THE RUNGS chill my fingers even though the day’s heat still lingers in the air. “Gross,” I say. “It smells like fish.” “It’s an adventure.” Julie climbs onto the ladder above me. Her Doc Martens combat boots clank on the rungs, making the entire ladder tremble. She got the boots from her mom, who was way into grunge in the nineties and had written Pearl Jam rules across the leather in silver Sharpie. “Adventures aren’t supposed to be clean.” “That’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever said,” Aya mutters. She crawls into the opening next, carefully placing one blackened foot onto the ladder’s rungs. “You didn’t care about being smelly when you were playing Queen of Garbage earlier,” I say. Julie pokes Aya’s foot and snickers. Aya tries to kick her. “Hey, stop shaking the ladder,” she says. A nervous laugh bubbles up in my throat. We’re kind of high up, and this thing doesn’t exactly feel steady.
