The street’s already humming, string lights zig-zagging between mailboxes, someone’s Bluetooth speaker thumping, a firepit spitting sparks two houses down, and Betty’s fog curling off her lawn.
Dusty stretches on my porch step, the lion mane I strapped on earlier framing his head. He blinks up at me, patient, regal, bribed within an inch of his life with string cheese.
“You’re the majestic king of the cul-de-sac,” I whisper, smoothing the ruffled mane Logan has no idea exists.
Engines rumble at the end of the block, before I see two SUVs and Logan’s truck. They’ve been getting organized at Chase and Zoe’s place, on Chase’s orders. Dusty’s ears perk up, and he rushes to his feet, trotting down the steps as his mane bounces, to meet whoever’s about to explode out of those car doors.
Tamara hits the curb first. She’s in black and white stripes and a tiny ref skirt, blowing a whistle she absolutely should not have access to. In her other hand is Miso. In a Yoda hood and ears.
Betty chuckles as she sees her. “Tiny she is,” she intones, delighted. “Powerful in the ways of chaos she remains.”
Miso freezes as she locks eyes with Dusty, then breaks into a little gremlin prance, trilling yaps as if she’s announcing his coronation. Dusty accepts the worship with a solemn tail thump.
King and goblin. It’s a vibe.
More doors slam, and laughter flies through the street. I squint through the fog and see a wave of green.
Jake, Eli, Chase, and Logan spill onto the sidewalk in full turtle get-ups. Green from head to toe, foam shells strapped to their backs, masks tied askew with zero shame.
The freaking Ninja Turtles.
Iconic.
And also Reid Hutchison’s worst nightmare. Which, judging by the smug grins plastered on their faces, was a choice made purely out of spite and brotherhood.
Chase, in orange, is already declaring himself the “sexy one,” posing in a vulgar crotch-grabbing thirst trap pose, his shell bobbing behind him as he does so. Jake, in blue, is arguing about weapon accuracy with Eli, in purple, who looks like he’s reconsidering friendship. Logan catches my eye across the yard, deadpan beneath his red mask.
He mouths,Help me.
I grin at him as he takes a step toward me, but he’s interrupted by Dusty leaping at him in his lion’s mane. “Why does my dog look like he lost a bet?”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “He looks like aking,” I repeat, because I’m committed.
Suddenly, another door slams, and a figure in a cloak slowly bends out of the car. Reid trudges up behind the boys, hooded robe dragging the ground, a walking stick in hand.
Splinter.
I laugh, clapping a hand over my mouth. “Wait, why on earth didn’t you want to be a turtle, Hutchy?”
His glare cuts sharp through the fog. “Because turtles are hellspawn, Parnell. You’d know—you keep one imprisoned in a tank in your classroom.”
Betty gasps so loud that several neighbors look over from their yards. “Oh my god, it’sDaddy Rat!”
Hutchy freezes mid-step, ears going pink as he clocks her on her porch. “Absolutely not.”
“Master Splinter,” Betty purrs, lifting her drink in salute. “Sensei.”
Reid keeps his eyes on her as he moves sideways toward me. “That Betty?”
“Mmm,” I hum my reply, holding out a pumpkin macaron as a peace offering. “Best keep clear of her tonight.”
Charlie follows next in a bright yellow jumpsuit, plastic mic in hand, and Theo on her hip, who also dons a lion mane.
“April O’Neil! Oh my god, Charlie, you’re perfect!”
“Thank you,” she says, striking a pose.
I take a step toward her, holding my hand out to Theo. “You are the best Simba ever, buddy.”
