Chasing Midnight Read online

  praise for

  chasing midnight

  “Be careful what you wish for. . . . A modern Cinderella story that will charm its way into your heart and make you second-guess the grass you think is greener.”

  — JENNIFER MURGIA

  author of Forest of Whispers

  “Chasing Midnight is a beautiful, magical story about wishes, hard choices, and the joy of finding happiness in our heart’s own truth.”

  — FRANCISCO X. STORK

  author of Marcello in the Real World

  “A fun read with a fresh twist that’s classically entertaining and uplifting!”

  — SHELENA SHORTS

  author of Gates of the Arctic

  Notice: ebook piracy is both illegal and immoral. If you suspect that you received this ebook from an illegitimate distributor or retailer, please look at our list of authorized distributors. If you received this book from a retailer or promotion not on this list, then neither the author nor publisher have been paid for their work. Please support us so that we can continue to provide you with quality literature.

  To Greg,

  who's shown me what being a lucky one really means.

  part one

  “Thou hast no clothes and thou canst not dance;

  thou wouldst only be laughed at.”

  "CINDERELLA"

  BY THE GRIMM BROTHERS

  one

  Someone’s following me.

  Then again, I’m probably paranoid. Staring at Halloween masks all night can do that to a person. Plus, in all my years of cutting through the park, I haven’t once felt threatened. This is Piedmont, you know, where the only time you hear sirens is on the Fourth of July, and the only time you lock your doors is when your two little brothers are trying to chase down the ice cream truck.

  For some reason, though, I’m still afraid to move. Probably because everywhere I turn, I can sense a shadowy shape following me around like a wayward spell looking for its mark. Not to mention the curious scent of roasted nuts and cinnamon that’s suddenly infiltrated the air, or the sound of dead leaves being crushed behind me.

  Or here’s a thought: maybe my dreams are finally coming true and James Odera has at last realized how much he likes me. Maybe that’s him following me around, trying to get up the nerve to ask me to the Pumpkin Ball, the epic post-Halloween party Brecke Phillips throws every year for Piedmont High’s most elite.

  A flurry of birds races into the treetops, cawing through the air like a black-and-white horror movie. I remain still, waiting. Waiting for someone or something to jump out and attack me—or, on a more positive note, for James Odera to appear on bended knee with a bouquet of flowers and a Pumpkin Ball invitation.

  Bong . . . Bong . . . Bong . . .

  Shoot. Instead it’s the clock tower that has found me, hunting me down like it does every day after school, alerting the world I’m late for work.

  Again.

  I forget about the Pumpkin Ball and James Odera with his dark hair and movie star smile, and start jogging down the creek path toward town. All at once, a flash of blue and a whiff of something spicy whir past me in a blur before disappearing into a stand of redwoods.

  I stop, though my heart keeps racing, and spin around, trying to guess who or what just happened, my eyes finally stopping on a toothless jack-o’-lantern smiling up at me with a kicked-in face.

  “You didn’t see anything either?” I ask, nudging him into the bushes to rot in peace before bolting the rest of the way to work.

  At Vinyl Underground, I drop my backpack on the floor behind the front desk and look around for my boss, Tony, hoping for a good mood from him. You never know what to expect from an ex-mobster turned record-store owner.

  Lucky for me, he’s out of sight—probably lost in his headphones behind a shelf, either re-alphabetizing every record in the store or reminiscing through his favorite show-tunes section.

  Behind the front desk, the studio door hangs wide open, as if inviting me inside, which means I have at least a couple of minutes to practice the piano before Tony’s three-o’clock lesson shows up. That way, it will appear I’ve been here the whole time instead of the usual. Genius, I know. My best friend doesn’t call me an underachiever for nothing.

