Up All Night

by Laura Silverman

  I stretch my legs out, trying to fit comfortably in the chair. The toe of my left shoe butts up against the sole of Arash’s right foot.

  “Careful of the kicks,” he says, leaning over to wipe at an invisible smudge.

  I’ll admit it—Arash’s shoe game is godly. He always has the freshest pair of anyone at Juniper Road High. On his phone, he has this app, LACES OUT, that alerts him to the newest kicks coming out and where to find them the cheapest. He’s first in line for all the exclusive releases.

  Tonight, he’s wearing a rare pair of solid black AF1s with crimson stitching and red outlining the Nike swoosh. The soles are red too.

  I glance at my own sneakers, the ones Nana bought for my birthday. They’re still mostly white. Grayish white. There’s not a rule in Nana’s book about what shoes to wear while chasing criminals. These have held up pretty well, but I’m starting to outgrow them.

  “You treat your sneakers like you’re in a relationship with them,” I say, almost laughing at the way Arash is still examining his shoe.

  “So?” He shoots me an unpersuasive affronted expression. “Maybe I feel good in a clean pair of kicks? At least I know my shoes appreciate me. We chose each other.”

  “That’s poetic. And a little weird.”

  “I feel like—” Arash pauses. His teeth pull at the corner of his lower lip, pinching so hard the skin turns white. “Nice shoes make me feel better about myself. About the way I look.”

  I tilt my head to one side. “The way you look?”

  “Keep it real, Tris. No one’s checking for a brown boy who isn’t lean or tall.” He shakes his head. “They’re not really checking for a brown boy like me at all. Half the people we go to school with just look at me like I’m out of place.”

  I squint at him. I guess I never paid attention to the way anyone else stares at Arash. Probably because I’m too busy looking at him like . . . I don’t know. Like he’s incredible. Like he’s beautiful, his laugh and soft shape and personality. The shoes are just a bonus.

  I realize this is Arash letting me in. This is one of his secrets. And it makes me warm, comfortable, like the city. It also makes me protective of him.

  “These are the only things that make me feel . . . better than average?” he whispers, pointing to his shoes.

  “You’re not average,” I try to argue.

  “I am.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Oh?” He laughs, but it’s not the one from earlier. It’s hollow, scraped of all the joy. “Are you trying to compete with my shoes?”

  I hesitate to respond. No one knows about my sexuality. It’s another thing I haven’t felt secure enough to trust anyone with yet. I don’t know anything about Arash’s sexuality either. But we’re sixteen and it feels like, if we’re anything but straight, we have to make an announcement about it in the next five years. We’re supposed to disclose every piece of ourselves, so everyone else is aware. So they can decide whether they’re comfortable with who we are.

  People expect us to take off our masks and reveal our secret identities so they can decide if we’re heroes or villains.

  “Your shoes are aight,” I finally say, smiling when his eyebrows zoom up his forehead. “But I kind of dig better-than-average Arshdeep, with or without the dope sneakers.”

  Arash tips his chin down, eyes on his keyboard. But the glow from the laptop’s screen shines on his face.

  He’s blushing.

  I nudge his foot again. He doesn’t jerk away. He lets it sit there while he returns to typing. I pretend Nick Carraway is slightly more interesting than that tiny smile pushing Arash’s cheeks up.

  Yawning, I check my phone. It’s one a.m.

  I’ve long given up on my book, zoning in on some Algebra II sheets but it’s not keeping me awake. And there’s no real activity in the city, definitely not in this neighborhood, for once. Nothing other than a showdown between two angry cats in an alley nearby. A club’s doors open randomly, exhaling reggae music into the streets.

  No sign of Raven, obviously, though Arash has been scouting the rooftops from time to time.

  Another yawn springs from my mouth into the crook of my elbow. That watery film from exhaustion sticks to my eyelashes.

  “Here.”

  Arash nudges a can into my hand. It’s a lukewarm, no-name brand of cola. For a second, I make a face at it. I hate cola but whatever reserve source of energy I have is tapped out from one too many late nights this week, so I crack the lid and sip slowly. Despite the taste, the caffeine sizzles through my cells pleasantly.

