Twenty-Four Seconds from Now…

Chapter 3 And Twenty-Four Minutes Before That…

I was standing in front of Aria’s house. Just standing there, staring at the weird door knocker, which was in the shape of a whole note. As in the musical symbol that tells you to hold one note for four counts. It always looked more like an eye to me, and even though I knew it wasn’t an eye, I still locked in on it as if it might suddenly come to life and look at me like I had no business being there. And as if the eye/whole note ain’t strange enough, it’s on a hinge so that it can be lifted and banged against the pink wooden door. Because the door is… pink. But not just the door, the… whole… house. Pink. The color of tongue. Funny thing is, I remember when it was painted lemon yellow. And before that, lime green. And it was something else before that—I think Aria told me it was purple—which is why it’s a good thing the door knocker’s made of brass and can go with any color.

Even though it’s versatile, the whole note looks a whole mess to me. But it’s not on my front door, and it’s not really a weird choice for the Wrights, because Aria comes from one of them musical families. The kind you see in talent shows or on the internet, and they either seem cool because they’re not your family or corny because they’re not your family. In Aria’s case, it’s… both. Her mother is a world-famous trumpet player (Trumpeteer? Trumpeter? Trumpetist?)—at least, that’s what everybody says, even though I never been around the world to ask if anyone outside of America has ever heard Mrs. Wright play the horn. But according to my parents, she’s world-famous, even though I never heard them listen to a single note of trumpet music. Ever. Not a honk. The newspaper says Mrs. Wright’s world-famous too, even though the newspaper only covers stories about our city. Which, last I checked, ain’t the world. But, whatever… she’s world-famous, which, I guess, is the reason she spends most of her time locked in her practice room. Gotta practice for the world.

Aria’s dad, on the other hand—or should I say, on another note (good one, Nee!)—is a locally-loved conductor who tells everyone to call him Maestro. And we all do. Aria says he used to be a big deal, constantly working with professional orchestras, and that’s how he met her mother. She also says Maestro decided to cut his work back once she and her sister were born.

These days the most musical Maestro gets is when he conducts elementary school orchestras. Whether it’s the spitty little kids playing recorders and kazoos, or the spark-showers squeaking through clarinet solos, tap-tap-tapping on drum pads, and licking and lapping at sax mouthpieces, Maestro believes every kid deserves a chance to make sound, even if it’s horrible-sounding. As a matter of fact, to him, real music is all about the melody in mistakes. Expression. Experimentation. Explosion. Which is why he never misses a beat whenever his favorite daughter wants to add what always seems like a giant cymbal crash to their home.

Sometimes that crash comes in the form of requesting that all her food be a certain color. Once, she would only eat red food for two weeks. Everything red. Apples, spaghetti drenched in sauce, peppers. Another time it was only white foods. But sometimes, her explosions of expression came in the form of asking to have the whole outside of the house painted. Like only a favorite daughter could ask.

But… that favorite daughter is not Aria. Because she’s the oldest. And the title of favorite kid always goes to the baby. Her name’s Rosin, but they call her Turtle. She was given that nickname when she was little because of how shy she was. Quick to tuck back into her shell. That is, until she and the rest of the Wrights discovered she had a gift. Turtle can sing. And when I say sing, I mean sang. Sing sing. Blow. She got one of them voices that can make you sad and mad and happy all at the same time. Like she got an old lady living down in her belly that’s seen too much to tell, even though Turtle ain’t nothing but nine years old. She’s a little thing, too, narrow and navel-height. But got a voice made for weddings, funerals, and movie soundtracks. But only movies about summer or winter, love or heartbreak, or that take place on sprawling landscapes. Because her voice is wide. And tall.

And on top of all this, Turtle also has this special brain thing called synesthesia. Took me a long time to learn how to pronounce this, and even longer to understand what it means. But basically, for her, it means that when she hears music, she sees colors. Or when she sees colors, she hears music. Or when she… I don’t know. Her senses get twisted up, and her brain makes her ears do her eyes’ job, and her eyes work like ears. Something like that.

