All Your Twisted Secrets

by Diana Urban

  “Fate?” Priya visibly shuddered. “That means . . . that means it could be . . .”

  “Any of us,” I finished. “It means it could be any of us.”

  Sasha shook her head. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?” My heart pummeled my rib cage so hard it was like it was trying to escape. What if it were me? What if I lost at rock-paper-scissors? I always lost at rock-paper-scissors. I was like the Murphy’s Law of rock-paper-scissors. But Sasha’s sense of entitlement was abhorrent. This was a fair way to choose. “It’s the most logical thing I’ve heard so far.”

  “No way. It could be me.” Sasha wiped her tear-stained cheek with her palm. “Or Robbie!”

  “Why shouldn’t it be one of you?” Priya shouted.

  “Shut up!” Robbie pounded his fist on the table. “We’re spinning our wheels again. Let’s try rock-paper-scissors.” I let out a breath of relief that despite everything, he was focusing on something other than Diego and me.

  “Tournament style?” Priya suggested.

  “Yeah, but the opposite,” said Robbie. “We’ll pair up, and the winner of that round drops out. Loser moves on to the next round.”

  Diego rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, that actually sounds fair.”

  Robbie narrowed his eyes at him. “Maybe you’re actually not the only smart one around here.”

  “I never insinuated I was.”

  “Alright, alright,” I said. We didn’t have time for them to go at each other’s throats. “Let’s focus. How do we do this randomly?”

  “There’s no time to organize anything.” Robbie raised his hand and flapped his fingers in a beckoning motion. “Come on, who’s against me?” Everyone was silent. Nobody moved. “Christ.” He knelt next to Scott. “You and me, man.”

  “Fine.” Scott released his ruined leg and cracked his knuckles. The rest of us huddled around them. Priya pinched her lips. I squeezed Robbie’s shoulder, silently wishing him luck, but he ignored me. “Best two out of three?”

  Diego folded his arms. “Seems fair.”

  Robbie nodded. “Okay. Ready?” He and Scott pounded their fists against their palms. “Rock paper scissors shoot.” Scott covered Robbie’s rock with paper. Robbie stood, a vein in his neck bulging. “Bullshit! You hesitated for, like, a half a second.”

  “I did not!” said Scott.

  “He went the same time as you!” said Priya.

  “No way, I saw it, he waited,” screamed Sasha. Soon everyone was shouting so loud, I couldn’t hear myself think through the din.

  “Stop it!” I shouted, gripping my ears. But nobody paid me any attention. Robbie clenched Scott’s black T-shirt in his fist, and Scott howled in pain. Diego grabbed the back of Robbie’s shirt and yanked him back.

  “Get off me,” said Robbie, tugging himself free from Diego. He spun and wound up to punch Diego.

  “Stop!” I threw myself between them, extending my arms like a catcher between a base runner and home plate. “Stop it! Everyone shut up! Shut the hell up!” Everyone stilled and stared at me, except for Scott, who hunched over, his bad leg angled strangely, sweat streaming down his cheeks.

  “We need a better way to make this random,” I said. “How about . . . how about we draw straws instead?”

  “Less room for cheating?” Priya asked.

  “I didn’t cheat,” Scott grunted, pulling himself to sit flush against the wall again.

  “No room for cheating,” I said, ignoring him.

  “Are there straws anywhere?” Priya edged open one of the smaller sideboard drawers we’d left in place.

  “I haven’t seen any,” said Sasha, scanning the dining table. “Dammit, Amber, we’re running out of time.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” I said. “Stop reminding us how little time we have left and think.”

  She huffed and eyed the fireplace, where the bomb’s timer was hidden. I glanced at my watch. Thirteen minutes. Focus, Amber. Focus.

  I drummed my fingers over my lips, scanning the room. “There!” I dashed to the sideboard next to the door. There was a small vase of bamboo incense sticks. I yanked them out, dripping lavender oil all over myself. “Eight sticks,” I said as I wiped my slick hand on my dress. “We only need six.” I discarded two of them on the sideboard. Turning from the group, I snapped one of the sticks in half and shuffled them, leveling the top tips. I spun to face them, gripping the sticks with both hands. “One of these is snapped in half. You guys pick. Whoever picks the short stick . . .” I swallowed hard. “Well, you know. And if I get left with the short stick, it’s me. Fair?”

