Into the Night

Fall 2

Friday afternoon in our dismissal time, Marion tells us that she’ll spend the night clubbing with her brother’s friends. “I am so, so excited!” she says. “Sorry if I couldn’t be with you guys in our TGIF plans. At least thirty minutes, I honestly can’t.”

            “We understand your situation, Mars.” Zoe pats her shoulder. “Hangouts with siblings are the thing someone can’t hesitate. Am I right, Audrey?” She pushes me.

            “What? Oh, yeah. That’s correct.” I don’t really know if it is right that spending time with your brother or sister is a lot of fun. I’m an only child. When I was around seven or eight, I told my mom I want to have a baby sister so there’s someone I could do some ballet-talks and advance teachings. Mom liked the idea, so did my dad. But being busy all the time, they couldn’t spend time with each other. And we only have dinner nights to talk about our day. Being next beside me during my recitals or shows, it takes a 101% clear schedule for them to attend. The good thing about it is they won’t and ever forget to be my number one cheerleader who can twist in the air ten times.

            When Marion’s older brother, Mark, drives towards in front of the school, Marion says goodbye to us and enters in the middle door.

            “So,” Zoe says. “Wanna have Fri-date?”

            “Of course, Zoe!” I chuckle. “There are only two of us now.”

            Zoe and I head to Coffee and Tea Bar at the other street. I tell her to order me Strawberry with whipped frappe and hand her the money. She asks me if I want anything like fries or salads, I tell her just two hash browns. Then I sit in the corner while she falls in line.

            I don’t talk much as I eat the hash brown and sip the frappe, and like Zoe. Marion isn’t around. She’s the talkative in us, trio—has an infinite topics, endless opinions, and unfathomable suggestions. I’m wondering how to start a conversation because I am not good at it. And maybe Zoe is thinking, too.

            Both of us are busy in our drinks and become bothered when this black sheep guy enters the shop. He’s not the black sheep that means different among of us, but black sheep that means all of his clothes are black—the jacket, shirt, pants. The only different color is his gray Lebron shoes. Well, a quite near in black as well.

            “That one,” he says, pointing at the beer inside the transparent freezer. The counter guy asks him thrice which of the beers he’s been pointing at until the black sheep guy approaches him and take the bottle he’ll buy. But no, he snaps his fingers in the face of the crew then leaps on the counter and runs away from this place, without giving his payment to the guy.

            “Just like the other day for almost hundred times,” the counter guy says to himself.

            The incidence starts our conversation. “That’s so cool!” I tell Zoe, slapping her forearm.

            “You’re sick, Cullen! Why did you think that’s cool?”