Up All Night

by Laura Silverman

  I breathe. I feel so much lighter.

  “Another truth is,” I tell McKenna, “Parallel Hearts reminds me of you, too. It’s ours. It’s safe. It’s home.” I brave a smile. “Soon, we’re going to meet Jocelyn Cheng. And we’re going to find you all the pins you want. And we’re going to do it together, right?”

  Better worlds.

  Endless worlds.

  And one of them is right here. Me. A hundred strangers. A hundred more secrets and stories. And my best friend by my side. Always.

  Lyra: You can talk to me.

  Alessia: Can I be silent with you instead? I’m afraid I wouldn’t tell the truth, and I know how much you hate that.

  Lyra: You can be anything you want to be with me. I just want you to be you. Be safe. Be here.

  Alessia: I will be. Always.

  Parallel Hearts S01E12: Bright Young Things

  Kiss the Boy

  by Amanda Joy

  Hoffman Estates: 6:34 p.m.

  “Don’t panic,” Jada repeats for the tenth time since we gathered in her bathroom to get ready for tonight. She lives in one of the new developments of McMansions on the edge of town, and because she’s an only child she has an entire Jack-and-Jill suite to herself. Much better than the bathroom I share with my younger brother. Currently the counter is laden with eye shadow palettes, foundation bottles, many pots of loose glitter, and a five-pound bag of sour gummy bears.

  It’s hungry work, preparing for our last school-sanctioned event at Hoffman High. And the last one I’m responsible for conducting as president of student council. Every year after the last day of high school, the graduating class returns to campus for Senior Game Night, the most anticipated event of the year. It’s legendary enough to draw most kids back to campus after their final day of classes.

  “The plan is perfect,” Malcolm, my other best friend, adds as he glides a fluffy brush across the top of my cheekbone. The resulting slash of golden highlighter looks like he’s somehow sewn sunlight into my skin.

  “Of course you two think so. Y’all aren’t the ones who have to execute it.”

  Jada whips her head toward me, a few strands of her perfectly pressed hair clinging to her lip gloss as she protests, “Uh-uh, Ayana, I seem to remember I play a key role in phase one.”

  I open my mouth, prepared to call off the whole thing, but Mal cuts me a look—one that says don’t you even think about backing out of this—and my mouth falls shut instead.

  I already know what they’ll say: A Promise is a Promise.

  It’s one of the main tenets of our friendship: keep your promises, always text back, and snap a picture of your outfit before every party.

  And since we spent every afternoon of the last week planning for tonight, the only way I’d get out of this now is probably death. The plan is to get me to fulfill one of our sacred promises.

  As freshmen, Mal, Jada, and I swore to pick out one boy each and kiss him by graduation. Jada chose Mark Hill and made good on her promise four weeks later at homecoming. Malcolm picked Detroit, who was the best basketball player at our middle school and came out in seventh grade by getting a rainbow etched into his fade. At the start of high school, Detroit was already popular enough for it to seem like him and Mal hooking up was a pipe dream. Still it only took Mal two years to make it happen and the two have been together ever since.

  I chose Khalil Moore because we slow danced at the eighth-grade spring dance and his big brown eyes and long, fluttery lashes made my heartbeat stutter every time our eyes met. We live on the same cul-de-sac and after years of watching him walk his kid sister home every day, I’d decided he was sweet and a bit shy. I thought it would be easy to find a way to kiss him, sure that by the end of the year I would have acquired the skills necessary for a boy to kiss me. (I’ve long since learned taking the reins myself is a better option.)

  When we’d made the promise, Khalil played ball but Detroit was the one college coaches had scouted. If Mal was shooting for the stars, I was aiming for my perfect fit. Or so I thought, until Khalil grew six inches between sophomore and junior year and kept growing until he towered over every boy in our class, except for Detroit. The short, awkward locs he’d had freshman year now hung, perfectly, just past his shoulders. In three short years, he’d ascended to a level of popularity and beauty that was beyond me.

  In the years since the promise, I’ve gone from barely being able to speak to Khalil to holding a conversation without making a complete fool of myself. Considering my track record, this would be decent progress, if not for the fact that our best friends are dating and I see Khalil all the time.