  “Fair,” said Diego. Everyone else nodded. We gathered at the end of the table next to the huge brass mirror covering the wall, as far from the bomb as possible.

  “Alright,” I said, “who’s first?”

  “Ladies first?” Scott suggested, motioning for Priya to approach.

  She approached me and bit her lip, fiddling with her sleeve as she stared at the sticks. “Come on,” said Sasha, “we don’t have all night here.”

  She glared at her. “I’m not gonna lie . . . I hope you get the short stick.” Sasha’s eyes widened. Priya exchanged a glance with me.

  “Way harsh,” I whispered, flashing her the smallest of smiles.

  “She’s got it coming, don’t you think?” She bit her lip again and took a step closer. “Listen . . . I’m sorry about everything. I just wanted to make sure you knew that before . . . before this is over.” Her voice cracked, and she choked up as she gave me a hug.

  I hugged her back with my free arm, my fist clenching the sticks caught between us. Relief mingled with fear in my chest, and I struggled to fight back tears. Maybe I finally got my best friend back. But in another instant, I could lose her all over again. “I’m sorry, too,” I whispered into her ear. “Love you always.”

  “Love you always.” She backed away with a stick in her grip—one of the long ones. She gave me a tight-lipped smile and turned around.

  “Who’s next?” I asked. I now had a one-in-five chance of being left with the short stick.

  Sasha didn’t hesitate. “Let’s get this over with,” she muttered to herself. After examining the bunch of sticks for a moment, she plucked the one closest to her. It was a full-length stick. My breath caught in my throat. One-in-four chance. She closed her eyes in relief and backed away, clearly lacking any sympathy for the four who were left—not even for her best friend Robbie, who watched her with narrowed eyes.

  He approached me, his shirt stained with blotches of sweat, and my heart plummeted. Oh, God. If only love came with an off switch. Despite his selfishness, he was the boy who got me through one of the hardest times in my life, who made me feel adored and protected. What if he pulled the short stick? My lungs felt like they were being sapped of air even though I was still breathing. But he didn’t move to take a stick. Instead he gave me a pained look and glanced at Diego. “Is it true?”

  “Does it matter? Seriously, does it?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You know what it means. You know we’re going in two different directions. You’re going to school to play ball. And if I manage to get out of here alive”—I waved the sticks under his nose—“I have my own dreams to see through.”

  “But—” He clenched his jaw, and then let out a low growl. “I know. I know you do. I never meant to make it seem like yours were less important than mine. I just—I assumed we had time—”

  “Come on already!” said Sasha.

  “Shut up!” Robbie snapped at her. She pursed her lips and crossed her arms. “I just wanted us to be together. That’s all I was thinking about. And now we might both die before either of us has a chance to do anything . . . and I’ve been such a jerk.”

  Yeah, he had been. But at least now he seemed to understand. Everything could end in the blink of an eye. Life offered no guarantees. We both glanced at the bamboo sticks. We had to get on with it. He had to choose. “Better get this o
ver with.”

  He nodded and swallowed hard. Finally, he pinched one of the sticks, and pulled it free from my grip. It was a long stick.

  “Oh, thank God,” I breathed. But there were still three sticks to go. It was down to Diego, Scott . . . and me.

  Diego approached next. When he met my gaze, a million questions hung between us. As he pinched one of the sticks, his fingers brushed against my clenched fist, sending a shiver of goosebumps trailing up my arm. Without breaking eye contact, he inched the stick from my grip. He was safe. With one last look, he twirled the stick between his fingers and backed away without a word.

  Two sticks left.

  There was a fifty-fifty chance I’d be the one to die.

  Tremors rippled through my body as I tried to stay strong. I couldn’t panic. Not now. But my hands visibly shook, and a lone tear escaped and trickled down my cheek. Priya let out a sob.

  Robbie gripped the back of his neck. “You know what? This wasn’t a good idea.”

