Chasing Midnight Read online

  “Mackenzie.”

  I lift my eyes to find Cale Blackburn leaning against the edge of my desk, staring down me.

  When did he get there?

  “Hey,” I say, trying to wake up from my delicious coma. He’s clutching a record in his hand. “Looks like you found something.”

  He flips it over, revealing a black background scattered with a group of white geometric shapes all pointing inward at a lonely, single red heart.

  Wait a second.

  Is that . . . ?

  “No way!” I snap out of my hypnosis and jump up, grabbing the record from him. “Love and Rockets!”

  “You’ve heard of them?” he asks innocently, like he has no clue what the fuss is about.

  “You’re kidding, right? You are aware that Love and Rockets is one of the best eighties bands ever? For reals—where’d you find it?”

  He points his thumb at the shelf behind him marked “1980s G–L.”

  How did I miss it?

  “You approve of my choice, then?” he asks, still smiling. “No bikinis.”

  “Yes. Definitely. Except I still might have to kick you out.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve been looking for this particular album for a really long time.”

  “I see. Well, I hate to deflate this whole thing you have going on here,” he says, waving his hands around me like he’s a magician. “But you do realize that this isn’t their last album in existence, right? You can buy this online too, you know.”

  I roll my eyes, hoping to accentuate the ridiculousness of his question. “It’s not the same when you can buy the entire world with the click of a button. What can’t you buy online?”

  All that is true, of course, and sounds hopelessly idyllic, but what I don’t say, because it’s too embarrassing to admit, is that I can’t afford to buy whatever I want whenever I get the shopping bug the way most the kids in this town can. There’s a reason I mow lawns in addition to working here. And it’s not because I look good in motor oil, either.

  “Yes, I do know all that. But waiting for something to show up on its own is so much more magical—you know?” I say, trying to convince myself too. “Like going on a treasure hunt, or making wishes and hoping they come true. Plus, I get an employee discount. So it’s a win-win.”

  “That’s your shtick, then? You’re a dreamer but a practical one?”

  “That’s not so weird. Everyone makes wishes. Don’t you?”

  “How old do you think I am?”

  Something about the way he says it stings. Like he’s putting me down for having hope. Like he’s calling me immature. What’s wrong with dreaming a little? I have the sudden urge to point out that his T-shirt doesn’t exactly win him points for maturity, either. I mean, what does MONEY IS LIKE MUCH mean anyway? Instead of attacking his fashion sense, however, I decide to take the higher road and continue to defend my dreams. “Fine. Bag on my wishes. I don’t care. A girl can always dream, can’t she?”

  “Yes, she can,” he says, leaving it at that.

  An awkward silence hangs between us much too long until he finally stands up, clutching the record to his chest. “You don’t remember me, do you?” he says, this time without a hint of a smile anywhere near his face.

  “I don’t know . . . ” I start to say, wondering what he’s talking about. Remember him? From what? I feel like I would have remembered him if there were actually something to remember him from. But I feel stupid admitting anything at this point, so I keep my mouth shut and shake my head, hoping to be vague enough to avoid any more awkwardness.

  He doesn’t say anything and, in fact, it looks like he’s about to make a break for the door, so I offer up my most suggestive smile and go for charming. It works occasionally. “Since you’re such a pragmatist yourself, why don’t you find another record online and let me take this one off your hands?” I ask.

  He holds onto the record tightly, apparently unfazed by my charm. No surprise there.

  “Nope,” he says.

  “Why not?”

  “Here’s twenty,” he says, dropping two ten-dollar bills on my desk and backing away from me like he’s afraid I’ll attack as soon as he turns around. I finger the bills as he inches up the steps.

  “You overpaid by more than ten bucks,” I say. “Are you trying to buy my compliance or are you just bad at math?”

  He ignores me. Just opens the door with his free hand and slips outside into the stale, copper sun.

  Fine.