So in those moments when Turtle only wants monochromatic meals, it’s because she gets fixated on a sound that color makes. Obsessed with an E-flat, and in her brain, red sounds like E-flat. Fixated on A-sharp, and in her brain, white sounds like A-sharp. And usually, she just eats the one-color food—eats the sound—and moves on. Except for the times she can’t move on. The times when the color sounds too beautiful to chew. And those are the moments that lead to Maestro painting the whole outside of the house that color. And because Turtle’s seen as special—musically gifted—Mrs. Wright’s okay with all of it. She encourages it.

And Maestro’s okay with whatever Mrs. Wright’s okay with. Also, he’s… a dad. So he’ll do anything for his girls, both of them, regardless of their talents. So when the paint requests come in, he and Aria get to work on the house’s new facelift. Because Aria will do anything for her little sister, but really she’ll do whatever to not be around her mother.

And when you got that much going on—Mrs. Wright’s constant practicing, Turtle’s specialized musical training and random moments of color bursts, and Maestro doing… pretty much everything else—the Wright residence is almost never empty.

But it is this evening.

Turtle has a solo in the school chorus competition. Her first big one. She’s been practicing all month but made it clear that she didn’t want Aria to come, even though Aria is like a one-person pep rally. The type to hype you up from the audience, scream for you like you’re famous even when you’re barely average. Trust me, I know. At the end of our junior year, I debuted my first short documentary in film class. I say “debuted,” but really I had no choice because it was the final project and worth a big chunk of our grade. The assignment was loose. Make a film between three and five minutes long using what we’d studied all year: theme, narrative, composition, score, editing. My first idea was to do something about the bingo hall my father owns, where I work three nights a week. Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday. But the thing about bingo players is that some of them got family members who don’t know they’re out gambling. Folks concerned about their habits, knowing how easy it is for a good night to become a bad month. So them being filmed ain’t gon’ fly. Plus, I’m no snitch.

With that off the table, I ended up making my movie about… cell phones. And I used my cell phone to make it. I thought it was genius. Meta. I got my sister’s phone, which is different from mine; my father’s phone, which is different from hers; my mother’s phone, which is different from his; and my grandmother’s phone, which is ancient; and simply filmed each of them as they powered on. Some came on in seconds; others, like Gammy’s, took about fifteen minutes. And the soundtrack was just a loop of the old-school busy signal, which I only know about because my mother mimics it whenever she wants me or my sister, Nat, to stop talking to her. Because she’s busy. It’s a distinct tone, droning and droning and droning. Like the first notes of a song but the beat don’t drop.

To me, this film was… art. A masterpiece making a statement on the evolution (or lack thereof) of communication. Even though I got a C on it, it was clear by the scrunched-up faces that no one in class really understood my avant-garde brilliance. I guess I didn’t communicate it well enough. But Aria, who, by the way, wasn’t even in the class, stood in the hallway, watching through the window in the classroom door. You know, the prison window. And when the film was over, she flung the door open and screamed like I’d just won an Oscar.

And got in trouble for it. But didn’t care.

Because that’s Aria.

So Turtle not wanting her to come to her first chorus competition was basically like asking the captain of the cheerleading squad to not show up for the game. But I get it. Turtle felt like it would be too much pressure if Aria was there and she’d crack or miss a note, even though a crack or missed note from Turtle is better than any songbird’s best chirp. Aria agreed to sit this one out, first and foremost because her sister asked, and secondmost because she knew this gave us the chance to… be together.

Even though we’ve fooled around at my house a lot, connecting definitely can’t happen there. Because there’s always someone home too. Between my mother, father, sister, and me, someone has to be around to keep an eye on Gammy. She’s reached that age where she gets confused every now and then. Sometimes she don’t know whose house she’s in, and it can hit her in the blink of an eye. It’s not too bad yet and doesn’t happen too often, but it’s something we’re all careful about. So one of us is always home. And that’s okay, because even if, for whatever reason, I was lucky enough to have the house to myself, and me and Aria decided to do it at Chateau Neon, I wouldn’t have been able to show off and show up, romantic-comedy-style. Bearing gifts. Chicken tenders. Sexy chicken tenders.