  “Maybe it’ll be Scott,” said Sasha.

  “Are you willing to risk that?” Robbie screamed.

  Sasha pointed at me. “She’s the one who risked this. We could have killed Scott twenty minutes ago. We could have been out the door by now, on our way home. But she wanted to be all noble—”

  “I wanted to give everyone a chance to survive,” I said, cutting her off. “I wanted to get us all out of here.”

  “We can still do that!” said Robbie. “This straw game is ridiculous.”

  “You’re just panicking,” said Sasha, “because now your girlfriend’s at risk. Ex-girlfriend. Whatever. Fair’s fair. We’ve got to finish this out.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Robbie screamed at her. While they argued, Scott and I stared at each other. He gripped his stomach where Sasha had kicked him, and sadness and fear swirled in his eyes. “Fair’s fair,” I said, my voice shaking as I knelt next to him, my shoes crunching on shattered glass.

  We stared at the two sticks. Then he whispered low enough for only me to hear. “I don’t want it to be me. But I sure as hell will be sorry if it’s you, Red.”

  I let out a nervous chuckle. “Likewise.”

  “Well.” He pinched one of the two remaining sticks. “Here we go.”

  18 Days Ago

  JANUARY OF SENIOR YEAR

  Mom was waiting on the front stoop when I got home from school, which was weird—she hated the outdoors, and always jumped at the smallest buzzing noises. She usually spent the afternoon editing someone’s manuscript in the kitchen, papers and notecards scattered across the table as she peered at her laptop, refusing to be interrupted by anyone except Mittens, who took up permanent residency in her lap. I pedaled up the driveway and walked my bike into the garage.

  “Amber, c’mere,” Mom called as I hung my helmet from the handlebars.

  “What’s up?” I looped my earbud cord around my fingers as I joined her on the front stoop. “What’re you doing out here?”

  “Waiting for you.”

  Mittens sat next to her, licking his black paws. I plopped next to him and patted his soft head. “Why?”

  She tilted her head toward the front door. “Well, you know how your dad’s between gigs right now. He’s been in one of his moods all day. And I wanted you to see this before he did.” She handed me a thick envelope. USC insignia decorated the corner. “It’s thick.”

  “I already know.” I hugged the envelope to my chest without opening it. Mom raised her eyebrows. “They sent the email last week. I got in.”

  Mom beamed at me. “Congratulations, honey. I didn’t know to expect good news yet. It’s pretty early, isn’t it?”

  I plucked at the edge of the envelope, refusing to meet her gaze. “I applied early decision.” USC had only launched their early decision program last year—it meant the plans would be binding if I got accepted. But I’d known USC was my top choice for years. They had one of the best—if not the only—undergraduate film score programs in the country. And after my argument with Dad, and after Robbie tried to manipulate me into following him to Georgia Tech, I didn’t want to be tempted or forced to go anywhere else.

  But it meant lying to Dad.

  It meant I’d be in debt up to my eyeballs.

  But it was my life. My choice. And I’d take responsibility for it.

  Mom tilted her head. “Early decision . . . this sounds familiar. Doesn’t that mean you can’t apply anywhere else?”

  “Yeah. Well, I did. Every school’s deadline is different . . . it’s complicated. But I have to pull all my other applications.” Including the one I begrudgingly submitted to Georgia Tech. I tried not to think about how Dad would be annoyed by the wasted application fees, since he’d paid for my state school applications. Mom had slipped me her credit card—the one she sparingly used for the occasional purse or pair of shoes—for the rest, and told me she’d handle Dad if he put up a stink.

  Her brow furrowed. “So you have to go to USC now, right?”

  “Yes.” I cringed against the impending explosion. But her face broke out in a wide grin, and she wrapped her arms around me. “Oh my God! My little girl’s going to be a famous movie composer!”

  My laugh caught in my throat, where it felt like a rock had lodged itself. “Seriously? Aren’t you mad at me? I lied to you. To Dad.”

  Mom sighed. “True. And we’ll have to talk about that later.” I gave her a sheepish look. “I know Dad wanted you to go to a state school, but . . . you only have this one life. You don’t get a redo. This is it, kid. And you’re the only one who can decide how you want to live it.”

