We Own the Night

by Ashley Poston

  And at the same moment, I think he realizes the same thing.

  He quickly pulls back and lets go of me, clearing his throat. “Penalty is I buy the pizza,” he decides, scooting to the other end of the couch.

  I quickly pull myself up into a sitting position.

  LD slides her gaze between the two of us knowingly. “Oh no, don’t let little old me stop you.”

  Billie begins to turn red. He fishes out his phone. “I—uh. I’ll go call for pizza.”

  “No, I lost, I’ll buy the pizza,” I argue.

  “But I cheated.”

  “So? LD cheats all the time.”

  LD gives a loud gasp, slapping her hand across her heart. “Never!” We both give her a level look, and she rolls her eyes. “It’s not my fault you guys don’t know the shortcuts.”

  Billie stands to go into the other room to order. “So a large cheese?”

  “No, I said—”

  He interrupts, “Have you applied for that internship yet?”

  Oh no, he didn’t.

  LD blinks. “What internship?”

  I open my mouth to respond, and Billie gives me an apologetic look before he takes advantage of the diversion to go order the stupid pizza. I scowl.

  “What internship?” she presses. “Iggy!”

  So I explain, and when I do she squeals and hugs me and asks me, too, if I’ve applied. Of course I have. I applied before I could second-guess myself, which I’m doing now. “It’s not like I’ll get it, you know?” I tell her. “So don’t get your hopes up.”

  “But think of the possibility,” she says, and begins to hum happily.

  When the pizza arrives, we eat it while watching reruns of The Office, but after a while I begin to worry about Grams. Billie asks to walk me home, but I’m fine by myself. It’s not like anyone gets kidnapped in Steadfast, Nebraska. Before I leave, LD shouts at me to wait and runs down the front steps. She envelops me in a tight hug and kisses my cheek.

  “You know we’re always here,” she tells me. “Whenever you need us.”

  “Thank you,” I reply.

  Billie walks me to the end of the road, where he will turn east toward his house, and I’ll turn west. We both stop at the crossroads, and I think he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. He just puts on a smile—an awkward one—and turns toward home.

  I do the same. I look over my shoulder, whispering despite myself, “Look back,” because if he does, then . . .

  Then what? That moment on the couch meant something?

  Stupid. Nonsense.

  I quickly turn back around and hurry down the road toward home. Who am I kidding? Me and Golden Boy? That’s a stupid idea. He’s had people like Heather. He’s going off to Iowa at the end of summer. I’ve known him since kindergarten. And I hate football.

  It wouldn’t work.

  It’d be a—what was the joke Dark told? A cat-astrophe.

  I’m grinning right up until I turn down onto the street of my childhood. Grams forgot to turn off the living room lamp again before she went to bed.

  She’s forgotten every night this week—

  “Oh my God, please stop asking, Micah.”

  My ears prickle at the voice. Heather. I can tell by the feathery way she talks. I quickly duck down behind the garbage can I’d rolled out to the front lawn earlier and peek around it.

  Micah and Heather are standing in his front yard. She has her arms crossed defensively, the dull golden glow from the front porch light illuminating only half of her face, so she looks like a Twilight vampire ’cause of her glitter body lotion. Her bow-like mouth dips into a frown. Micah has his back to me, but his broad, thick shoulders tense.

  “This is important to me.” He reaches out for her hand, and takes it gently. My gut twists. “You are important to me. I can’t tell you enough. You’re—”

  She pulls her hand out of his. She can’t look at him. “Okay, yeah,” she mumbles, defeated. “I’ll see. We’ll see.”

  “I just want to—”

  “I said I’d see!” she snaps, and he winces. She turns around on her heels and begins making her way toward her Miata. She drives to Micah’s house even though everyone in Steadfast lives, at the very most, ten minutes apart. Walking.

  Wait. If she gets to her Miata and looks over, she’ll see me. Bless, they’ll see me either way. She digs her hand into her purse for her keys, and the headlights on her car blink as she unlocks the doors.