I’d thought about bringing flowers. Roses. But I know Aria. Even though she likes flowers, she don’t like them more than breaded, deep-fried, misshapen chunks of chicken breast. Especially breaded, deep-fried, misshapen chunks of chicken breast from the bingo hall. Which is where I was coming from. Work.

I’d spent hours down at the hall, minding the suspicious and superstitious bingo players. The newbies and the vets and the unfortunate obsessed. The old men in durags, the young women in bonnets. The wigs that look like hats and the hats that look like wigs. The players who nurse one card at a time, and the others who play half a table’s worth. And even though my father don’t allow smoking no more—there used to be a designated room—the place still reeks of stale cigarettes.

My job is simple. Usually. Just dole out extra cards to whoever wants them and cash out the winners. But the whole time I was there, my mind was in Aria Land. The distraction was so bad that I messed up Mrs. Monihan’s winnings three times before getting it right.

“You okay, Neon?” Mrs. Monihan asked, her eyes narrowed into the shape of concern. “Because you acting funny, and ain’t nothing funny about messing up my cash.”

And I wanted to respond, No, Mrs. Monihan, I’m not okay. Because as soon as I leave here, I’m going to hop on the bus and ride to the other side of town to my girlfriend’s house. And know what we’re going to do when I get there? But then I looked at all the good luck charms lined up in front of her—a bottle of pink nail polish, a pair of sunglasses, an old car key, a frayed book, a Barbie doll, a figurine of a dog, a tiny skull, a quarter, a coffee mug, a movie ticket, a corkscrew, and a creased-up funeral program—and decided to just count out the money again.

For the fourth time.

Mrs. Monihan, the queen of the blond finger waves and the black finger wave, hadn’t hit all night. Lost every round after dumping money into extra cards to up her chances. But finally, on the last game—the big game—she hit. It was the blackout round, which meant in order to win, every number on the card had to be called. It had the largest payout, and when Mrs. Monihan Bingo’d!, she stood up and sang it in a dramatic falsetto as if Neon Bingo were a concert hall. And this was a concert. For yodelers. And everybody else groaned, partially because of her winning and partially because of her singing.

By the time I got over to her, she was kissing each of her trinkets, her parade of lucky charms, one by one. They each had something to do with her deceased husband. Their first movie date. His car. The polish she knew he liked on her nails. I’d heard the stories about him over the years, but when you hit big after losing so much, you think more about reimbursement than reminiscing.

After kissing trinket twelve, Mrs. Monihan jumped up and gave me a big kiss on the cheek too.

“And also, thank you, good luck charm number thirteen!”

“What makes you think I’m one of your good luck charms, Mrs. Monihan?” I asked, trying to resist wiping the wet from my cheek.

“Because this place is named after you!” she said. Then, poking my shoulder, added, “Plus, you sold me that card.”

“But I sold lots of people cards,” I replied. “Even sold you a bunch of duds that ain’t play out for you.”

“Yeah, but this was the game that counted! Plus, all these other folks in here ain’t got the power of Ronald,” she said, pointing at the charms. “It’s a combination, a recipe, and you part of that. That’s why I only play here when you work. You got power over this place.”

This was a gambler’s lie. I was used to them.

When Ms. Whitestone wins, she swears it’s because her right leg was crossed over her left leg. Except for when she loses. Then the reason for losing is because her left leg wasn’t crossed over her right leg. Or whenever Mr. Stallworth wins, he swears it’s because he said his prayers at the perfect volume before coming into the hall. He does this in his car in the parking lot, and if he doesn’t win, it’s because he wasn’t loud enough, and God couldn’t hear him. And if he was loud and still don’t win, he says it’s because God don’t like to be yelled at. So when Mrs. Monihan told me she’d won because of some power I had over the place, I knew not to take it seriously.

