Fridays suck.

I take that back. Fridays are fabulous. All the best parties happen on Friday. But Ripley also happens on Friday, and brothers are annoying. Which is why Fridays suck.

Diesel fumes spew from the tail end of bus fifty-five, and I hold my breath as the yellow reminder of my weekly drama hurtles down the street toward the stop sign. Even if disaster strikes this weekend, I won't have that mess to deal with. And it's a good omen that I escaped before someone mentioned a certain ex-boyfriend. You'd think after two months people would let that crap go. I have.

Regardless of exes and bus fumes and annoying brothers, nothing can ruin the mood of a Friday. It's all about what Melody Holiday wants, and the rest of the world can stick their business elsewhere.

Standing in the shade of the dry cleaner's sign, I bask in my freedom and ignore the chick with the spray tan hanging out of the pick-up window. She isn't Lenny. Lenny tells the best jokes. People drive across town to bring their dry cleaning to him. He should charge admission.

My cell quacks and I dig into the pocket of my Sublime hoodie. It's a text from Presley. More about the rave we were discussing on the bus ten seconds ago. The girl is so needy.

(Did I mention the theme?)

(Yes, London punk)

(You wearing your new trench?)

(👍)

(😁)

I pocket my cell and pretend I'm in a hurry to avoid fake tan chick's wave, blowing past the dive bar and its funky upholstered door. The red vinyl and brass tacks were a fashion statement back in the sixties. Now, it's just an advertisement for old Vegas, the one with Sinatra and Elvis, although neither of them would have worked at this joint.

That's not true. The place wasn't always a dive. Papa played there back in the day, before they renamed it Fire in the Hole. I'm tempted to stick my head in and give a shout-out to Guy, the owner, but I'm pretending to be in a hurry.

I scan the gutter as I make my way home. Drunks are notorious for dropping things: money, tickets to concerts, drugs (not that I'd partake). Ripley found a game token for Caesar's arcade once and he wouldn't stop pestering Mom until she took him. He's the sweetest kid you'll ever meet, but he can be insufferable when he gets on a rant.

Today, there's nothing but the usual cigarette butts, club flyers, and chewed gum. I use the distraction to avoid a couple of tourists walking toward me. They're dressed in hot pink Flamingo Hotel tees and carrying long-stemmed souvenir cups. Clearly, they're under the illusion that every street off the strip has something exciting to offer.

I arrive at my destination and dig my key chain out of my backpack, squinting against the sun as it reflects off the bullet-proof glass of my little slice of paradise—The Paradise Place Apartments. Conveniently located off the strip, the historical monument was mercifully saved from the wrecking ball by a group of nostalgia fanatics and is now the home to a bunch of weirdos. According to Papa, the fanatics and weirdos have the best tales to tell.

Before I unlock the door, I glance into the alley to check for our resident vagrant, Harry. After the divorce, Mom and I moved into Paradise Place with Papa, and a month later this bum shows up in the alley next door. There's never been a problem with homeless people on Papa's street, mostly because the cops make routine drive-bys.

That didn't stop Harry from making himself and his shopping cart at home behind the dumpster under my third-floor window. It's no surprise he's always gone when the cops come around, but we all know he's camped there. They love him at Fire in the Hole. Think he's a freakin' genius. Lucky for me, Harry the Genius isn't home, or he'd be out here trying to talk to me.

I push my size small body against the five-hundred-pound door, cringing as the metal scrapes on the warped lock that never got replaced after the attempted break-in last spring. Me and my backpack barely make it inside the foyer before the door slams into its frame. My cell quacks and I lean against the wall to read Presley's text.

(Don't wear your LBD again)

(Why?) I love that dress. Presley knows I love that dress.

(You wore it to the last rave, duh)

(When something is a classic you stick with it)

As I lock the door, incense assaults my nose, setting off three rapid-fire sneezes. I scan my brain for the date—third Friday of the month. Mrs. Speelman must be prepping for a night of mystic readings.

"Mel? Is that you? I thought I heard that maniac bus driver speeding past our door."

"Yes, it's me."

I wade through a smoky curtain of jasmine and sandalwood to the common room, which is just a living room shared by the tenants of Paradise Place. They use it for social stuff like book clubs, cocktail parties, and seances. Originally, the room was called the gentleman's parlor, but only Bruce and his husband, Arno, use that term.

The pocket doors are open, and Mrs. Speelman is arranging colorful scarves over the lamp shade as the furnishings undergo their monthly spiritual transformation. She's even decorated the haunted chair, the one the gangster Eddie LaRue paid his dues in.

"The place looks great, Mrs. Speelman." That's a lie. The furnishings are vintage, and not in a good way. "What's on the menu tonight? Tea leaves? Palm reading? Chakra balancing?"

"It's tarot cards tonight. We're doing power animals, too. Care to join us?"

She glides up to me in a whoosh of billowy gauze and takes my hand. Her long silver hair trails over my arm, forcing goose bumps to pop up. She probably thinks her psychic juju has caused it. I give her a second to read my aura. Thank goodness she can't read my mind. When she's done, she goes back to scattering scarves.

"I suppose you have plans with your friends tonight," she says.

"Well...there's this party...invite only."

Mrs. Speelman doesn't need to know about the rave.

"But Ripley will be here. So, I might be on brother sitting duty. Is my mom coming down to talk to her power animal?"

"That's the plan, but you never know where the wind will blow your flighty mom, eh?" She winks as if the gesture excuses her from being rude, even if she is right about Mom.