  “I know. That’s why I applied early—I knew I’d regret it forever if I didn’t try.” I rotated the envelope in my hands and stared across the street, watching the Johnsons’ sprinkler flinging water across their front yard, creating a radial green gradient that faded to dull yellows and browns. “Did you decide how you wanted to live your life?”

  Mom tucked her chin-length hair behind her ears. “I don’t want to say this the wrong way . . . I loved staying at home with you and Maggie, raising you, being there for you, watching you grow up. I would never, ever consider that a mistake. But yeah, Amber, I had dreams. I wanted to be a screenwriter in LA.”

  My eyebrows shot up under my bangs. “Seriously?”

  She nodded. “Yep. I think wanting to be in the movie biz must be in the genes. But the point is, I chose not to pursue those dreams for myself. Maybe it wasn’t the right decision, maybe it was. But I got to decide.” She tapped her chest. “I decided to be an editor. I decided to stay at home with you guys. And I loved every moment . . .”

  As she trailed off, Maggie hung between us, heavy in the air, darkening our conversation. “Maggie didn’t get to decide,” I said. My chest tightened.

  “No. Maggie didn’t get to decide.” Mom held a hand to her brow, blocking the sun. “She got into Yale, you know.” Her voice trembled slightly as she pet Mittens. “Pre-med.”

  My eyes widened. Yale had been her dream school. “I didn’t know that.”

  Mom nodded. “The acceptance letter arrived the week after she died. Another full scholarship. She could have done so much more with her life. It was all laid out before her, ripe for the taking. But . . .” She trailed off, watching the sprinkler across the street.

  “But they killed her.”

  Mom gripped my knee. “No, honey. She got sick.”

  Anger rippled through me. We hadn’t had this conversation in years, but the fury felt just as fresh as it did back then. “They made her sick. Nothing was wrong before they got to her.”

  “That’s not how it works. The doctors said it’s not . . .” Her own tears cut her off. Instead of continuing the argument, she clasped my hand, and we both stared at the Johnsons’ sprinkler in silence for a long time. Finally, she wiped her cheeks and cleared her throat. “Either way, it proves all that matters is health and happiness. You have your health. Now go after your happiness. And don’
t worry about Dad—he’s still freaked out about losing his business, but he’ll come around. He wants you to be happy just like I do.”

  Suddenly the front door creaked open, and Dad slipped out. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “She’s right, you know.”

  Mom rolled her eyes. “Were you listening through the door this whole time?”

  He grunted, digging his hands into his pockets. “Maybe not the whole time.” He’d clearly been listening the whole time. “And listen . . . whatever school you choose—er, already chose—and whatever financial burden you take on . . . that’s your choice. And you never have to apologize for not being your sister.” He still couldn’t say her name out loud. “You’d only have to apologize if you tried to be anything but yourself. Clearly . . . this music thing you’ve got going on . . . that’s what you’re meant to do. You’ll be fine.”

  “Aw, Dad . . .” I beamed up at him. “Well, you know, I did get a scholarship from USC.”

  “What?” said Mom.

  “Not a full scholarship or anything. Just a quarter of tuition. But it’s something.”

  “Well, that’s fortunate.” Dad stuck his hands in his pockets. “I still want a yacht when I retire. So I expect you to get filthy rich in LA.”

  I guffawed. “Anyway,” said Mom, throwing daggers at Dad with her eyes, “Grandma left you and Maggie a small college fund. It’s yours. Now, it’ll only put a dent in your tuition, but between that and the scholarship, we can do this. We’ll cosign any loans you need. And we won’t let you starve when you graduate.”

  I scoffed. “Who says there’s no money in music?”

  Mom put her hand around my shoulder and gave it a squeeze, squishing the cat between us. “Every record label in the country since the internet, hun.”

  “FYI, the record labels are doing fine. And so are the movie studios.” I tore into the envelope, careful not to rip USC’s emblem. I pulled out the top sheet of the packet and tilted it toward Mom.

  “‘Congratulations,’” she read aloud. “‘We’re pleased to offer you admittance to the film score program at USC.’”