  Arash chugs his own, mixing it with handfuls of sour gummy bears.

  I almost gag watching him.

  In the distance, rushing closer, sirens wail. Their red and white lights climb the sides of dark buildings.

  I flinch hard, an unconscious reaction. Most nights, this is all I know. What are the sirens for this time? Could I be helping? Carla Santos’s face flashes in my mind.

  “Does the noise make you jumpy?” Arash asks.

  All my breaths feel like they’re on fire. I shake my head. “Nah,” I lie. I hold up the cola. “I’m shocked at how gross this is.”

  Arash rolls his eyes. “Okay, hero.”

  I dream of those sirens. I dream of saving the day, and I dream of being too late to save the day, and I dream of not even being able to save myself. I want to tell Arash this, so I don’t have to carry the weight on my own.

  Eventually, the sirens fade as they draw closer to their destination. But their ghostly screams ring in my ears.

  Should I be there?

  Is it selfish to be with Arash instead?

  “No more homework,” he announces, tucking his laptop into his messenger bag. The metal legs of his lawn chair screech against the rooftop as he turns it to face me. “Let’s play Kiss, Marry, Kill.”

  My eyebrows scrunch. “Wait, isn’t it Fu—”

  “Not in every version,” Arash interrupts.

  I snort. “It is in all the versions I’ve played.”

  “Not this one. Besides,” he clears his throat, “kiss seems more appropriate, I’m guessing. Unless you have, you know.”

  “Unless I have . . . ?”

  “You know.”

  “Arash, we’re sixteen. You can say it. Teens are having sex in PG-rated movies now.”

  He sighs, shoulders deflating. “Unless you’re not a virgin, Tris. I mean, I’m not saying that isn’t true but.”

  “But what?”

  “Have you?”

  “I—” There isn’t enough strength in my vocal cords to finish that sentence. I turn my head. My brown complexion has natural reddish undertones, so my blush isn’t as noticeable as Arash’s, but I’m still trying to hide the flames licking my cheeks. “Let’s just play.”

  “Frequency, December, and Faze. Kiss, Marry, Kill.”

  I roll my eyes.

  Arash is such a dork. Of course, he’d make this the heroes’ version of Kiss, Marry, Kill. At least I’m not related to any of them.

  “This is foul, Arash.”

  “What? You agreed to play.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “You can back out,” he offers, but there’s something sly in his voice. “If you’re not up for the challenge, that is.”

  He knows I am. He knows I take any bet. A month ago I almost gave away the fact that I have metahuman genes running through my cells when Scott Perry challenged me to a slam dunk contest in gym. I tried to let him win, but Scott’s a jerk and competition got the best of me, so I crushed him. It felt great until someone uploaded a video of me jumping over Scott’s six-foot-one lanky body, doing a one-eighty before nailing a dunk.

  I got offered a starting spot on the varsity team from the head coach and two weeks without TV and phone from Mom when I got home.

 
It was kind of worth it, though. That itch to be on the basketball team hasn’t left since.

  “Fine,” I sigh. I consider my options. “Kiss December.”

  December lives in New York City. She can manipulate moisture into ice, has an undercut and streaked blue hair, and freckles across her light brown skin.

  “Because she’s cool, literally,” I explain.

  Arash laughs, sharp squeak included.

  “Kill Faze,” I say without thinking.

  Faze is my sworn enemy. He’s more focused on patrolling the Atlanta suburbs, anything outside of the city’s perimeter. Also known as the privileged and low-risk communities. The guy has TV-ready hair and even wears a letterman jacket over his costume. Plus, his superpower—creating massively destructive vibrations by touching things—is legit corny.

  “Agreed,” Arash says, nodding. “Superior loser.”

  I scratch my temple, then play with my hair. I need a trim. It’s curling at the ends, standing up in all directions. The thickness is making my mask a snug fit. “So, I guess that means . . .”

  “You’re marrying Frequency?”