  “I still think there are aspects of the plan we can rework,” I say. Jada and Malcolm are still working in tandem on my face and hair and I’m sure if I threaten to leave, they’ll tie me to the chair.

  I don’t just have Khalil and the Plan to worry about, I also have to make sure tonight’s event goes smoothly. I’ve already planned all the details for SGN and delegated most of the night-of responsibilities to my copresident, Jaxon, so I can devote the night to my friends. But I’m pretty sure eight missed calls are an indication that my carefully laid plans are already falling apart. A bad omen.

  Both Jada and Mal are already dressed and only have finishing touches on their looks left. Mal wears a green utility jumpsuit he distressed himself, which suits his freckles and auburn coils well. Jada and I are wearing cutoffs and matching Beyoncé-inspired cropped, goldenrod hoodies with our names bedazzled across the shoulders. Her eye shadow is an even brighter yellow and is perfect against her luminous dark skin.

  Malcolm, holding a blush brush between his teeth, and a curling wand in hand, makes a noise of annoyance. “Like what could we possibly change?”

  “Too much depends on me talking to Khalil. How about, instead, you two—”

  Jada straightens, the lipstick tube in her hand, once on a trajectory to coat my lips, falls into the sink, forgotten. “Hold on a second, Ayana, you’re saying you want to kiss Khalil tonight, but talking to him is going to be a problem?”

  “Remember what happened last time?” I ask with a shudder.

  A week ago, I was in the courtyard with Jaxon, handing out the permission slips for Senior Game Night. Detroit was there—all flash as usual, in a throwback Raptors jersey and a red kilt, paired with Jordan 1s that matched the gold threads in the plaid. His hair was faded in the back and long on top, and dyed several shades of green, from neon to forest.

  At his side was Khalil, looking very much his opposite in a sleeveless white T-shirt, black denim shorts, and highlighter-yellow Air Maxes. His locs, usually tied back, hung past his shoulders, bleached golden at the ends.

  Struck by a rare flash of bravery, I pulled two sheets from my Day-Glo orange clipboard and walked toward them. Detroit saw me first and smiled, flashing his teeth as he bent down to murmur something to Khalil. Eyes locked on his phone, it took Khalil a second to react. When he did, he looked right up at me.

  My thoughts stalled, turning to mush as our eyes locked. Dully, distantly, I thought about how his skin looked copper in the sun.

  Off balance, one foot raised, someone bumped into me and all I saw was Khalil’s look of horror before I went sprawling onto the concrete. The flyers pinned to my clipboard went rogue, flitting in every direction.

  Pure disaster.

  Malcolm has already covered the scrape on my chin that I’d acquired in the fall with several layers of concealer and powder. And Jada has already parted and pinned my curls creatively to hide the fading green-gray bruise on my forehead.

  “I’m not panicking,” I say. “I’m just saying we should consider me a chaos agent—liable to ruin even the simplest of well-laid plans!”

  When I fell, Detroit and Khalil were the first to react and pulled me to my feet before I could become even more of a spectacle. Khalil’s hand dwarfed mine as he dragged me to my feet. But I was too surpr
ised to relish the feel of his warm skin. And then Khalil flinched when I looked up at him. “Your chin is bleeding,” he murmured, glancing away. “Sorry, Ayana, I’m, uh, not good with blood.”

  I suspected that was an understatement by the green flush rising in his cheeks. I opened and closed my mouth a few times, but no words came to mind as he turned away. I’ve been avoiding him in the hallways ever since, hoping he’ll forget the whole thing happened.

  “You are not a chaos agent! You’re perfectly capable of keeping it together when it matters,” Malcolm says, tipping my chin up with a finger and squinting at his and Jada’s handiwork. “And we’re finished. Your makeup is perfect. Perfectly . . . perfect.”

  I let them put me in green lipstick with a glossy metallic finish, fill my eyebrows, and liberally dust bright yellow gold highlight on my cheeks. It’s not the look I’d usually go for—I like my clothes colorful and my face bare—but the dress code tonight is school spirit. And since this is the last time I’ll be in Hoffman green and yellow, it’s only right I let them paint my face.

