This Night Is Ours
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Synopsis
For one teen girl, the summer before college brings uncertainty about the future, familial pressure, and a budding romance—perfect for fans of Nicola Yoon!
It’s the longest day of the year, and eighteen-year-old Brandy Bailey has just received the worst news of her life: She’s been accepted to a top nursing school, making her mother overwhelmingly proud.
The thing is, Brandy wants to be an artist. She knows all the risks of chasing her dream. She’s heard them from her mother over and over.
On top of that, Brandy’s annoying classmate from high school, the startlingly handsome Ben Nolan, is catching his far-fetched dream of being an actor. Why does he get to be fearless while she has to be practical? Ben is the last thing Brandy wants on her mind, so of course today is the day he decides to glue himself to her hip. Now his perfect face is right there in the cacophony crashing through her head.
Spinning in too many directions, Brandy’s emotions clash with the flashing lights at the town’s summer carnival. Can she have one extraordinary night before everything changes?
Release date: May 14, 2024
Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Print pages: 336
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This Night Is Ours
Ronni Davis
6:45 a.m.
IT’S A BITTERSWEET FEELING, BOTH POWERFUL AND LONELY, being on top of the world (or in this case, the carnival Ferris wheel). Structures, shadowed against the light blues and purples of the summer dawn, rise all around me. The visual is breathtaking, and it’s all I can do to hold on to my phone as I steady myself, trying to find the balance between artsy and safety.
“June twentieth. The longest day of the year. Summer. My favorite season. Weather? I’ve been promised bright sun and blazing heat. I can’t wait to feel it on my face. Today is going to be a good day. And tonight? Extraordinary.”
I stop recording, then tap the PLAY icon to preview my first video clip. I wrinkle my nose. The early morning golden hour lighting is perfect, but my dialogue is way too cheesy. Still. I save it in drafts. I might change my mind later. Sometimes, even though I have a few thousand followers, it feels like only eight people ever see my posts. So I don’t need to stress. At least not about this.
And I should still give those eight people quality content, right?
Exactly.
Now, the art I just made? I’m anticipating a lot more people checking that out. I tap RECORD again, this time focusing on my small drawing of a carnival. The art is stylized in an anime chibi sort of way, with soft blues, pale yellows, seafoam greens, bright pinks, and deep purples standing out starkly against the white background.
The colors are a deviation from the ones in my normal work, which tends to be brighter and bolder. Should I add more shadow? Or would that be too much? I run my fingers along the smooth surface of the Ferris wheel car, avoiding the little cartoon people and bright pink swirls of the mini-carousel and Tilt-A-Whirl I’ve drawn. A bird’s-eye view of the carnival, with inspiration from the real thing, right now.
The drawing’s still a bit wet from the markers, and I don’t want to smear it. I lean back, tilt my head, and squint. No, it looks good as is, and its story is complete. At least for now.
Maybe I’ll eventually add this piece to my portfolio, but right now, I just hope this post will drive more business to my little online shop, where I sell stickers, iron-on patches, and prints of the art I make. I’ve only earned about fifty dollars so far, but it’s a start, right?
“I call this latest piece Cotton Candy Carnival,” I say into my phone’s mic. “I hope you like it. Link in bio if you want to learn more. This is Brandy Bailey signing off.”
I take a deep breath for two reasons: I’m up pretty high, and one slip could mean serious injury. But if I’m being honest, that’s part of the thrill of doing this. Climbing into some weird place, luxuriating in the sense of danger, that risk of getting caught. Second reason: I love the morning fresh air, and being this high makes it feel even more pure. There’s something special about such newness. It’s like a blank canvas, ready for my stories.
I’m up before the town wakes up, so it’s just me, the heavy, warming air, and the birds sing-sing-singing away. I snuck out of my apartment early, my mom oblivious thanks to her earplugs and eye mask. Made my way to the carnival grounds, where the rides are still and eerie. Where the lights are dark, the speakers silent. Last night’s downpour is a distant memory, except for the steam from the pavement rising into the air and curling my hair.
