Page 28 of Night Shift

I’m not a coward.

Thirteen

The basketball team leases an old Victorian house on a sleepy, tree-lined street that connects Clement’s campus to the downtown area.

I’ve walked down this street at least a hundred times. Whenever I head into town (which is really only when I need to buy clothes that seem too risky to order online or when I want to spend the afternoon in the romance section at the rambling old bookstore), this is my route. I know it like the back of my hand—all the university flags and decals in the windows, all the folding chairs on the front porches, all the neighborhood cats who technically shouldn’t be kept in student housing.

I know this street. But I’ve never felt the pavement under my feet tremble in time with the bassline of a Post Malone song playing ominously in the distance.

Nina and Harper pass a water bottle filled with lemonade and tequila back and forth while they talk strategy.

“Bar first, beer pong, then—”

“No, no. Bar first, then we find your boys, then beer pong—”

I’m only half listening because I’m more interested in watching students spill out from houses and side streets and double-parked Ubers to join our pilgrimage, the flow of people building and building until, at last, we reach our shared destination.

The house explodes with light and sound and collegiate chaos that spills out onto the dark street below. There are balloons (in Clement’s school colors, naturally) tethered to the railing on the front porch, and all the downstairs windows have been blacked out with what looks suspiciously like black trash bags taped together. Most of the second- and third-floor windows are lit up, and there are people leaning out of them to shout down to friends below on the packed front lawn.

As soon as I see how many people are here, I instinctively hug my arms over my chest.

This bodysuit was a terrible idea. What possessed me to come to a party with my tits halfway out? And who let me wear ankle boots with a three-inch heel? I’m towering over almost all the girls here, and a decent number of the boys. There’s no hiding. There’s no blending in.

I’m one big beacon of red lipstick and cleavage.

It’s only once I push past this initial panic that I realize it’s not just a crowd—it’s a line, winding across the lawn and wrapping up onto the porch. There are two lanky kids (both freshmen; I recognize their faces from the basketball team roster) manning the front door with clipboards under their arms.

“Holy shit,” I croak as we come to a stop on the sidewalk. “There’s a list?”

“It’s fine,” Nina says, looping her arm through one of mine and squeezing tight. “We’re fine. Don’t panic. It’ll move fast, and it’s barely past nine o’clock, so we have plenty of time to do everything—and everyone—we came to do.”

“I am not waiting,” Harper announces.

“But we’re already here!” Nina protests. “And we pregamed, and we look hot—”

“Calm down. I’m not leaving either.”

And then Harper executes what I can only describe as a magic trick.

She whips her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans, pulls open her texts, and taps out a one-word-long message before hitting Send.

Not even fifteen seconds later, poof.

Jabari Henderson appears on the porch, his own phone in one hand. The other hand is rubbing over the side of his fade and adjusting the buttons of his (very trendy) short-sleeved shirt like he’s frantically trying to make sure he’s presentable. I watch him preen nervously and realize that Jabari is, without a shadow of a doubt, smitten.

“What the fuck was your opening line on Bumble?” Nina whisper-hisses.

Harper studiously ignores the question and lifts one hand high into the air, gold bracelets glinting in the soft glow of the porch lights. Jabari spots her in the crowd. I catch the split second of childlike joy on his face before he manages to pull it back and play it cool. He tips his chin up, motioning for her to come up to the front of the line.

With a flip of her dark hair over her shoulder, Harper marches across the grass. Nina trots along after her, head held high as she basks in the jealous stares of all the kids who’ve been waiting out here longer than we have to prove that their name is on the list. I follow, biting back the urge to apologize to each and every one of them.

Jabari lets out a low whistle as Harper climbs the porch steps. I scrunch my nose warily, but Harper laughs.

“Behave, boy. Behave.”

Jabari presses his lips together, biting back a smile. “You made it.”

“Me and half the school,” Harper snaps. “You’re just asking for your neighbors to report y’all to DPS at this point. I thought this thing was supposed to be invitation-only since you’re on social probation?”

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