  I start in on my chemistry homework, trying to get him out of my head, but not having much luck. Mostly because E=hv cannot compete with boys on my mind.

  It just can’t.

  “Oh, hey—you going to that party tonight?” Cale’s voice again.

  I jerk my head up to find his head poking in through the door. “What?” I ask, trying not to look so startled by offering an easy smile.

  He smiles back endearingly, like he’s a tease (I think he is). “The Pumpkin Ball. You going tonight?”

  “I wish. But I’m not what you’d call a lucky one, so . . . ” I say, embarrassed to look him in the eye now because I’m not super-pumped about admitting my loser status to someone I barely know. Especially not a cute boy. Not only that, but my mom works the Ball every year as part of the wait staff. Not exactly a detail I like to share with the world.

  “A lucky one?” he asks, scrunching his eyebrows together.

  “Never mind.” I forget only Aly and I use that term for Piedmont’s rich and famous. Change of subject. “So how about you be a gentleman and hand over that record? Give a girl a break?” I say, eyeing the black-and-white album tucked under his arm.

  He steps halfway back into the store and pulls a big, teasing grin. “Don’t worry, Mackenzie. I’ll be back before you know it, and maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll be up for a trade.”

  Lucky. Hah. That’s an adjective I’ll never know very intimately. Wait. Is he making fun of me?

  “You’d better not come back empty-handed,” I say, trying to sound tough. But I’m not exactly the intimidating type.

  “Time to start that wishing thing you do, then.”

  He starts to back out the door.

  “Hey. What’s the deal with your shirt?” I yell at the last second, hoping to get in the last word. But he’s gone and the door is easing shut. My stomach feels all jumpy now, making it impossible to focus on my never-ending page of chemistry equations.

  Wait a second. Why does the air smell like . . . like the inside of a vintage record store again? What happened to the scent of hazelnuts and cinnamon . . . ?

  I stand up and look around for my other customer, realizing that not only has the dizzying aroma of fall disappeared, but so has the lady with the bird Mohawk. Poof! Just like that.

  How can someone so obvious have vanished so suddenly without me even noticing?

  I return to my desk again, confused.

  But when I sit back down to read through my chemistry equations again, there’s something lying inside the seam of my book that wasn’t there before. I run my fingers along the crevice and lift up a thin, gold chain. A small clock charm hangs from it like a pendant, pivoting back and forth in the sun and casting white-and-yellow flickers of light across the room.

  It’s the same clock charm I saw only moments ago, hanging from the neck of the lady with the bird Mohawk hair, infused with the same spicy, cinnamon scent I remember chasing me through the park.

  two

  The sound of wheels skipping over sidewalk seams is the first thing I hear when I step outside. Heading straight for me.

  I turn to find Aly cruising on her longboard, looking all bleach-blondish and tan in jean shorts and a white T-shirt, her long hair pulled up into a ponytail. I love it when she randomly shows up after work like this to walk (or roll) home with me. I’ve never even asked her to either.

  She just does.

  “Hey!” she calls, waving at me, accelerating like she has no plans to
stop.

  But I know what she’s up to and stand my ground, knowing she’ll bail before barreling into me. I can already make out the mischievous grin painted on her face; I saw it a block away. This is her thing—playing chicken with anybody who’ll play along. Most people jump out of the way before she does, but I’m not so easily thwarted, at least not when it comes to longboard collisions.

  Aly laughs when she realizes I’m not moving. And then her serious, beady-eyed look takes over her face, which only makes me crack up because her serious look is impossible to take seriously. At the last second, she skids to a stop right in front of me, but I don’t even flinch; I’m hard-core that way.

  “I heard James and Tanner are shopping for tuxes,” she says. “Right now.”