This is my favorite time of day. Before it’s filled with expectations and responsibility. Before everyone’s opinions and thoughts and words weigh on me like plates pressing into my chest. Before I have to put on a perfect face so everyone will think I am perfectly fine!
Ever since high school graduation three weeks ago, this is the only time of day I feel actually free. I’m still working out if that’s sad or not.
I turn to my drawing again. It’s hard to stay sad when I’m so excited about something I’ve created. The early morning just wakes up my artist fingers. The work flows out of me as easy as breathing. I love that.
The thought that I’ll probably have to give this up soon? I don’t love that so much. But I’m not thinking about the future. I’m focusing on the here and now.
Because now I need to leave.
I climb down, taking care to keep my balance and to avoid getting another scratch or bruise. My legs are already covered with them from all the other times I climbed to some precarious spot to make my mark. But even though I use the ladder, I still manage to bump against what feels like every single beam.
My phone buzzes with a text and it feels as loud as the thunder that rattled my windows last night. I jump, then go still, holding my breath and willing my heart to stop thumping. I’d be in huge trouble if anyone caught me here. But when no pounding footsteps or flashing police lights materialize, I slowly breathe out and look at the screen.
Shai
OMG
Good lord. It’s not even seven. But ever since my best friend Shai (pronounced Shay) had her daughter six months ago, I get texts from her at all hours of the day and night. I guess infants have a way of throwing off your entire schedule.
I wait to answer her until I’m off the carnival grounds and in a good position to run if other people appear.
Me
What’s up?
Shai
Elsa is teething
Shai
I’ve only had 30 minutes of sleep
Me
Oh no!
Me
Do you want to cancel tonight?
Shai
No way. I desperately need the break
Shai
I have some stuff to do first. Can we meet there?
Me
Ferris wheel at 7?
Shai
Yep
Me
Be there or be square
Shai
…
Shai
WOW
Me
Shai
See you later.
My phone buzzes with a new notification.
BenNolanOfficial has posted a new photo
There’s a preview of a picture from an airplane window, the night sky looking like black velvet. I raise my eyebrow. What’s he up to, taking what looks like a red-eye? But then I shake my head. Now is not the time to ponder the comings and goings of Ben Nolan, or why the app always randomly picks his posts to show me.
I slip my phone into my pocket and start to head down the street, but I pause and take one last look behind me. Carnival rides are so creepy when they’re just hanging out, creaking in the wind. But if I’m being honest, I like the creep factor; how the rides seemingly spring up out of nowhere, ready to thrill people and make them happy. It’s sort of like art, how we kind of create out of what seems like nothing. Mom does not trust anything that takes only two days to build, no matter how artful it seems, which is why I never got to ride any of the bigger rides until two years ago, when I was finally allowed to come out with Shai. No parental units included.
I can’t wait to ride everything tonight.
The last night is always the best night, because the food is extra good, the ride operators let us ride as many times as we want, and the fireworks display is always super cool.
It’s only fitting that the last night of the carnival coincides with what might be my last night of freedom. I’m expecting an email today that could tip my future in a direction I don’t want it to go. I need to at least have one more night of fun before that happens.
My fingers start itching again, wanting to make another drawing, but I’d better not. One is enough for now. Besides, I’m already on the ground. Satisfied, I pat my bag where my markers, pencils, iPad, and sketchpad are safely stashed away, then I start walking briskly down the street. The last thing I need is to get picked up for trespassing. My mom would be super disappointed in me.
And she’s the one person I hate disappointing.
8:00 a.m.
THE EMAIL IS IN MY INBOX.
And yes, there are always emails in my inbox. Messages encouraging me to order more cookies in the middle of the night. Solicitations from random charities because I donated to one once and they apparently shared my email address with everybody. DELETE. Stuff from a site called DailyOM, which Shai signed me up for. ARCHIVE. My horoscope. Stream notifications from Twitch. A couple of emails from my father, but those aren’t new. I’ve already read them a dozen times, and I’ll read them a dozen more. He left before I was born, so this is all I have of him.