  “Did Detroit ever tell you what he said to Khalil last week?” I ask.

  “Yes, he was telling Khalil you’ve been in love with him for years,” Mal deadpans, prompting me to kick him in the shin. “Oof, I don’t know, Ayana. They probably weren’t even talking about you. Detroit promised! He won’t betray you.”

  Last month Malcolm decided to tell Detroit about our pact. Who better to help with my objective than Khalil’s best friend? Thing is, Detroit can’t hold water, let alone a secret. If he got it in his head to play matchmaker . . .

  “Besides,” Jada adds. She stands a bare inch away from the mirror as she applies layer after layer of liquid eyeliner. “What’s the point of kissing Khalil if you can’t talk to him?”

  Fair point, but worry still crawls around my stomach like a million-legged insect.

  “Why don’t we just . . . call it? The promise was silly. This whole thing is silly. I just want to have a good time with you two tonight.”

  “And you will. We’ll make sure of it,” Mal says, meeting my eyes through the mirror. “Don’t back down now, Ayana. You promised. Besides you haven’t kissed a boy since sophomore year.”

  “Oh so we’re back to pretending last summer doesn’t count?” I ask.

  Last summer I tried beer for the first time and discovered it smoothed my awkward edges enough for me to successfully make out with four different guys in three months. Though the memory of their drunken pawing is enough to put me off drinking until college.

  Jada arches her perfectly attenuated eyebrows. “Correction: you haven’t kissed a boy you liked since sophomore year.”

  “Yes, and look how well that went.” Leon Perry was my seatmate in pre-calc for half the school year. In lieu of doing actual work, we traded doodles and played games on our phones. Within weeks I was deep in the throes of infatuation. Jada and Mal took every opportunity to tell me that Leon’s head was too long and his eyes far too close together, but I didn’t care. The gap between his front teeth, his chocolate skin and dimples, were enough for me to overlook the fact that he barely looked in my direction outside of class. When I did finally kiss him at a party two suburbs over, he ghosted me all summer. Since then Mal and Jada have refused to speak his name.

  Thing is though, as much as I liked Leon, that was a flame that burned hot and quick. The way I feel about Khalil is entirely different. My crush on him has been simmering in the back of my mind for years.

  Mal scoots into the chair I’m occupying, nearly hip-checking me onto the floor. “Khalil isn’t like Leon. Detroit wouldn’t be friends with a fuckboy. And I can’t believe we have to convince Ayana Gets-Shit-Done Parker to do something as simple as kiss one boy.”

  “You do want to kiss him, right?” Jada asks. “We’re not peer pressuring you into something you don’t want?”

  “Oh, I definitely want to kiss him,” I say, glancing at my phone again. I’ll be late if I stay any longer, but I reach for their hands anyway. “Let’s go over the plan then. One last time.”

  “One last time,” Malcolm hums as he scrolls through his summer playlist in search of the song. When Ariana blares through the speaker, we fall against each other, whispering as if we’re discussing something sacred.

  11:02 p.m., Hoffman Football Stadium

  The first time I see Khalil, there’s a hotdog wedged between my teeth while Malcolm hoists me onto Detroit’s back.

  I can’t quite manage it on my own, since Detroit’s a good foot and a half taller than I am. Plus I’m afraid of flashing everyone. Mal shoves me again and I nearly tumble over Detroit’s shoulders and onto the hard track around the football field.

  “All good, Ay?” Detroit asks as he steadies me, hands loosely curled around my ankles. I scan the crowd for Jada and spot her immediately, because she’s towing Khalil by the arm and talking a mile a minute. People part around them easily, because of Khalil’s height and Jada’s propensity to throw her shoulder into anyone in her path.

  Twenty minutes ago, we decided we’d spent enough time at the buffet in the cafeteria. We moved with the tide of people outside to the football field, where stadium lights give the impression that it’s midday despite the encroaching darkness.

  Six teachers and Jaxon, megaphone in hand, are gathered at the fifty-yard line, preparing to explain the rules of the mini golf course set up on the field.

