Chasing Midnight Read online

  Shots ring out.

  I scream like I’m the one down.

  Dad jumps up and runs toward the garden, yelling incoherently, a few swear words thrown in for effect. And then he stops abruptly, curses the air, and stomps into the house.

  Defeated again.

  “Explain to me again how we’re related to him?” I ask Spencer.

  He chuckles, which turns into coughing.

  “Why are you out here in the dark, anyway?” I ask, sitting on the arm of his chair. “Doesn’t the cold make your cough worse?”

  “I guess so. But I’m tired of staying in bed all day. Plus, I wanted to watch the sunset.”

  The only high school boy I ever heard admit to something like that. It’s a trip what sitting and thinking by yourself a lot can do to a person.

  “When do you think you’ll start feeling better?” I ask, wishing there was something I could do . . . anything to help him . . . but mostly just feeling hopeless.

  For years my parents have been researching this new, experimental surgical treatment for severe asthma cases like Spencer’s. The only problem is, insurance doesn’t pay for it. So far I’ve saved 335 dollars for the surgery. Too bad it costs more than a freaking car.

  “I’m pretty sure I’ll never feel better.”

  “Sucks. You know I’m saving up for you, right?”

  Spencer pats my knee. “Thanks, Kenz. But by the time any of us actually saves enough money, you’ll have your own kids in high school and I’ll be Uncle Spencer: RIP. Either that, or they’ll have invented iron lungs and I’ll be the new Iron Man.”

  “Knock it off, Spence. Sheesh. What do you have there, anyway?” I ask, pointing to the mug in his hands. Whatever it is has slopped over the brim and is drizzling down the sides.

  “Another one of Mom’s nasty concoctions.”

  “Ew.”

  “Hey—at least it’s keeping me warm,” he says, fighting through another coughing spasm when he tries to laugh again. The poor guy. He can’t even laugh. What kind of disease punishes you for being happy? It makes me want to scream—watching Spencer deal with this crap month after month, year after year. As a matter of fact, it’s getting pretty old. And I’m only doing the watching.

  What about him? He’s missed so much already—friends, dates, games, dances. I mean, what teenage guy wants to sit out on in his backyard by himself and watch the stars all night? And who made all the rules, anyway? How did Spencer get stuck with this life while other people I know get to run circles around him in their Porsches and tuxedos—people like James Odera and Tanner Slade and Brecke Phillips?

  People who get to have everything?

  “It’s so unfair,” I blurt without thinking.

  Spencer turns his head and crinkles up his eyes at my outburst. “What’s unfair?”

  I throw my hands out in front of me. “This.”

  “Huh?”

  “You. It’s not your fault you practically die every other weekend because Dad’s cube job and Mom’s little catering stint bring in peanuts while the rest of this town eats peanuts as dessert toppings. You can’t help it that you missed the perfect gene lineup in heaven.”

  He stands up and dumps the remaining liquid from his mug into the grass. “Whoa, Kenz. Your point?”

  “My point? My point is—we don’t get to choose where we’re put in this life, what neighborhood we belong to, what ugly facial feature we’re born with,” I say, thinking specifically about my nose. If only it could have a nice ski-jump slope and not that noticeable bump that will never go away on its own. “So why do most of us get screwed because of choices we never made, while the lucky ones get all the breaks?”

  “The lucky ones? What lucky ones? There are people way worse off than me, you know. Some people have cancer. Or worse.”

  “I know . . . I know. But for reals, Spence. Can’t you and I be a little human for once? Can’t I wish to be the pretty one, the popular one, rich enough to be invited to the Pumpkin Ball? For once, a guy to ask me out instead of just wanting to hang out? A lucky one?”

  Spencer furrows his brow, probably wondering where all this is coming from. I don’t know myself, only that ever since I watched James and Tanner drive away from me—the nobody that I am—without a clue I was ever even there, my emotions seem to have balled up inside me and are now sneak-attacking like a tsunami.

  “Of course you can be human,” he says in his typical placid voice. “It’s just that compared to the rest of the world, we are the lucky ones.” His words seem to echo through the trees.

  I don’t know what to say.

  He starts back to the house like he’s had enough of me. “Everyone has problems,” he says, turning around. “Just . . . everyone’s problems are different.”

  I remain fixed in the spot next to his empty chair, watching him go. The sound of the creek seems to amplify as a gust of wind shoots past me, whipping my hair into my face. In the sky, a bolt of lightning rips through the clouds, leaving behind a deafening clap of thunder like the air around me has ignited. My vision flickers in and out like the flame, and comes back again. And then, as quickly as it started, the tumult in the sky dies down to the simmering sound of silence, leaving only a chill that circles up my leg and coils around my neck, making me feel like I can’t breathe.

  Just like Spencer.

  I cough hard, trying to shake loose the tightness in my chest, and then run toward the house, suddenly engulfed with gloom. Trying to avoid everyone, I sneak in through the front door, stepping directly into the remains of another day spent—coats, backpacks, and shoes shed across the entryway, books and toys cluttering the couch or stacked up on the floor. Total chaos.