I got no power over the bingo hall, even though it’s named after me. And even though it’s kinda cool to have my name on a building—Neon in neon—it don’t necessarily represent who I am. At least not completely. I mean, the hall is a plain room with old-school foldable tables. It could easily be any multipurpose room. Or lunchroom. Or church basement. That part I can relate to. I can be many things. Anything. Many anythings. However, I don’t feel like I’m a home for gamblers. A place for folks to come blow their bread and sometimes ruin their lives while feasting on chicken tenders and chewy pizza. Or tots. Or oversalted but delicious crinkle-cut fries. Or potato salad that we always sell out of even though no one ever knows who’s making it.

I’d like to think I’m a little more than that. A safer bet with better options.

“If you say so, Mrs. Monihan,” I said, finally getting the count right. Five thousand. Fifty one-hundred-dollar bills.

“How your grandma doin’?” Mrs. Monihan asked, recounting the cash in her head while conversing at the same time. A pro.

“Still knockin’,” I said. Mrs. Monihan nodded, happy to hear that.

“Tell her I miss seeing her in here and that she should come check on us sometime.”

“You know she not leaving that dog.”

“Yeah, I know. Trust me, I lost Ronald almost twenty years ago, so I get needing what you need to get by.” Mrs. Monihan shook her head, trying to shake grief from her hair like dandruff. “Tell her to bring the damn dog with her. What’s its name again?” She paused her count, licked her thumb, then resumed.

“Denzel Jeremy Washington.”

“That’s right, Denzel Jeremy Washington. And you gotta say the whole name every time, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, shit, Denzel Jeremy Washington might be her good luck charm,” she said. “Especially mixed with you!” I laughed, knowing Gammy would never bring that dog to the bingo hall because my father would never let a dog in here, especially that dog. Too much barking. “Anyway, what about that girlfriend of yours? How she doin’?”

Mrs. Monihan, now done with the recount, handed me a hundred-dollar tip, which almost felt like payment for her minding my business.

Aria’s fine. So fine, fine don’t even seem right. Never has. Matter fact, I’d spent half my shift thinking about a word that was better than fine so I could pay Aria a different compliment when I saw her. Beautiful felt like something an old man would say. Gorgeous felt like something a dirty old man would say. She deserved something more. And honestly, she deserved something other than chicken tenders too. If I could’ve afforded it or knew where to get it, there would’ve been some caviar on those chicken tenders. I’ve never had caviar, but I knew this was a caviar kind of night. A candlelight kind of night. A cabernet kind of night. Never had that either, but if I had some, I would’ve drank it on this night, for sure.

“Aria’s fine,” I replied to Mrs. Monihan. “I’m actually gonna go see her later.”

Mrs. Monihan looked me up and down. Just a quick once-over, as if she could tell by the way I was standing that I was on the brink of something life-changing. She grinned.

“Well, you make sure you tell her I said hello.”

* * *

After Mrs. Monihan took her money and ran, I quickly put the order in, for chicken tenders and fries, before Big Boy, the fry cook, dumped the grease for the night. Then I beelined to the bathroom, not to pee but to freshen up. But ain’t no place bad for a birdbath like the bathroom of a bingo hall. Especially when Mr. Stanfield, another one of the hall’s regulars, was in the stall, struggle-humming the theme song to Star Wars while dumping his gut, which sounded like pain. And smelled like… pain. So much pain, I feared it would get caught in my clothes. Which would defeat the purpose of trying to freshen up. Nonetheless, the situation was the situation.

At the sink, I pumped the soap dispenser, rubbed my hands together for lather, then eased them down my pants, scrubbing and cupping, cupping and scrubbing, no longer than five seconds. Just enough to dial down the day-funk. Then I washed the suds from my palms and repeated the process with just water for the crotch rinse.