  I shut the thick studio door behind me, like I’ve entered a vault, the absence of noise erupting in my face and nullifying the outside world in an instant. Inside this room I can think. Nobody is listening to or judging me, no matter how much I suck at life. I ready myself on the squeaky piano bench, drawing out from my head Pachelbel’s Canon in D—the only song I’ve ever managed to memorize over the years, despite countless failed attempts at much hipper songs like “Charlie Brown” and “Hallelujah.” Everyone seems to drool all over you if you can play those.

  Oh well. Canon in D it is.

  My fingers start up as I dip my head to the tune, receding into the void behind my eyelids. I imagine James Odera sitting next to me, nodding along to the music and beaming at me proudly. He’s so romantic. So into me. In fact, he hates “Hallelujah.” “It just sounds like it’s trying too hard,” he reassures me.

  I smile. Shoot. I cringe, finding it hard to stay in the groove because I keep hitting all the wrong notes and have to start over twice.

  Whatever. I don’t care.

  Nothing can find me here.

  Nothing.

  “Time’s up!”

  Except for Tony.

  I stop and look up. He’s frowning at me like a good cop gone bad. Unimpressed, obviously. “Already?” I lift my hands, surrendering my seat to him.

  “What song was that?” he asks. “Sounded like a mule in labor.”

  “Come on. It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

  Bad cop grunts and nods his head as his student follows close behind, never quite lifting her eyes to meet mine.

  I feel a little miffed as I spread my homework across the desk out front. While flurries of dust dance through the sunlight cutting across my arms, I bury my head in Much Ado About Nothing, my painful due diligence to Shakespeare. Just when it dawns on me that Hero is a girl (which makes a whole lot more sense) the bells of the front door chime, followed by the thud of heavy footsteps belonging to the afternoon’s first customer.

  Great. Doesn’t anyone know I like to get my homework done during work hours? If only Tony would let me put up a sign, informing the customers not to bug me. Instead, I keep my head down, pretending not to notice the intrusion, hoping whoever this customer is will get the hint and leave. (I know, I know . . . it sounds like I’m a terrible employee, but I don’t steal stuff so it’s all good.)

  Silence.

  No more footsteps. Only empty air.

  And then, a shuffling of feet across the carpet, tired floorboards groaning underfoot. Sighing, I abandon my book and lift my eyes to assess the situation. Yes, there is an intruder. He is standing over by the cassette table thumbing through tapes, each case clicking against each other one at a time.

  Nope, he doesn’t look dangerous. In fact, he’s very attractive (not that dangerous people can’t be attractive). He’s tall and built, his face lightly tanned with a sprinkling of freckles. And even though his head is swallowed up by a black Raiders ski cap so I can’t get the full effect of what he really looks like, I can still get the main idea. Cute. Yes, that much I can tell.

  But then he’s also wearing basketball shorts and a black T-shirt scrawled with big, white letters spelling the words MONEY IS LIKE MUCH, which makes about as much sense as a kid from this town showing up here looking for an old record when he has plenty of money to burn on iTunes instead. Apparently not every cute boy has great fashion sense.

  I’ll let it pass.

  I clear my throat. The intruder s
tops thumbing and looks up, catching me staring.

  “Oh, hey,” he says, standing a little taller. “I didn’t see you there.” His voice is deep and sleepy, which startles me a bit because it makes me feel like he’s flirting with me without even knowing it.

  I blush.

  “You go to Piedmont High too?” he asks, coming closer, wearing a crooked smile now confused between sly and mischievous.

  Um, yeah. I’ve been at Piedmont for two years now, and I’ve never seen you before. Trust me, I’d remember if I had. (That’s what I want to say to him). But my mouth produces nothing while my heart jumps and pops like fizzy soda bubbles, and I step backward at his advance, continuing to focus on those long, light eyelashes framing clear green eyes.

  Who is this guy?

  And why is it that when boys have long eyelashes it makes it harder to look them in the eyes?

  He clears his throat, blinking his fan of lashes at me. I swallow and lick my lips, wishing I wasn’t so awkward in situations like these. “Yes, I go to Piedmont,” I finally spit out like an old wad of gum.