"You should invite Mr. Craft. He likes tarot cards. He claims he has a set from a lucky clan in Scotland handed down seven generations."

I only say this because I know it will annoy her, and she scrunches up her nose like one of those expensive, flat-faced cats.

"Mr. Craft knows nothing about luck. He lives on the seventh floor. What kind of person tempts fate by living on the seventh floor? Seven is the unluckiest number in the universe."

"I think it's just unlucky for you, Mrs. Speelman. I'm sorry about all those lucky seven jackpots you missed out on." I offer a shrug of sympathy, and she dismisses me with a shake of her head. "I'll see you later, then. Have fun playing cards. Don't smoke too many cigars."

She clicks her tongue because I've made fun of her voodoo, but she won't hold it against me. She adores Papa. Everyone does. I slip back into the foyer and head for the elevator, trying not to get discouraged about the rave I may or may not be going to. There's a quack and I look at my cell.

(Hair dye, yes or no?)

(Yikes! No!) Presley is crazy if she thinks I'm risking a hair dye mishap with my LBD.

I jab my finger on the elevator button and glance at the machine room door at the end of the hall. A familiar tune drones out of the depths, performed by some rock band from the seventies. I know the song but can't place the group, and I'm not sticking my head in there to find out. Nobody enters Marty's lair unless he invites you, and he never invites you. The guy takes hermit to the next level. You'd think an apartment super would actually talk to people.

My voice echoes as I sing the song. The elevator dings. The door chugs open. It's empty. I step in.

"Hold that elevator!"

I poke my head into the foyer and watch my friend Loki wrestle his cello case through the armored front door. Okay, his real name is Logan. Loki is his stage name. I hold the elevator open with my elbow, causing the gears to grind as Loki props the monstrosity against the wall and locks up.

He's in full performer mode: Frankenstein boots, ponytail, braided beard, Ozzy tee, and tat sleeves. The real tats have to wait until he can provide proper ID to the nice folks at Fake Me Body Art. Apparently, his birth certificate got lost. I think he's just chicken. After securing the front door, he jams the case under his spindly arm and sprints down the hall.

"Shouldn't you be lugging that thing the other way?" I say as Loki and his musical beast stumble on board. "I thought you had a gig tonight."

The door closes and I finger the third and fourth floor buttons as Loki slumps his tallness against the cello case, hugging it like a girlfriend. He calls her Mavis.

"We did. The place got shut down. Happened as we were rehearsing. The cops came in...arrested the owner right there. Outstanding warrant." He stops to pant. "That's the second club to shut down on us in three months. How's a guy supposed to fund his World of Warcraft habit?"

"Sorry to hear that. Wanna go to a rave tonight? I might be going to one. I'm sure I can get you an invite. You could enjoy yourself and not be the entertainment for once."

Loki rubs his hand across his face, smearing his eyeliner. He doesn't need it. He's got the kind of eyelashes women pay money for, thick at the base and fanning out at the tips. The perfect accent to his violet-blue eyes. Definitely his best features. If he wasn't such a geek-squader, he'd be decent boyfriend material. His love of music saves him.

"Actually, I had plans."

"How can you have plans when your gig just got cancelled?"

"I was thinking World of Warcraft marathon. I'm heading to Seven-Eleven after I drop off Mavis. I need supplies for two days of pillaging and pummeling. Do you want to join me?"

Geek.

"I hope you're asking if I want to go to Seven-Eleven, because I have no interest in pillaging or pummeling."

"Don't knock it till you try it."

He looks a little embarrassed, like he's just asked me on a date. He only started talking to me a year ago after I cornered him in the elevator and told him a dirty joke. He confided later that he thought I was crazy. I doubt his opinion has changed. The elevator jerks again and the door shimmies open.

"Rain check on the gaming," I say. "But a Slurpee and a bag of Funyuns sounds delish. I'll text you when I'm ready. Say 'hey' to your Aunt Cheryl for me."

"Tell your papa to 'hang loose spruce goose'." He flicks his thumb and pinky up and down like a surfer going through drug withdrawals, which makes me laugh.

"It's only cool when my papa says it. He actually knows what a spruce goose is. Come up with your own quotes, dude."

I step off the elevator and drag my backpack toward apartment 3A. Maybe Mom will let me wear her new black boots. They'd pair perfectly with the trench coat I bought at Flashbacks. Of course, everything depends on Ripley, the boy at the center of the universe. My cell quacks.

(Leah just texted that Emma says Finn broke up with Mandy and he'll be at the rave)

Ugh. Remember Mel, nothing can ruin the mood of a Friday.

(I'm not into ancient history)

(It's only been two months)

(Don't care)

I drop my backpack in front of the door, fumbling with my key and wishing that jerk's name hadn't come up. How am I supposed to have fun tonight with him breathing down my cleavage? To this day, I still don't know whether he was in love with me or my boobs.

The door clicks open, and a Brit's voice echoes out of the television, explaining how to brine chicken with a simple salt and sugar mixture. Prodding my backpack into the room with my shoe, I glance at Papa's recliner. It's empty, which is rare. Maybe he's in the bathroom. As I shut the door, I notice his cane lying on the dining room floor.

"It's about time yougot home." Papa's disembodied voice calls from the kitchen. "I had a fight withthe peanut butter jar. Guess who won?"

https://youtu.be/dqZ6yrWEmGo