I’m desperate for some very specific emails, but other than their “confirmation of receipt” canned messages, those senders remain elusive. And there is one website order, which would normally make me feel super happy. Except there’s that Email I’ve been dreading for weeks, blocking everything else.
I close my eyes and shake my head. They have to be playing tricks on me. Because it can’t be real, what I’m seeing. I squint at the email, and nope. It’s still there, trying to look normal and innocent. But it might as well be flashing in giant, red letters, surrounded by threatening emojis and questionable punctuation.
!!!CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR ADMISSION TO THE LUCERNE SCHOOL OF NURSING!!!
I can’t stop staring at it, even though it’s making my breath catch. Even though my skin is crawling, and I want to scratch it right off my arms.
No no no no no.
And also:
How how how how how?
Maybe I can delete the email. Maybe it never existed.
Or maybe they made a mistake! Maybe the subject is wrong and the real message—the rejection—is in there.
Then I’ll be off the hook.
I guess there’s only one way to find out. Rip off that Band-Aid, even though the thought of anyone ever doing that completely grosses me out. My fingers shake as they hover over the touch pad. Then I click the link.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Hello Brandy,
We are pleased to inform you of your acceptance to the Lucerne School of Nursing!
I don’t read further because this is enough to fill my heart with maximum terror.
This is real.
I slam my laptop shut.
8:07 a.m.
“BRANDY! OH MY GOSH!” MOM BUSTS THROUGH MY DOOR SO hard a couple of my drawings fall off the wall. She’s waving her phone around and dancing, and the grin on her face only exacerbates the crawling on my skin. “You got in! Peanut, you got in!”
The room tilts and oh, God, no. Not now. Not the shaking. Not my breath sticking in my throat even more and my heart kicking into high gear. Not me feeling like a prisoner in my own skin. This never used to happen so much, but now, it feels almost nonstop. I don’t know what it is. I just know I hate it.
Who even gets like this every time they get stressed out? Most people eat junk food and marathon a show and they’re okay. Right? So why can’t I be like that? But the more I try to make myself be normal, the harder it is to breathe.
Everything is fine. My breathing is just fine. It’s so fine that my head is spinning with how normal my breathing is.
And maybe she’s talking about something else anyway. Maybe—just maybe—it can still go away.
Mom thrusts her phone at me, and the room tilts more when I see the screen.
My skin tightens. I try to focus on the frustration building in my chest. Why would they send her an acceptance email? Why? Sure, she paid the application fees, and her name is on the FAFSA, and I was still a minor when I applied, but those are not grounds for them to violate my privacy like this.
Mom throws her arms around me and squeezes me tight. My first instinct is to push her away, not because I don’t love a good mom hug, I do, but because I can’t stand the way anything feels on my skin right now. But then her scent of jojoba oil and jasmine kind of brings me back to myself. Just a little. Her scrubs are soft against my face. Absorbent, if I were to let the tears in my eyes fall. Which I won’t. I can’t let her see how upset I am.
“It’s what we’ve been working toward for so long,” she says into my hair, her voice thick. “And now it’s happening! It’s really happening!” She sniffles, and my breath gets shallow again.
“Please don’t cry, Mom.” Please don’t, because that’ll just make me feel worse.
“I can’t help it.” She pulls away and looks into my eyes. The sun rays light her smooth, dark, amber skin, making her glow. My sand-colored skin will never glow like hers, and for years, I hated that. But now I accept it. Just like I should accept that being a nurse is going to be my future.
This morning’s freedom already feels like a distant memory. Transient, just like the carnival and its glorious, creepy rides.
“You know what? I’m so happy I’m not going to make you clean your room today.”
I take in the sketchbooks and pencils on the floor, the hoodies all over the bed, and the stuffed animals shoved any place they’d squish. Clean my room. As if I didn’t turn eighteen last month. Still, seeing all my stuff everywhere loosens something in me. I’m here. I can breathe. “My room’s fine.”
And I’m fine.
I am.
“And you deserve a present!” Mom says.
I shake my head. “No. I really don’t.”
“Nonsense.” She bites a nail, thinking. “I know. Why don’t I get you a new outfit?”