  “Heather, please, let’s talk it out. I don’t want to leave it like—”

  “Micah, I’m done tonight. I’m already stressed out enough as it is. Can’t you understand that? I don’t need that adding more stress—”

  “How is that more stress? Wouldn’t it be less?” he asks, trying to laugh it off. He hates confrontations. He tries to make a joke out of everything.

  She throws her hands into the air. Ten feet, nine, still coming closer to me.

  Oh well, it was nice knowing you, cruel world.

  Then, the door to Micah’s house opens and his mother calls out that Heather left her sunglasses. They turn their backs to me, toward Mrs. Perez, and I make my break for it, hurtling myself up the porch and into my house.

  Grams forgot to lock the front door again, too. Thank God.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Grams’s best friend, Martha Bleaker, Billie’s grandmother, took her out to dinner tonight and then to the book club. So I’m home alone. Going stag.

  I shuffle through my stockpile of CDs, trying to find something better to listen to. Mick lets me bring home as many demos as I want. He gets boxes of them every week, and like hell he can listen to all of them. He says I’m his backup set of ears, which is a pretty hardcore title on a résumé.

  I don’t even look at the CD before popping it in and crank the radio up to ten. I’d push it to eleven if the dial turned that high. The china downstairs rattled. A guitar rift squeals across the speakers, to my surprise, and curiously I flip over the CD cover.

  “There is a secret in the dark, down in your soul, a piece of a puzzle to make mine whole,” sings the suede voice from the speakers.

  Bless, really, Jason Dallas?

  I sort of want to cry. It’s the one thing I want to hear, and the universe aligned. Or at least Mick’s stockpile did.

  His breakout album, Backwash, was pretty much my ninth grade’s theme song. I have a special bond with the lyrics “ah-ah I’m breathin’ so heavy and you are so hard, you’re like a math equation baby and I’m the flash cards.”

  Depth and candor ran deep within my graduation class, it did.

  Something bounces against the window, probably a bug who just discovered glass, but Jason Dallas’s music grows louder, drowning it out.

  Sinking back down on my bed, I open my laptop and begin to scroll through Tumblr. Tonight, Roman Holiday covers my dash. Apparently there’s going to be some sort of vigil in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, for their deceased band member, Holly Hudson, and apparently some girl saw the two surviving band members (who went AWOL after the lead singer’s death) buying Doritos in Montana.

  Bless, why can’t they just leave people alone? Clearly they don’t want to be bothered—and that’s the perfect topic for next week’s show. I make a note of it on my phone before I keep scrolling—

  And pause.

  I sit back.

  Squeezed between a paparazzi photo of Jason Dallas and a fan gif of Loki kissing Black Widow, there is a picture. An illustration, actually. Of a girl—pretty and light haired and laughing in the arms of a dark-haired brooding-looking young man. They are surrounded by cats. They’re not from any fandom I can think of . . .

  But I recognize the speech bubbles above their heads.

  “What do you call a chaos of cats? A cat-astrophe . . . See, it just worked. Still mad?”

  I slam my laptop closed and shove it to the edge of my bed.

  No.

  Nope. Nope. Nope.

  Denied. Abort. Incinerate.
<
br />   It’s not like that.

  It’s totally not like that at all. Not at all. I mean for one, I’d never wear overalls in my entire life. And another . . . I wouldn’t . . . he wouldn’t . . . I don’t even know who he is! Or what he looks like! And who in the hell would draw pictures of two strangers they’ve never even seen before?

  First the caller asking if we were together and now fan art.

  Fan art? Me—being drawn in fan art?

  No, I must’ve misinterpreted. I mean it’s probably a very common joke. Maybe something similar happened in a TV show. Maybe it’s not me and Dark at all. It can’t be.

  Curiously, I open my laptop again to the website. The picture stares back at me. My heart beats in my throat. The girl isn’t me. This girl in this fan art. She has light hair and light eyes, but I’m sure that’s only because Dark is obviously supposed to be, well, dark and brooding.

  But it is us. There is an old-fashioned radio behind us.

  For the first time, I wonder what he looks like—the real Dark. Does he fit the description of the namesake I gave him? Or does he look completely different? Is he young? Old? Somewhere in between?