  Usually, seeing these tokens of our lives scattered all over the place is a relief, a patchwork of clues that bring to mind the fact that we’re real people, not poseurs hiding behind pretense and posturing. Tonight, though, it reminds me of where we live. Or rather, where we don’t live. Especially while the Pumpkin Ball rages on and here I am, traipsing through the mess, another day spent, another paragraph in my book of life skipped because I’m too unlucky to be important.

  I start up the stairs but stop at the sound of Indy and Ezra in the family room, their high-pitched laughter intermingling with airplane sounds and Aly’s monster growls—her Godzilla game they can never get enough of. I lean over the railing and peek down the hall to find them soaring around the room, jumping from chair to couch, each with a toy airplane in their hands while trying to avoid Aly’s aerial attacks.

  I wish I could skip backwards to when I was nine years old, where the most disappointing thing to ever happen was forgetting my lunch. Even being labeled the class’s foursquare loser doesn’t seem nearly as horrible as the 101 ways there are to be marked a loser in high school.

  Mom’s voice cuts through the commotion in her peaceful, never-ruffled way, politely reminding my brothers to remove their bodies from the furniture. Which is followed by twenty questions, all aimed at Spencer. “Why were you outside? Oh, honey, didn’t I tell you to get to bed early? That cough will only get worse if you don’t take care of yourself. Did you drink the broth I made? It had extra vitamins and antioxidants in it . . . ” And so on and so forth. She says it all in such a sweet, kind way, though; you can’t get mad at her.

  “Kenzie-bear! Are we running in the morning?” Dad’s voice explodes out of nowhere.

  I jump backward in surprise, nearly tripping down the stairs. He is bounding toward me, a pair of old Nikes cushioning his steps. It looks like he’s already ditched his gun and camo gear and is now back in sports mode like the face-off with his gopher nemesis never happened. He’s pro at shedding disappointment in a heartbeat, like he has an on/off switch. I’m not quite as adaptable. I must have inherited Mom’s anxiety instead of Dad’s mellow take on everything.

  “I don’t know, Dad,” I say, trying to squeeze past him up the stairs.

  Too late. He’s already thrown a long, muscular arm around me and is pul
ling me close to him, making it impossible to break free. “Hey, where’re you going?” he asks, forcing me along with him down the stairs and through the hallway, into the kitchen, despite my protests. “What time should we head out in the morning?”

  I want to tell him to forget about running tomorrow. I’m tired and cranky and not in the mood to wake up early again. But I can’t. As always, that lopsided, carefree grin of his does me in. The truth is, I can’t stand to disappoint my dad. Nobody can. He’s always on the verge of bursting with excitement over something, and nobody wants to be the one to deflate his spirit. It’s like being the one to put Santa in jail.

  “Fine,” I say with a bit of an edge, hoping he’ll catch on to my mood. “But how about a compromise? Twenty minutes?”

  “No way, lady. I can’t go soft, or Nate will end up beating me in hoops tomorrow night.”

  That’s right! I almost forgot—Nate’s coming home! My oldest brother’s monthly visits top everything else in our house. It’s like Christmas and New Year’s Eve and Thanksgiving combined. We usually spend the entire weekend together playing basketball or watching football while eating Mom-approved junk food; it’s one big party only Mom knows how to shut down.

  If anything can pull me out of a funk, it’s Nate’s return. Maybe missing the Pumpkin Ball won’t be so tragic after all.

  “Six a.m., Kenzie. Don’t forget to set your alarm,” Dad says, knocking me on the head and bringing me back down to earth.

  “Ugh.” I sigh, already feeling tired.

  “First one ready picks the route,” he adds enthusiastically before leaping over the back of the couch and settling in next to Spencer in front of the TV.

  “Mackenzie, honey, do you think you and Aly can take over for me here?” Mom asks, untying her apron. “I need to scoot upstairs quick and get ready.”

  Fine. Go ahead and get ready for the Ball while I stay here. That’s right—my own mother gets to go to the Pumpkin Ball while I’m stuck at home doing all the work. This life of mine . . . such a dream.

  Before I know it, I’m in an apron, slicing tomatoes and telling Aly about the strange lady who mysteriously appeared and disappeared at work today, about how her clock necklace somehow ended up in my chemistry book.

  “Are you sure it’s the same necklace Bird Lady was wearing?” Aly asks me, giving her an official name.

  “Yes. I’m positive,” I say, feeling like Bobby Flay while stirring this pot of pasta. Stirring stuff is the one kitchen thing I’m really good at.

  “I don’t get it. Why would some random lady just give you her necklace? Maybe it fell off her neck or something,” Aly suggests while chopping up chives. Or onions. Not really sure there’s a difference.

  “Seriously? Just, plop, onto my desk, right under my nose? Me never seeing a thing?” I say. “I think she might have followed me there from school too. Which makes it even more mysterious.”

  But Aly isn’t quite so dramatic or observant as I am. “I don’t know . . . it just seems so strange,” she says, her tone flat and sensible-sounding. “Maybe it’s a good luck charm or something like that,” she says, scooping up the chives/onions and putting them into a bowl.