I glance down at my jean shorts and gray Sonic the Hedgehog hoodie. “I don’t need new clothes.”
“Brandy. Darling. Humor your mother. We need to celebrate, and I know just how.” Her eyes twinkle. “I’m taking you to the President’s Club.”
“What?” The President’s Club kind of intimidates me. It’s this fancy, exclusive golf course and city club on the snooty side of town. A couple nights a month, they open to the public and let us “normies” eat in their restaurant. I’ve never been, but I have to admit I’m a little curious. But am I curious enough to go under these false celebratory pretenses? I don’t know.
“You deserve it. And this means you’ll definitely need a new outfit.” Her eyes light up. “A dress! Ooh, you’re going to look so pretty!”
Terror. Pure terror. Mom has this vision of me in her mind that I just don’t share. She wants me to wear these cute, really stylized dresses—maxi, mini, or midi. Length doesn’t matter. A-line, of course, or skater style. I only know this because she’s constantly texting me pics of dresses that she thinks are cute or would be flattering on me.
I’m not a fan of wearing dresses. I feel awkward and like a kid playing dress up. And some of the materials just don’t feel right. I need soft and comfortable things on my skin, like sweatshirts. Plus, I can’t climb in a dress. How will I get to my special spots to draw if I’m having to be all proper and ladylike?
I wish I could tell Mom her money would be better spent on pineapple pizza and a gift certificate to an art supplies store. But then I’d be an ungrateful brat, right? Gift giving is totally Mom’s love language, and she prides herself on picking out the perfect presents. The only thing she falls down on, in my opinion, is trying to buy me clothes. “I have dresses, Mom.”
She gently tugs one of my braids. “When was the last time you wore one?”
“Aunt Rena’s wedding.” Three years ago.
“Exactly. You’ve probably outgrown them all.”
Honestly, I can’t be bothered to care that much. Except for the growing part. “You really think so?”
She grins. “No.”
“Oh.” I sigh. Being the shortest person in my entire family is a running joke between all of us and I get teased constantly. Cousins, aunts, uncles. I don’t usually mind it, but today it grates a little. “But isn’t the saying ‘good things come in small packages’?”
She hugs me again. “The best things. Like you! Following in my footsteps! And your grandmother’s! Just like you dreamed of when you were a little girl! I can’t wait to call her and tell her! But first…” She lifts her phone to her mouth. “Hey, Siri, is tonight a public night at the President’s Club?”
Please say no, please say no.
“Tonight is a public night at the President’s Club,” Siri the Traitor answers, loudly and clearly.
“Perfect!” Mom swipes and taps and types. I cross my fingers. Maybe they’re all full up tonight. I assume it’s a popular place. It’s probably been booked for months.
Mom grins. “Yes! Got a reservation.”
“Great,” I say through a stiff, fake smile. But she doesn’t notice. She’s too busy smiling for real.
“Since it’s so last minute, we didn’t get the best time, but we’re all set for tonight at four. I’ll forward you the confirmation. Ooh, you know what? We should go to that new shopping center! It’s super close to—” Her phone vibrates. She looks at the screen and her face falls. “Well, so much for that.”
I cross my fingers. “The hospital?”
She nods. “Oh yeah. She’s crowning.”
On the one hand, I hate that I know what that means. But on the other hand…
Thank.
God.
My breath slowly deepens. The world begins to look less fractured. Maybe if I can sit here and process this, without her expectations pressing on me, I can make peace with it.
“I wasn’t supposed to go in until later. And I really wanted to take you shopping.” Her mouth turns down at the corners, and the guilt washes over me. She’s so happy for me, and I love it when Mom is happy. Especially if I’m the one making her smile like the sun personified. Which is different from how tired she looks when she thinks I can’t see her.
I feel crushed inside. I so want her to keep smiling.
But not because of this.
I swallow the huge lump in my throat. “It’s fine, Mom. Go usher a new life into the world.”
“But I want to celebrate with you! I guess I could ask Maddie to cover for me… except it’s my high-risk delivery. I really don’t want to pass it off to someone e. . .
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