  “Why do I care?” I ask myself, staring at the fan art.

  Fan art of my show.

  Of me.

  Are there more? I click on the NITEOWL tag, and suddenly my screen is filled with me. Well, not me—but all my work. My radio show, my comments, soundbites, and transcripts and fan art. People ridiculing my advice, other people praising it.

  There is more than I expect.

  A lot more.

  Niteowl rocks.

  There’s a radio show on Saturday nights. [Link here] and it’s hella funny. the radio dj doesn’t even know she’s in love with one of her frequent callers!

  is Niteowl fake?

  that unrequited love segment was hard. [crying emoji]

  Another rock slams against my window.

  That’s when I notice the light coming from the window across from mine. There is a shape framed between the blackout curtains.

  I get to my feet, wondering if I’d fallen asleep. The CD rolls into the third song, a slow marching serenade, as I shuffle toward the window and slowly pull it up.

  Micah is leaning against his sill, a handful of boiled peanuts in his hand. “It’s about damn time,” he says, and gives me a platinum-white smile. His front two teeth are bigger than the rest and stick out a little over his bottom teeth. “I thought I’d have to throw a book against your window to get your attention.”

  “Uh, hi to you, too.” I try to act cool. Through the speakers, Jason Dallas begins singing about shotgun heartaches.

  He nudges his pointed jaw toward my open laptop behind me. “What were you staring at so intently?”

  “Oh, it’s—it’s fan art.”

  “Of what?”

  “A . . . show.”

  “Oh, cool.” Then he licks his lips, hesitating for a moment, before he sits up on the sill. “I need some advice. And you’re the only one I really trust to tell it to me like it is.”

  Oh, bless. Is that all I’m good for now? Hookups and dating advice? It’s one thing giving out advice to strangers, but Micah? “Why do you think I’d be good at that?” I lie again.

  “Please, Igs, I can’t talk to anyone else.”

  Then just dump her and we won’t have to talk about it at all, I think wryly, and I have half a mind to just close the window on him. Except . . . I can’t. A lifetime of friendship wedges the window open.

  I’m going to regret the heck out of this later. I can already feel it, like the icky feeling between almost drunk and dancing-on-the-tables. The precursor to the hangover. The part where your body is telling you to hold on there, cowboy, let’s think about your choices before . . . “Okay, shoot.”

  Before you wreck yourself.

  “It’s about Heather.”

  “Ooh, this is getting better already.”

  “Your sarcasm really isn’t appreciated right now,” he snaps. “I know you don’t like her, but this isn’t about her; it’s about me. And you like me, right?”

  “More than you’ll know,” I murmur to myself.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re right, I’m sorry. I’ll keep my sarcasm in my sarcasm box—scout’s honor. Go on, what about Heather?”

  He massages his temples.

  I stiffen. “Oh bless, she’s pregnant.”

  “What?” He looks mortified. “Why would you think that? No—Jesus—she won’t introduce me to her parents. I don’t think she’s even told them we’re dating.”

  I stare at him for a moment, waiting for him to go on.

  “Well?” he asks, impatiently.

  “Oh—sorry. I thought there was more to the story.”

  He throws his hands into the air. “You know, forget I said anything. Should’ve known you couldn’t just leave and let be—”

  “I think you’re overestimating Heather,” I say, interrupting his diva rant. I admit I’m not in the best mood to be giving advice, but he’s the one who asked. “She’s the mayor’s daughter. Of course she won’t tell her dad at first. What do you think he’d say when she finds out she’s dating the mechanic’s son? No offense.”

  His face crumples into a mixture of rage and disappointment.

  “Look,” I try to explain, “don’t worry about it. Everything’ll work out.”

  “But you just said—”

  “The lovers-from-the-wrong-side-of the-tracks is trope-ishly foolproof. I mean, even John Hughes knew that when he wrote Andie with Blaine and not Duckie—I mean, who names their kid Blaine anyway?”

  “This is a joke to you.”

  “It’s not a joke! You wanted my opinion, I gave it!”

  “By comparing me to some stupid movie! That’s not real, Ingrid. You’re supposed to be my best friend.”