  I hop down from Detroit’s back and try to calm the butterflies dive-bombing around my stomach. “They’re headed our way,” I say, grinning.

  By the time Jada and Khalil reach us, Jaxon has begun explaining that all of the students on the field will be split into teams of up to eight and each team will start at a different hole on the course. At least a hundred students mill around the field, and a couple dozen more sit in the bleachers, eating walking tacos and pizza from the concession stands. At the edge of the football field, neon signs painted by the senior cheerleaders point to the tennis courts, where carnival games are set up, and the field house turned board game hall.

  “Whoever completes all eighteen holes first wins . . . something that the PTA won’t tell me.” He laughs awkwardly, pulling the megaphone away from his face when it crackles and whines. “And one last thing: if your team gets stuck at one hole for over ten minutes, the team behind you gets to pass you.”

  Jada pays Jaxon no mind as she stops in front of us, Khalil’s arm in an iron grip. “Sorry guys, I got distracted and then you were gone, but look who I found! Ayana said we needed one more team member for mini golf.”

  Her eye twitches, and so far that’s the only sign that this whole thing is a farce. Jada got lost on purpose and didn’t find Khalil by any coincidence. This is phase one of the plan, the only part that doesn’t require my involvement.

  “Anyway,” Jada tells Khalil. “We’re doing the scavenger hunt together and walking to Brady’s for breakfast at sunrise if you want to come.” She lays it on so thick I’m afraid Khalil will think she’s the one with a crush the size of the Milky Way galaxy.

  But for some reason, Khalil’s eyes slide to me. I manage a smile that feels entirely too wide—are my molars showing, what about my tonsils?—and blurt, “I promise, no blood this time!”

  When Khalil’s eyebrows draw together, perplexed, I point at the now mostly hidden scab on my chin and add, “You know, like last week.”

  Classic Ayana fumble.

  “I remember, Ayana,” Khalil says, smiling down at his sneakers. I decide to count it as a win.

  Detroit, Jada, and Malcolm lead us to the fifty-yard line. And somehow I end up next to Khalil, who stares at a twenty-foot papier-mâché windmill in the end zone.

  “You planned all this?” Khalil asks. He’s the only one of us who didn’t bother dressing up for tonight. The only sign of his school spirit is the camo bandana tying back his locs.

  It takes me a second to pull his voice out from the sounds of people all
around us.

  Sensing my confusion, Khalil bends down, and repeats his question a mere six inches from my face. Cinnamon freckles march across the bridge of his nose and his eyelashes cast long shadows down his cheeks. He speaks with a calm that makes me wish he’d keep talking until the morning.

  “Not exactly,” I answer. “We asked all the clubs to sponsor a different game. The Theater Club and Engineering Club put this together.” I shrug, hoping he can’t see my cheeks redden in this artificial twilight. “The PTA takes care of a lot of it too. I just had to coordinate between them, the principal, and the different clubs.”

  Really it hadn’t been all that much work compared to prom and homecoming. The PTA hosted Senior Game Night for the past ten years. They’d done a murder mystery theme, held movie marathons, and had even had an overnight swim party, which I was strongly cautioned against.

  Khalil whistles. Our gazes meet and hold. “That’s still impressive.”

  “Thanks,” I say and when I smile, he returns it.

  We fall into silence, listening instead to Jada, Mal, and Detroit bicker over who’s going first in the rotation. Our first hole, complete with a mini-castle and about five dozen tiny evergreen trees arranged in imitation of an enchanted forest, is no simple task.

  Mal and Jada are sure they’re the best at mini golf, so they go first. I’m in the middle. And Detroit and Khalil are the tail. When Mal completes the first hole in three shots, Detroit swears he’ll beat him by taking only two.

  Turns out, Detroit and Khalil are both terrible. They overshoot every time. We have to chase down the colorful golf balls that go flying across the field. One particularly horrible shot from Khalil lands in the miniature pond on the fourth hole, which is actually a large kiddie pool. I valiantly rescue the ball by wading in. The water, thankfully, only comes up to my ankles. When I return the ball to Khalil, he bows and says, “My hero. Is it against the rules if you take my next three turns?”