Up All Night: Six Sunsets, Six Stories
Peter Abrahams, David Levithan, Gene Luen Yang, Libba Bray, Patricia McCormick, Sarah Weeks
Language: English
Pages: 78
ISBN: 2:00192478
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
A brush with the supernatural? A rock concert? A reunion? A poolside revelation? The need to know what's up? The confessions of a friend? The dream of escape? A sick pet? An English assignment? The rear-window view of a murder next door? The search for the mother you never met? What keeps you up all night?
This remarkable collection of award-winning and bestselling authors is thought provoking, insightful, heartfelt, and powerful.
fingers, patting it smooth. “Where the hell is the band, anyway?” “David said they’d be here,” Maggie assures them, but she’s begun to wonder herself. “Can’t you call him up, ask him?” “I don’t know where he is,” Maggie says, and for the first time she realizes she hasn’t talked to her brother since Tuesday. Diana opens the minibar. Inside is a dazzling array of doll-sized liquor bottles. “Oooh, Tanqueray,” she says. She takes four bottles and hands them out like party favors. Maggie gets a
bet they’re not staying there at all. I’ll bet they’re at the Adolphus.” Maggie shrugs. “Maybe they changed their minds.” “Maybe David is full of shit.” Justine blows the little white paper cover from her straw and it lands in Maggie’s water, so she has to fish it out. “Man, I’m wasted,” Diana giggles. “Are y’all wasted?” Holly laughs. “Totally.” Diana salts the fries without asking. “Mag-a-Doodle, we’re in Oak Lawn. Is your dad’s place near here?” “Kind of. I think it’s not that close,
There were two girls from the neighborhood sitting on a bench about twenty feet away. Tamika and Danika, or something like that. “What’s up?” Phil said to them. “Not much,” they responded. He nodded and moved on to the next bench. A homeless guy who smelled like bad cheese. “What’s up?” Phil asked. “Not much,” the guy said. Third bench. A poet type with a black notebook on his lap, pen poised for words that he clearly sensed were on the way. “What’s up?” Phil asked. The poet looked up
shooting hoops in P.E., say, I felt normal too. Not normal like before, back in Phase One, but a new kind of normal. Neddy, too—after a couple weeks, I even heard him laughing on the phone. But Mom cried at night. She tried to muffle the sound, but the wall between the bedrooms was thin. And she wasn’t eating. Her clothes started hanging loosely on her body, and when I hugged her good-bye in the mornings, I could feel all the ribs in her back. Then she got the idea that maybe Dad had survived
Neddy. Mrs. Foxe just smiled. Mom came back with her purse, took out her checkbook. “Cash works so much better,” said Mrs. Foxe. Mom handed her some bills. I didn’t see how much, but there were at least two twenties. Mrs. Foxe stuffed the money down the front of her blouse with a smooth quick movement, like one of those close-up magicians. Her hands were soft and plump, with crimson nails. “The longest journey begins with a single step,” she said. None of us knew what to make of that. “So