just like that, the tension dissipates.

  LD flips the page in her menu, eyeing Micah. “So, where did you go after the Barn?”

  “Don’t remember. Did things, I guess.”