“You ain’t jerkin’ off in the sink, is yuh, son?” Mr. Stanfield said from the stall, a sweet concern in his voice that made the moment ten times weirder.

“What? No! What?” In the mirror, I caught Mr. Stanfield’s eye peering at me through the crack between the stall door and its frame.

“Then what yuh doin’?”

“I ain’t doing nothing,” I said, zipping up and bombing from the bathroom.

* * *

I was still soggy in the pants by the time the chicken tenders order was up. Fries on the bottom, tenders on top, wrapped in foil, then a box, finished off in a plastic bag, which made them easier to hold as I stood waiting at the bus stop outside the hall. I stared at the car dealership across the street, the fluorescent graffiti advertising the DAZZLING DEALS written huge on the showroom windows. I glanced back at the bingo hall. Nothing on the windows. Nothing dazzling about it.

I was still a little soggy when the bus came. And after twenty minutes of watching videos on my phone, scrolling from clip to clip, I was a little less soggy by the time I got off. I hoped what was left of the damp would dry on my walk to Aria’s house, especially since it was a warmer spring night than usual. May can be tricky.

Aria lives two blocks from the stop, in a neighborhood that’s way quieter than mine. It’s one of them neighborhoods that’s less of a neighborhood and more of a “community.” Streetlights are brighter, houses bigger, grass so green that it seems just as green at night. Every house looks the same. Each the color of graham crackers. And they all look like the people who live in them might eat graham crackers. For breakfast. For lunch. For dinner and nighttime snack. Because this is definitely a community where people eat nighttime snacks. Wouldn’t surprise me at all if there’s even a person named Graham laid up on a beige sofa in one of these mini-mansions. Eating nighttime snacks.

Before I knew it, I was standing at Aria’s front door—873 Kingman Park Drive—the only house that stood out because of its pink paint. A spark in the dark. A blam in the blah.

I approached the door knocker, the whole note (that looked like an eye) made of brass. I took a moment and just stood there staring at it before finally working up the courage to use it.

I lifted it, slammed it down. Lifted it, slammed it down. Twice should be enough, I thought. But just in case, I lifted and slammed once more.

“Okay, okay, okay,” I muttered, rocking back and forth from heel to toe, over and over again, trying to hand-iron the wrinkles from my shirt. Wasn’t working, but worth a try. Then came the soft thump of Aria’s feet.

“Okay, okay, okay!” she said from the other side. “No need to knock the door down.”

Then, the click of the lock unlocking.

And there she was. In sweatpants and a T-shirt, her hair snatched back into a ponytail. Ankle socks with ballies on the back.

“You know we got a doorbell, right?” To her, the door knocker was just decoration.

“And you know I got chicken tenders, right?” I replied, holding out the bag. She lit up.

“I swear, you the best boyfriend ever. Don’t let nobody ever tell you different,” she said, taking the bag and kissing me.

“Pretty low bar if chicken tenders can get me a compliment like that,” I said, following her into the house. She set the food on the kitchen table next to a notepad full of scribbles and scratch-outs.

“What’s all this?” I asked, pointing at the yellow paper. “I know you. There’s no way you’re still doing homework this late.”

“Of course not. This is actually yearbook stuff. Feels like we running out of time.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. And for a tick, just a tick, there was sadness between us. Sadness that comes from the unknown. There’s, like, the graduation stage, and then there’s graduating from this stage to another. And we don’t know what that stage holds for us. So, every now and then, there’s a pinch. But luckily it has a quick release.

“The Big Day’s almost here. Which means we got, like, a month to get this thing done. It’s crunch time.” Aria snapped us out of it. Snapped us back into the moment.

Me, Aria, and four of our friends make up the yearbook club, which we don’t like calling a club. We call it a staff. Sounds more professional. More important. Because, to us, it is important. I mean, it’s the last document of our class’s time together, and even though we hate to talk about it, it might even be the last document of the six of us all together. Who knows? Not us. Who cares? Well… we do. So we’ve all signed up for different responsibilities thanks to the club—I mean, staff—advisor, Mr. Sanchez.