  “Oh? That’s news to me! Where’ve you been these last two weeks, Micah? Sure as hell not at the diner!”

  “Where’ve you been these last few months?” he bites back. “Sure as hell not with us!”

  “That wasn’t because of some girl—some prissy manicured oh-look-my-daddy’s-got-money girl.”

  “At least she doesn’t wear a stupid cat taco sweater.”

  “Don’t you dare insult my sweaters!”

  He goes on, enraged. “And just because something isn’t convenient for you, you get mad? Well you leaving wasn’t convenient for us, either, but hey, you did it! And did we hold a grudge? No. The second you wanted to come back we forgave you.”

  “Forgave me?” We are shouting between the houses now. I’m pretty sure the neighbors can hear. “I’m sorry if my grandmother became a little more important than . . . than—” I can’t think of the right words, I’m so angry.

  “Than us?” He hisses and slams his window closed.

  I sit on my sill, mouth half-open, waiting for the right words to come, but they never do. And I don’t expect them to. Finally, I sink back into my room, close the window, and shut the curtains.

  The last song on Jason Dallas’s CD cascades into silence, and the static humming of the stereo fills my room like a hurricane.

  That’s when I notice the time on my alarm clock. 11:56 p.m.

  On a Saturday night.

  RADIO NITEOWL

  SHOW #161

  JULY 2nd

  MICK: . . . just peace and love and love and that’s all we need to survive. That’s what I learned on the road. The open road. Was it an open road? It might’ve been a trailer park—those years blur, you know what I mean?

  CALLER ONE: Oh . . . kay . . . So, like, you don’t know where Niteowl is?

  MICK: I bet you don’t know where the Grateful Dead are, either.

  CALLER ONE: Grateful to be dead.

  MICK: That’s not what they—hello? Hello? She hung up on me! Caller Two, can you believe that?

  DARK AND BROODING: Don’t quit your day job, buddy. You’re terrible at this.

  MICK: The show mu
st go on. Or at least until she gets here.

  DARK AND BROODING: Where is she?

  MICK: She’ll be here. We shouldn’t worry, peace and light and all that. And she’s a big girl. I mean, she’s a big girl—but she’s beautiful and I hope she never changes. She’s got a tough skin on the air, you know? But in real life, I don’t think people get that she’s not as bulletproof. She needs someone to tell her that sometimes. That she’s wanted. Back in my day—

  DARK AND BROODING: Shouldn’t you be calling her? She’s never late. What if something’s wrong?

  MICK: She’s fine. Stop worrying! It’s probably just her grandma—

  DARK AND BROODING: Something’s wrong with Grams?

  MICK: No, that’s not what I said but—Hello? Hello? For [censored]’s sake, why’s everyone hanging up on me?

  Chapter Eighteen

  I’m late, I’m late, I’m late!

  I kiss Grams on the cheek on the way out.

  “Was that you yelling, darling?” she asks as I grab my bookbag from the kitchen chair and sling it over my shoulder.

  “Nope! It was the radio!” I reply, checking the time on my phone; 11:57 p.m. Mick’s texted me four times already asking me where I am.

  I’m about to be late for the first time in the history of time, that’s where I am.

  I hurtle down the stairs two at a time and stumble toward the road, making my way toward the red blinking light in the sky. It takes at least ten minutes to get there. I’m so going to be late. And I have fans now! They’re expecting me!

  Oh God, I have fans now.

  They’re expecting me.

  Fans.

  Oh. Oh bless I just realized. I have fans. People who listen to me. Draw fan art. Dissect my shows and everything I say and—

  Headlights flood the street in front of me from behind and I tense, somehow thinking it’s Heather. But the motor’s too loud to be a hybrid, and Heather is probably home by now. Why would she come this way anyway?

  A guy pulls up beside me on his motorbike. “North!”

  I don’t recognize him at first. For one, he’s wearing a salon cap—you know the plastic ones that you wear when you get your hair dyed and sit under those fancy dryers at salons? I have to do a double take before I actually recognize him. And he looks like he ran all the way from his mom’s salon and not, you know, motorbiked.