Page 39 of Sizzle Reel

Romy looks on and nods. “That’s an exceptionally gay response.”

I think Romy and I are okay. Good.

My heartbeat picks up. “Is it for sure?”

Romy shrugs. “We can ask Wyatt tonight.”

Well, fuck. “We’re seeing Wyatt tonight?”

Which, honestly, thank god. Perfect excuse to shorten my visit to my parents’; they love when I see Wyatt.

Romy bursts out laughing. “Check the group chat, dumbass. You responded yes.”

Now she’s back to normal. Was I imagining the tension earlier?

Man, I need to get a grip.

I know Romy picked the location we end up at for our little reunion (as if it’s been more than a week), because the next thing I know, Romy and I are carpooling up to the L.A. Zoo.

Excuse me, the old L.A. Zoo.

The one that opened in 1912, using the then-standard cages-inside-caves style of animal enclosures, only to go through the usual early- to midcentury maltreatment-of-animals backlash and close unceremoniously in 1965, when the city moved the zoo to its current location. The old zoo itself was, obviously, abandoned, leaving cages open to hikers, who would slip into the labyrinthian halls and enter the enclosures. Graffiti, most of it satanic, covers the walls like a coat. During the day, it smells like piss and is an incredible urban exploring spot.

At night, it still smells like piss, but it also feels like you’re being descended upon by the restless souls of dozens of dead animals, like in Pet Sematary’s straight-to-D.V.D. sequel.

Oh, and this is where they filmed Anchorman.

“What are we doing here, exactly?” I ask as I turn on my phone’s flashlight.

The midcentury carousel, still operational, is tented down for the night. The hiking trail curls upward and into the mountainside where the cages reside. You look north and you can see the city of Glendale; look to the immediate south and you’re staring at the cages.

“Wyatt said we eat and drink too much,” Romy says, glancing at Wyatt as he fans air into his Lakers T-shirt. “So exercise!”

It’s one of those nights when it’ll only go from the eighties to the high seventies even in the pitch-black. I trudge up the hill first, just to make sure I can do it. Straggling in the back is the easiest way to get murdered by either the animal ghosts or the satanic cult members. By the time I reach the flat part of the trail, I’m already hands on chest, trying to get my heart to stop hammering. At least the remaining 1.5-mile hike is flat. Bless the zoo-goers of the 1910s for that.

I reach for my camera, which is in its case hanging off my shoulder. Might as well see what images I can capture in this light—

Someone grabs my shoulders.

No, Romy grabs my shoulders and yells, “BOO!”

I know exactly what’s going on, but I still scream like a little girl. Wyatt doubles over in laughter from just behind us. Romy is giggling into my shoulder as she holds me from behind, rocking us both. The adrenaline rush from the scare shifts into a rush of calm as I feel her arms around me, hold a fraction of her weight on me.

And when she doesn’t pull away, instead shifting us both toward Wyatt, there’s a twinge of excitement that shoots throughme.

“So how’s the talent section without us?” Romy asks.

Wyatt puffs his cheeks, slowly blowing the air out. “Steven’s been on my ass since Luna left. Apparently being pissed at your assistant for literally nothing is contagious.”

I loosen Romy’s grip on me and feel her slink off.

“What are you talking about?” I say. “Why would Steven—?”

Wyatt shakes his head. “It’s no big deal.”

One of the first cages on the trail, a rectangular one built on a sloping hill, stands rusting in the dirt, door open. It was made for a smaller large animal, and it’s completely covered in paintings and graffiti. Wyatt scurries inside, ducking his head under the low roof.

“Wyatt!” I call into the cave.

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