  But then the store falls quiet again—too quiet—because that one sentence is all I have. I’m brilliant that way.

  I clear my throat.

  “Can I help you find something?” The only thing I can think of while the cutest specimen ever to set foot in this store continues to dance in circles around me with ease, like this whole situation is no big deal to him. It probably is.

  My stomach drops at the realization.

  His smile gives way to a deep laugh and he ignores my question completely, sidestepping the cassette table until he’s right beside my desk. My pulse shifts into third gear. Or fourth. He’s definitely a fourth-gear kind of guy. His sense of style needs help, but with that face he can definitely pull it, whatever “it” is, off. Don’t get me wrong—he’s not James Odera or Tanner Slade, but he’s no slob, either. Cute and hunky is cute and hunky.

  “Mackenzie Love, right?”

  My book slips from my hands and drops to the floor as my heart continues to race in circles like a stupid dog chasing its tail. How’d he know my name? I look down to see if there is some sort of nametag I don’t know about pinned on my shirt. Nope. How does he know my name?

  “How do you know my name?” I ask, retrieving my book from off the floor, meeting his eyes when I stand up again.

  “I’ve seen you around,” he says, sort of answering my question. But what does that mean? Like, seen me around school? Around town? Around the universe? Where’s around? “Cale Blackburn,” he adds, introducing himself while shooting his hand at me—the most formal thing a boy my age has ever done.

  I hesitate, feeling funny shaking hands with another teenager. A guy. I almost opt for a high five instead, but he seems so sincere that I can’t leave him hanging. “Nice to meet you, Cale,” I say as my hand is instantly swallowed up in his.

  He lets go too soon and scans the shelves behind me. “This is one of the sweetest stores I’ve ever seen. I didn’t even realize it was here.”

  Vinyl Underground is Piedmont’s one and only record store—maybe even the only one in the whole Bay Area. You’d think people would be lined up down the street just to get in, considering it’s one of the last authentic greats. I mean, this place kicks iTunes to the curb. But nope. I’m usually the only one here while everyone else listens to their iPods somewhere else. The fact that Cale Blackburn is enamored with the place makes me like him even more.

  “It’s pretty decent, isn’t it?” I squeak out.

  His smile inches wider, his teeth peeking out through his lips to reveal a crooked incisor right at the corner of his mouth.

  Focus, Mackenzie.

  “Have you worked here long?” he asks.

  “Just a few months,” I say, thinking back to end of summer when my best friend, Aly, noticed a “help wanted” sign in the front window. I never really thought about getting another job in addition to my sweet lawn-mowing career, but when I found out about the music studio with a baby grand in the back of the store, I literally tore the “help wanted” sign off the front window and tossed it in the nearest trashcan. For three days, Aly and I fought over who got to apply for the job, but she finally gave in and let me take it. That’s just Aly.

  “There must be a thousand records in here,” Cale says, flipping through a dusty stack in front of him.

  “Just over three thousand,” I correct him, though I feel like a dork the second I do. Who knows a detail like that?

  He turns around like he’s surprised, not turned off. “No joke? Wow.”

  There’s an intriguing yet low-key vibe about him. Something that puts me at ease without even trying, that makes me feel like we’ve known each other longer than just a few minutes. I’m not sure yet what it is, but I can already feel bits of my confidence resurfacing, despite the way my heart is still drumming madly against my rib cage.

  “Is there something you’re looking for?” I ask him, trying to ignore my meddlesome heartbeat. “I’m supposed to help the customers . . . well, at least that’s in my job description.”

  Cale tilts his head sideways, as if considering my help after all, and then he takes a few more steps toward me. I don’t know whether to retreat or meet him in the middle. I do nothing, of course. That’s my MO.

  “You promise not to laugh?” he says in a hushed tone, like he’s about to reveal some deep, dark secret.

  “Why would I laugh?”

  “You promise?”

  “Sure,” I say, bracing for something strange or embarrassing or scandalous. What could he possibly say that would make me laugh at him?