  It’s not the worst thing. Frequency resides in Florida. I’m not sure what heroes do in Florida. Wrestle alligators, fight hurricanes, and help maintain upkeep at retirement homes? Anyway, Frequency physically absorbs the wall of sound created by music to enhance his strength, which means if I’m sentenced to a life partnership with him, at least I’m guaranteed solid tunes.

  “He’s cute enough,” I joke. “So, yeah. Marrying Frequency.”

  “Marrying a guy,” Arash says, but it falls out almost like a question. The fairy lights reflect off his eyes, like a collision of constellations around a black hole.

  “Marrying a guy,” I confirm with a little less conviction.

  Should I tell him?

  Can I tell him?

  It’s Arash, which isn’t the worst choice when it comes to coming out. Not after he’s admitted he hates the way people analyze him. Not when something in his smile, his unrestrained laugh, the constant flush in his cheeks says something.

  I hope it’s saying something.

  “It’s just marriage,” I eventually add, swerving my words before I confess too much. “We haven’t outlined what that entails. It’s not like I’m, you know, doing other things with him.”

  Arash shrugs. “Sure, I guess.” He takes a sip of soda and changes the subject. “This is a poor substitute for a good espresso, but it does the job.”

  “Espresso?” My face pinches.

  “Tris, espresso is life.”

  “You have so many problems, I don’t know where to start.”

  Arash launches into a never-ending explanation of why espresso is vital. He breaks down the taste, the layers, the beans, everything. And I grin so hard, my mouth might not ever snap back.

  This. This is why I want to shatter the glass I’m stuck behind. This is why I want to let Arash climb inside my world. Because I’ll sit on a rooftop at nearly two a.m. and listen to him wax poetically about nonsense like the heart of an espresso shot and the importance of pulling it as close to thirty seconds as possible.

  I’ll remember these useless facts because they came from Arash.

  He stops rambling. “What?”

  Obviously, I haven’t stopped grinning.

  Tell him. Tell him. Tell him.

  I whisper, “Nothing.”

  Maybe I daydream a little about what I wanted my answers to be.

  Kill Faze. Marry Arash. Fu—I mean, Kiss Arash.

  Kiss and kiss and kiss Arash.

  Four a.m. stretches around us like gray clouds before a thunderstorm. Arash and I are elbow-to-elbow on the parapet. We’re listening to tunes on his phone’s speaker. He has respectable music taste with only a few questionable selections—like one too many tracks by Post Malone—but I can deal with his play­lists. Shoulder to shoulder, we transfer body heat through our thin hoodies. But I keep our closeness light, not wanting him to feel the outline of my costume underneath.

  I can pick out Nana’s window in her apartment building by the potted plants sitting on the sill. I can imagine climbing those six flights of stairs, falling face-first onto the yellow futon in her living room to pass out.

  Not right now, though.

  I’m wide awake.

  Energy assaults my nerves, fission dissolving Tristan from Raven, even though I know I’m both. Even though I know Arash is watching Nana’s building, the pizza place, the alleys with hopes Raven will appear.

  But, leaning next to him, I feel so much more like Tristan than the vigilante trying to carry on the legacy created by his parents, his nana, the three generations of heroes before her. I feel like Tristan, the teen who just happens to have a crush on a boy.

  That’s what I want to tell Arash—I’m Raven, but I’m also a boy with a crush who’s scared to disappoint his family or end up alone like his nana. I’m slightly above average, but around Arash, I feel . . . limitless.

  Occasionally, I steal glances at him. He blinks a lot, as if he’s trying to stay awake. His lips part sporadically to whisper lyrics. The colorful glow from above falls over his face like spilled starlight.

  He waits and waits for something that’s right next to him.

  Over his shoulder, Arash shoots me a soft, sleepy grin. Should I tell him? Should I risk him never looking at me like this again?

  Soon. Not in this second, though.

  I just want a few more minutes of Arash’s smile and the music and being simply Tristan Jackson to him.