  “Sweet. Let’s go the long way home then, shall we?” I say, jumping onto the back of her board with her. She gives us a quick push and we sail forward a few blocks, wobbling only slightly; I have this hitchhiker thing down pat. In the meantime, I casually mention Cale Blackburn’s visit to Vinyl Underground, including his mumbo jumbo T-shirt and the fact that he took home the only Love and Rockets album I ever really wanted. I’m hoping maybe Aly knows something about him that could explain his whole “don’t you remember me?” question. If it’s even a real question.

  But Aly doesn’t seem to care about that at all. She just goes straight for the stuff she usually goes for. “So, are you into him, or what?” is her only response when I’m finished.

  “What? I don’t even know him!”

  She stares me down like she doesn’t believe me, before slowing to a stop at the next light. It’s rush hour and it appears every car in all of Piedmont is coming home right this second. “How can you not know?” she says, outraged. “Do you think he’s into you?”

  “How am I supposed to know that?”

  “I have an idea. Why don’t you use the Love and Rockets record as an excuse to show up at his house tonight?” she says, smiling big. “It’s the perfect setup.”

  My face burns at the thought of showing up on Cale Blackburn’s doorstep unannounced. It might be the most horrifying suggestion Aly has ever posed to me, including that time where she dared me to run across the football field during halftime when we were freshmen. “Are you kidding? What would I even say to him?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe . . . see if he’s done getting inspiration from the record yet? Ask if you can have it back?”

  “Sorry, but no,” I say, mortified at the thought of doing something so forward. “I don’t even know where he lives. How about I just wait for him to show up looking for another record again? Let him do all the work.”

  Genius, I know.

  “That is not how you snag a dude,” Aly says, trying to push me off her board. “He made the first move. Now it’s your turn.”

  I regain my balance and shove her back. “I’d hardly call arguing over a record with me a ‘move.’ Plus, I hate to break it to you, but I’m not trying to snag a dude. I don’t even know him!”

  The light turns green and Aly starts up again. I think I’m holding on tight enough, until she swerves hard around the corner. In an instant my own feet are on solid ground and Aly is chasing after her runaway board, which is racing straight into traffic. A car skids to a stop directly in front of her, its horn blaring and lights blinking. She pops her head up and smiles at the driver, mouthing “sorry,” before continuing to weave around the stopped cars, waving at anybody else who dares honk at her. I can’t stop laughing. Aly has literally stopped traffic.

  She’s almost across the street when I hear behind me an unmistakable voice just above the noise of the traffic.

  That voice.

  I spin around to find none other than James Odera, coming out of Tuxedo King, Tanner Slade on his right and a suit bag in hand. Two doors down from me. Two doors down. They’re in the middle of a conversation, and I can’t hear much of what they’re saying other than a few words here and there like ball, tonight, dude, no way . . .

  That’s about it.

  I inch closer, trying to hide myself behind a tree or a post or something inconspicuous. Anything and everything Aly and I were talking about earlier instantly vanishes from my mind at the sight of the two most eligible bachelors at Piedmont High walking down the street right in front of me.

  Here’s the deal. James Odera and Tanner Slade are in an entirely different league from everyone in the entire school. I mean, these boys are royalty. They belong in the movies—James with his coal-black hair and dark olive skin smoldering in muscles; and Tanner with his six-foot-four basketball bod, complete with broad shoulders and swanky GQ hairdo. You can’t help but stop what you’re doing when either of them walks into a room, all eyes on them.

  Of course they know this too.

  “Why can’t hot guys be nice too?” Aly says beside me, hugging her board to her chest. I’m relieved to see she’s made it back in one piece.

  “Rub it in, will you?” I elbow her.

  Like trained spies, we follow them down Main Street, keeping enough distance so neither of them catch us gawking. Although I wouldn’t be surprised if, in addition to their movie star charm they also had superpowers and could sense our presence a mile away. They’re probably reveling in the thought that two nobody girls are lusting after them right this second. With my luck, they’d be able to read minds too, and James would already know about my ridiculous daydreams about him.