At first, I was going to be the photographer but realized we didn’t need one because these days, everybody’s a photographer. So instead of taking pictures, we just created an email address for our classmates to send in the photos they’ve snapped on their phones throughout the year. Easy. Because everyone has at least ten million selfies. With that taken care of, I decided to do something different for the graduating class: make a short video of each senior, asking them to describe high school in three words. This is because, for the first time, our yearbook is going to be online. So these videos will be viewable forever.

Aria’s job is to create all the senior superlatives. And because Aria is Aria, she’s been obsessed with coming up with some unique categories for our class to vote on.

“Voting has to start soon, and I’m still trying to get ’em all nailed down,” she said, eyeing the notepad. “You were supposed to be helping me. Ahem.”

“I am. I will. I’m ready.” I saluted. “What you got?”

“Well, just before you came, I was playing around with Most Likely to Get Famous for No Reason at All.”

“Gotta be you,” I poked.

“What?! No. That’s definitely Dodie. That fool’s gonna stumble into stardom. I don’t know when or how, but watch. It’s just his luck.” Aria returned her attention to the chicken tenders and started digging through the layers of plastic, cardboard, and foil before reaching her well-protected treasure. Still warm.

She put her nose in first, inhaled the aroma.

“And you’ll definitely get voted in for Most Likely to Win an Oscar,” she said.

She reached in, grabbed a tender.

“Me?”

“Uh-huh.” Her face was unflinching. She meant it.

“And the bar has now officially hit the floor,” I teased. “If only I could provide chicken tenders to all of Hollywood, maybe they’ll lower their standards too.”

Aria had almost bitten into the tender but paused.

“Don’t get it twisted. My standards ain’t low. I just actually love chicken tenders. And you know that. So the way I see it, to love me the way I love to be loved is true love,” she said. “Therefore, the bar is actually set pretty high.” She flashed a look—the one that usually comes after Don’t get it twisted—and finally took a bite.

“I praise well thy wit,” I said, in my best tah-tah voice.

“Oh, listen to you, Mr. Canterbury,” she taunted before sitting and taking another bite and another, each followed by a dunk in the honey mustard.

“Please. Them five words are pretty much where I begin and end with that book,” I scoffed. We’d been assigned The Canterbury Tales in English class, and I’d never known reading could feel so much like math. “Anyway, how was Turtle before she left? Nervous?”

I slid my wallet from my back pocket before taking a seat. Set it on the table like it was a leather stone. It was my grandfather’s and messes up the way I sit, but I carry it everywhere I go. Kinda like my own good luck charm. My bingo magnet.

“Not really. I’m just bummed she gotta listen to our parents fight for the two hours it takes to get there, and the two hours back. Not to mention she has to deal with my father cranking and clicking his disposable camera all night.”

“Oof.” I groaned. “That’s a lot.”

“Yeah, and I’m also bummed that no matter how well Turtle does tonight, her voice will never add up to mine,” Aria joked, straight-faced.

“Oh really?”

“Of course. We all know that’s the actual reason she ain’t want me to come.” Then Aria broke into song. Didn’t bother clearing the chicken from her throat or nothing. Just went for it. And it was horrible. Absolutely terrible. Not a single note hit or carried. Not even by accident. See, even though Aria comes from a musical family, she’s the only member who don’t have no music in her. Not even a hum. And that’s the second reason she was Least Likely to Be the Favorite Daughter.

“Wow” was all I could muster.

“My voice ain’t warmed up, that’s all,” Aria explained.

I shot her bail. “Or maybe my ears ain’t warmed up.”

“Right, it’s probably just your ears. Too small to recognize perfect pitch.”

“Too bad they ain’t just a little… bit… smaller.” I folded the tops of my ears down. “At least you sound better than that dog you love so much.”