  Sunrise blooms in rose and tangerine, sweeping the purple from the sky. A golden sun backlights all the buildings until they’re only fuzzy, dark silhouettes. It’s all a cruel reminder that morning is here.

  My time with Arash is evaporating.

  We pack up silently. Arash stuffs what’s left of his sour candies into his messenger bag, along with the last untouched energy drink. I shove The Great Gatsby and my Algebra II book into my backpack. I demolished the rice an hour ago. We bag up the containers and empty cola cans to drop into an alley dumpster.

  “I’m sorry.” I rub the nape of my neck. My fingertips skim the collar of my costume. “Sorry that we didn’t see Raven.”

  Arash rocks on his heels. “It’s cool.”

  “Will you, uh—” My voice is pinched. “Are you still gonna try to catch him? For your assignment?”

  I hate asking these questions. I hate wondering if the next time Arash and I will be alone is when he finally tracks me down on a roof or in an alley or outside Nana’s building.

  Tell him, you idiot.

  “I’m not sure,” he replies. “Thanks for sitting with me.”

  “No problem.” I hold up our trash bag. “I got some bomb-ass food out of it.”

  “Maybe . . .”

  There’s a long breath and then we share a look. Somehow, sunrise and exhaustion make his eyes browner.

  “Maybe we can hang again, you know, without all the waiting?” he offers.

  Clear, clean oxygen fills my lungs. I beam. “I’d be down for that.”

  “Me too.”

  “But, like, after a good nap?” I suggest.

  “A nap to defeat all regular naps.”

  We laugh in harmony, drowning out the cars and shops and birds waking up around the city.

  Then Arash bites his lip, fiddles with the strap on his messenger bag. He’s barely making eye contact. “Seriously, I’d like to hang with you.” Shyly, he pushes away the curl on his forehead. He inhales sharply. “I like you. I’d want to . . .”

  I cross my arms, smiling, watching him fidget and stumble.

  “I hope I’m not reading this wrong. Because you’re really awesome, Tris. So, maybe . . .”

  Arash’s face is redder than his hoodie.

 
I take a few steps closer. I shrink the gap where nerves vibrate between us. Nana’s number one rule exists for a reason: to protect the regular humans in our lives. Heroes only date other heroes. Friendships are contained with strict limits.

  It’s for their safety. And ours too.

  But I abandon the rulebook because life is filled with “what ifs.” I’m not Streamline or Asteroid or Remedy. I’m not Nana or my parents.

  I’m Tristan. I’m Raven.

  I don’t want to live my life behind a mask with no one to share who I am with.

  My shoulders are tight. My stomach has constricted into four knots. But I push the words out before fear stops me.

  “I’m Raven. I’m, uh, a hero. More like vigilante.”

  With shaking hands, I unzip my hoodie.

  There it is. The top half of my costume. The blue-outlined raven on my chest.

  Arash doesn’t stare at me with wide, owlish eyes. He doesn’t freak out. With a sheepish shrug, he says, “Yeah, kind of figured that out.”

  “You what?”

  He laughs quietly. “Uh, have you not noticed my obsession with Raven? With you, I guess? The clues were there.” He pushes his hair back. “I asked for your help because . . . I don’t know. I wanted you to tell me. Or I wanted you to be okay with telling me.”

  My throat is dry. Arash knows. He knew all along. But he wanted me to say it.

  “But how are you Raven?” he asks.

  I can’t wrap my brain around his question. Arash knows I’m Raven. Incredible.

  “It’s a long, long story. Like, a lot of science and family history and some real sketchy shit but, well.” My lungs are exerting so much effort to keep up with my sprinting heart. “I didn’t know how to tell you. Or how to come out because, I dunno. It’s a lot.”

  “Well, you just did.” Arash smirks.

  Finally, my body remembers how to breathe and relax and process words.

  “I’m Raven,” I repeat, for confirmation.

  He nods slowly. “I won’t tell anyone. I haven’t told anyone since I figured it out.”

  “Thanks,” I exhale. A small part of me still worries my secret will escape, but a much larger part of me trusts Arash.