  When they slide into James’s black Porsche, Aly and I pretend to be mid-conversation under a Laundromat awning just in case they catch us staring. No such luck. They don’t notice us at all. They just start up their engine that sounds something like a jetliner, and speed away from us, not even acknowledging that we exist.

  Come to think of it, I prefer they knew Aly and I were following them. At least that way I’d be a real person to them.

  Not a nobody.

  three

  The rest of the way home feels like the giddiness from our longboard fiasco has been sucked out of us. No more jokes about snagging guys, no goofing off on the longboard or brainstorming ideas on how to get my record back. Mostly just dead air. Maybe it has something to do with being reminded of the Piedmont caste system, about how the way things work around here. How neither of us will ever be lucky enough to get invited to an exclusive ball, much less get noticed by the royalty that rules this town.

  It appears the sun is in agreement too, and has since slumped below the tree line, stealing away the last streaks of light as we make our way along the creek path. It’s the shortest route home from work; otherwise, we’d have to climb up the hill through the meandering streets and then back down again. That’s how Piedmont is situated—one giant hill veined with winding, tree-lined streets, all overlooking the San Francisco Bay. The higher you climb, the better the view and coincidentally the better the house too.

  I live at the bottom, right along the creek.

  That party tonight? Yes—up there at the very top with a view of the world. I used to think some day I’d score an invite. But lately, not so much.

  Smashed pumpkins litter the pathway from last night’s festivities, though I wouldn’t know what went on out here since Aly and I remained inside manning the front door and pigging out on Dad’s homemade doughnuts. Mom took the twins trick-or-treating, and I’m still not sure where Spencer ended up. In years past, he’s been the one to scare all the trick-or-treaters with a homemade grotesque mask dripping in ketchup—an older-brother type of thing. But last night he was MIA. Probably coughing up a lung in bed, since that’s where he’s been for the past two weeks. Stupid asthma.

  At the base of a giant Redwood tree, Aly hides her longboard behind the same bush she always does, and together we weave through a maze of scrub oak down to the creek that cuts through my backyard. After shuffling across our makeshift bridge, we leap to dry ground and climb the grassy hill up to my house.

  Everything feels more damp now that the sun has retreated, the air growing colder by th
e minute as the fog starts to make its way across the bay, determined to cover us all like a fuzzy blanket.

  The outline of Spencer’s hair is visible just beyond the porch lights, his fro jetting a few inches above an old, homemade Adirondack chair. As we approach from behind, he coughs hard, making me feel bad for sneaking up on him while he’s in the middle of losing a lung. I wait until he’s done, and as Aly heads into the house for a snack, I linger beside my sick brother. A fleece blanket is pulled up around his chest, and he’s cupping an oversized mug in his hand.

  “Hey, Spencer. What are you doing out here?”

  He looks up. “Hey, Kenz.”

  I step sideways into a pool of light but freeze at the sound of branches creaking behind us.

  Crunch-crunch-creeeeeak.

  My heart jumps like a firecracker as a voice calls out from the far end of the yard. “Don’t moooove a muscle.”

  I step away from Spencer and toward the voice, wondering what’s going on. Spencer seems disinterested in the whole thing.

  A disembodied voice orders me back. Dad’s voice. “Turn around!” he whispers as loud as it can still be considered it a whisper.

  “What for?” I call out to him, wondering what he’s up to tonight. It’s always something with him.

  “Shhhhh,” he whispers more quietly this time. “Just two more seconds. I got you. Come on, little bugger. Show me what you got. Just a little closer . . . ”

  “Wha—?” I start to say.

  “Gopher,” Spencer explains, still staring straight ahead, pretty much ignoring the whole scene altogether.

  Oh, right. Gopher.

  I allow my eyes time to adjust to the darkness at the edge of the yard, and then I see him. Dad. Right near the base of the blackberry bush by the side fence—camo hat and all. He’s belly-down on the ground with his BB gun trained on a spot in the garden. Every year it always comes to this—a full out war between Dad and the gophers, Dad usually the loser.