“Oh, you got jokes? Okay, well…” And then she broke into song again. This time howling like a sick dog about the chicken tenders, asking me if I wanted some. “Chicken tenders, golden and crispy and deep-fried with lovvvvvvvve. Deep-fried with lovvvvvvvve. I said, Deep-fried with lovvvvvvvve.”

“I got you, I got you. Deep-fried with love.” I laughed, shook my head. “But I don’t want none.”

“Fine. But I know you want some fries. You always want fries. You the Most Likely to Come Back in Your Next Life as a French Fry.”

She slid the box over to me and grabbed her pad to write down that ridiculous idea. And she was right. I did always want fries. Who don’t? They’re my favorite food because they’re the best food. Simple and versatile and, to me, perfect for every occasion.

“And when I do come back as a fry, hopefully I’ll share a box with you, the Most Likely to Come Back as a Chicken Tender.” Aria smiled. Nailed it. “Only difference is, I’d probably get eaten by Denzel Jeremy Washington.” Aria frowned.

“Aww, don’t say that. He would never,” she cooed. “How’s my baby doing, anyway?”

Her baby. A pet name only reserved for that mutt. I was many other things, but never her baby.

“He’s fine. Fed. Walked. Loved.” I pinched a fry from the box. “Also, he still ugly and still mean to me despite how much I do for him.”

“Well, you mean to me despite how much I do for you, so… it’s even, right?”

“Please. I ain’t never mean to you. Couldn’t be if I tried. That’s how we ended up here in the first place,” I said, taking a few more fries. “By the way, Mrs. Monihan told me to tell you hi. She won the big bingo tonight. Made enough money to probably last the next two months, but she’ll probably blow it all at the hall tomorrow.”

“Maybe.” Aria shrugged. “I mean, everybody’s got their something, right?”

She took another bite of chicken. I shoved the fries in my mouth.

“Oh yeah?” I masked my chew.

“Yep.”

“Well… what’s your something?”

Aria swallowed, dabbed the mustard from the corners of her mouth. Picked up a fry and pointed it at me as if it were a greasy magic wand.

“You,” she said. “You my something.”

It had been a long time since I’d felt awkward around her.

A long time.

Usually when Aria said stuff like this, something sopping with slick and game, I’d fire right back, because my sister had done a pretty good job at equipping me with an answer to everything, because our father had done a pretty good job at equipping her with an answer to everything.

And if I ain’t have no comeback, I’d just lean in for a kiss, because that’s the ultimate default.

When in doubt, smooch it out.

But this evening, I had nothing.

No comeback, no get-up-and-lean-in.

No nothing.

Just sat there with my tongue turned into mashed potatoes, staring at Aria gnawing on those chicken tenders, wondering what it was about chicken tenders, anyway.

They require so much work to get down, which means they not even really all that tender.

And the ones that come from the bingo hall are always overfried, because they’re refried every time somebody makes an order.

And if no one makes an order, they’re saved until someone does.

Maybe my dad thinks hot oil kills all germs.

Or that folks are already gambling, anyway, so what’s one more risk? Aria’s eaten at least a thousand of them since we’ve been together, and she ain’t mutated yet.

She ain’t even been queasy.

I’ve had a few—only on the fresh days, and none tonight, and yet it was me who all of a sudden felt sick.

It was me who felt like my throat was a little blocked, as if the chicken-fried sawdust was lodged somewhere along the runway between apple and sternum, which wasn’t no distance at all.

I’m a short-neck boy.

Not like Aria, who got enough to lay her head on her own shoulder. Which she does sometimes when she looks at me. Which she was doing just then.

“What you thinking about?” she asked.

“Right now?”

“No, twenty seconds from now,” she razzed. “Of course right now.”

“You.”

She waited a few beats. Smirked.

“Okay, so… what you thinking about now?” she asked.

I swallowed her flirt, let it sizzle in my stomach before responding.

“Us.”