Excerpt from Those Pink Mountain Nights by Jen Ferguson, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Now Berlin walked.

The release bell sounded with an off note, like someone in the office had yanked a power cord from the wall. It fit her mood. Her forever mood these days. She couldn't look at health foods or Quinta's sunny, painted beehive boxes or 4x4 Jeeps, purple or otherwise, the same way. Even geography was ruined. Maps of the world too. The whole alphabet. Because they weren't Quinta and Bee any longer, brought together by their place names and united by what Berlin had thought were unbreakable bonds.

On the street, a vehicle slammed on its brakes, gliding over the thick white line. She peered up, eyes hard, both hoping and not hoping it was her best friend. After all, she now had to ask if Quinta's parents would donate a bunch of baking essentials for the fundraiser. She really had to do it.

"Heeey, Berliner, want a lift? It's cold, woman. You're gonna freeze your tits off."

She and Jones weren't friends. They'd been in the same homeroom class since forever, and these days, he only half-heartedly teased her over her weird name. This from someone named John Jack Jones III.

She distanced herself from the truck, its rank weed and greasyboy smells, and pointed toward Ninth Street. "Work tonight."

"Oh shit, wish I could." Jones leaned toward her conspiratorially, sliding on the bench. He wasn't wearing a seat belt. "I'm in deep trouble with the overlords."

"Again?"

Earnest Berlin didn't talk like this. If she'd been able to talk like this at lunch, and if SarahLynn hadn't crushed her, they'd have gotten to the grocery list sooner. Maybe Berlin could have even told someone else to deal with the donation request. "You're lucky." Jones laughed, on a slight delay, leaning hard toward the passenger window. He was high. "Yours are hardly home." His mom had an unhealthy obsession with her only child. Berlin was pretty sure Mrs. Jones had her son's cell tapped. Jones Senior was RCMP. They'd have access.

Someone in the line of vehicles honked once, twice, then laid down a long angry note. The light was green. Behind the small two-door car making all that noise sat a purple Jeep.

"You'd better get," Berlin said.

Green light and all, Jones stalled. "I'm ordering tonight. You'll make it with extra cheese, right? Like a bucketload. Don't skimp!

For me? That Sound chick used to do it." He smiled as if that would cinch things.

The car honked again.

Before she could respond, Jones took off, his window still down, the smells still leaking out. It was like he hadn't been asking for a favor at all. First, he'd tried to charm her. Then followed that weak attempt with a comment about Kiki, like it would cement things. Stepping out into the intersection, Berlin lifted a mitten as the purple Jeep passed.

But Quintana-Roo, her hair loose and coppery, fixed her eyes on the road.

She thought her legal name beyond ridiculous. Some real settler BS. Blamed her white hippie mom for the screwup and her Chinese Canadian dad for being a pushover. Quinta had even worked some administrative magic in the principal's office and had wiped it from the attendance rolls.

On the day she'd rent Berlin's world in half, Quinta had said what she needed to say, calm and collected. But it seemed any acknowledgment of each other's basic humanity was off the grid. For how long?

To finish crossing the road before the light turned, Berlin walked faster, losing traction with each step under the weight of her schoolbag. It wasn't that she wanted to fall—but that might be enough reason for her best friend to pull over, for the two of them to talk, to figure out what went wrong. To make it better.

Or Berlin could just text, inquire about the baking supplies and hope that would connect them again.

She should do it now. While she felt this almost-motivation.

Only it mattered that her phone would have some juice left for tonight's walk home. Even in a quirky tourist town, street harassment was a thing. News tickers at the bottom of the TVs on campus and the hard-copy newspaper her parents subscribed to but never had time to read both said violent crime was getting worse. Housing prices were skyrocketing too. Minimum wage couldn't compete. The numbers told a story. But no one counted the near misses, how last week, after closing the shop, Berlin was followed almost all the way to her house by three drunk white men, her phone about as useful as a doorstop.

Excerpted from Those Pink Mountain Nights by Niall Ferguson. Copyright © 2023 by Niall Ferguson. Excerpted by permission of Heartdrum. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.