  He steps even closer and clears his throat. For a second I think he’s going to whisper something in my ear, and my stomach jumps. But, no, he remains planted in his own space a foot away from me, and—after looking past me at the closed studio door where the muffled sounds of piano lessons bore through the walls—he lets his secret fly: “I didn’t come in here for the music.”

  What? “Oh.”

  “I mean, I like music and all, but I mostly get my stuff online.”

  Of course he does. Everyone does.

  “Why are you here then?” Whoops. I don’t mean to say it so bluntly, but somehow the words just jump out of my head into the open like a runaway train. Sure enough, my face is simmering in a slurry of heat all over again. “I mean . . . ”

  “No, it’s okay. Fair question. I’m here for the art, actually.”

  “The art? What art?” I ask, noting the lack of art pretty much everywhere I look. “I hate to break it to you, but I think you’re in the wrong store.”

  “Not pictures.” He shakes his head. “Albums. Remember when I told you not to laugh?”

  “I’m not laughing. I’m just . . . I don’t know . . . What—you like looking at the album covers?”

  Now it’s his turn to blush. “Guilty,” he says, his eyes darting sideways like I accused him of looking up someone’s skirt.

  “Oh. Well. I guess that’s a first. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

  He chuckles.

  “I can still help you find whatever you’re looking for if you want. I may not know art, but I do know records.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But, mostly it’s a flip-through-until-something-catches-my-eye sort of thing, if that’s okay. I have to come up with some kind of ‘alternative inspiration’ for my art midterm,” he says, making quote marks in the air. “I thought maybe a record cover might work.”

  “Huh,” I say, thinking it’s a pretty decent idea depending on what album he ends up choosing. “But don’t let me catch you looking for inspiration from some sexist rock band with bikini-clad women on the cover, or I’ll have to kick you out.”

  “Noted,” he says, revealing that crooked incisor of his, tucked into the corner of his smile.

  I fall back into my chair as he disappears behind a shelf, and the store grows quiet again, besides the irritating/comforting sound of piano lesso
ns in the studio behind me.

  A touch of wind meanders through the store like a sigh, just barely enough to tickle the back of my neck. And an airy, dreamlike voice floats outward, hovering in the space between me and the door. “Hello.”

  I jerk my head upward to find a woman with short black hair and deep brown skin standing near the front door. She’s smiling, her teeth a shade whiter than brilliant white, and when I smile back at her politely like a good employee should, she tilts her head sideways and moves toward me, like a ghost skimming across the floor. She seems to move without even moving, her cobalt blue dress under a black leather jacket flowing behind her like birds’ wings, not even a tired floorboard moaning at her steps. When she comes closer I can see that her hair is tipped in gold, swooping upward into a glam, spiky Mohawk—almost like the tuft of a bird.

  She stops at the corner of my desk and meets my eyes again. I glance past her to the door. It’s shut, like it was never opened at all. That’s when I realize I never heard the door open or close at her arrival—almost like she flew in through the window, instead.

  Like a bird.

  Like she isn’t even real.

  The scent of toasted hazelnuts and cinnamon swirls around her, as if she were the Autumn Queen herself. I rise to greet her, finally locking eyes with her, intimidated already. “Can I help you?”

  My gaze falls from her inky black eyes down to her collarbone, where a small antique charm with the face of a clock hangs around her neck. It even has tiny clock hands. She moves, and my gaze moves up her long neck to her glossy lips as they part into an even fuller smile. “I’ll just have a look around, if you don’t mind,” she says, her baritone voice seeped in dreams. Already I’m imagining myself curled up in bed, listening to her tell me stories filled with magic and true love.

  True love.

  Visions of handsome princes and glass slippers flutter around my head as she steps around the desk and disappears behind me.

  “Let me know if you need anything,” I say, almost as an afterthought, while I inhale more of that nutty, delicious aroma. It floods into my lungs like an intoxicating drug. All I want to do is close my eyes and float away . . .