  “Do you see any luck running around here?” I ask, leering at the dull mustard yellow wallpaper we can’t take down because we’re renters, not owners. Renters can only look, not touch. Well . . . and mow the lawn.

  “You just have to make your own luck then,” Aly says with her trademark optimism that makes me want to chase her down with a couple of really dark clouds.

  “And how do I do that?” I ask, tapping her on the back with the wooden spoon while she digs through the junk drawer for something.

  She pulls her hand out of the drawer and hands me a pen and a pad of paper. “Here. Wish time.”

  “Wish time?”

  “Yes. Your mysterious Bird Lady inspired me.”

  “Meaning . . . ?”

  “Meaning that tonight while all of Piedmont royalty dances the night away, you and I will write down everything we wish we could ever have or do or be right this second. And for each item you write down that’s different from mine, you get a bite of ice cream. And vice versa.”

  I laugh. Her games always involve ice cream.

  “I’m serious,” Aly says, still waiting for me to take the pen and paper from her.

  Oh. She is serious.

  “It’s not like we have anything better to do. Other than stirring this pot of pasta.”

  She has a point.

  “Start writing, Kenzie.”

  I smile, wondering how Aly always manages to find a bowl of ice cream in every situation, no matter how bad things get. Like today with her longboard flying into traffic, or that time last year when we tried Zumba and she fell on her butt. Twice. She jumped up too, and kept on going like nothing ever happened. When class ended she didn’t say a word about it, either—just headed straight to the front of the class and complimented the instructor on her killer dance moves.

  “Okay, okay.” I snatch the pen from her and tear off a piece of paper.

  You’d think I have a whole basketful of wishes overflowing in my head just waiting to be put on paper, the dreamer that I am. But it takes me a while to start up. Probably because I’m still stuck on the idea that this idea is for first-graders and I feel stupid.

  But once I get number one down, the next comes a little easier—until I realize how freeing it feels to put everything out there for the taking, like digging through a treasure chest in search of the perfect prize. Except here there is no limit. Tonight bigger is better, and impossible isn’t even a word.

  I guess you can say that when it comes down to it I’m pretty good at making my fake life perfect. Who knew?

  “There,” I say when I’m finished, convinced my list can’t get any more dreamy.

  Aly grabs it and starts reading out loud.

  I snatch it back from her, checking our surroundings for stray family member ears. “Will you keep it down?” The last thing I need is for someone to actually hear my innermost desires and then use it against me later, which often happens in this family.

  You can never be too careful.

  Aly starts all over again, her voice soft and low—much more incognito.

  1. The biggest, fanciest house on Sea View Drive.

  2. Nike Flyknits.

  Aly laughs. Probably because she’s always telling me how obsessed I am with Nike (no, I do not have a Nike page on Pinterest), and how I should be way more into makeup and fashion. So what? I have a bit of an athletic shoe problem. Big deal.

  3. A ski-jump nose.

  4. My own car. A new BMW.

  5. Be a total pro at the piano.

  6. James Odera to like me. Be James Odera’s girlfriend.

  7. Get Spencer’s lungs fixed.

  Other than that, though, I think it’s a pretty good list, one I’m convinced if granted would make for a perfect life.

  I’m about to grab my list back from Aly to add a number eight, when Indy’s screams tear through the air, making both of us jerk upright. Our eyes lock on each other in terror, and after a second that lasts for eternity we leave my wishes on the kitchen counter and run to him.

  four

  “Mom, it’s going to be okay,” I say, hugging her as she slides into the backseat of the minivan next to my bleeding brother. “You and Dad take care of Indy. Nobody will know you’re missing. Well, I mean they will because you’re a pro and I’m not, but you know what I mean . . . ”

  “But you’ve never served before. You don’t even hold your fork correctly,” she adds, refusing to close the car door despite Dad revving the engine and Indy howling beside her. “This is a huge event, Mackenzie. There’s a certain protocol to follow and all sorts of rules and things to avoid—”

  “Mom, I got it.”

  “No. I don’t know . . . I don’t know . . . ” She throws her face into her hands. “I can’t lose this job. We need this job . . .”

 
“You’re not going to lose anything, hon. They’ll understand,” Dad says calmly. “Mackenzie will cover for you until you get back. It’ll be fine. I promise.” He says everything with such repose despite his wife unraveling before his eyes and his boy bleeding in the backseat. I’m amazed at how Dad keeps it together. Always.

  “You don’t know these people. They’re not so forgiving,” Mom says, her voice hinting at desperation despite Dad’s reassurance. “What am I going to do? Maybe you should go to the ER without me . . . maybe—”

  “Mom!” Indy wails even louder, pulling on her arm. Blood soaks through the white towel wrapped around his forearm while his eyes continue to drown in tears.

  What happened is this—Indy tried to jump from the top of the bookshelf all the way to the couch, but got hung up somewhere along the way. By the time I rushed over to him, Ezra was staring wide-eyed at Indy’s bloody arm and Mom was crying. I caught a glimpse of his arm for only a second—a piece of bone poking through Indy’s skin. That one second was enough to make my stomach lurch.

  After that, Spencer and Aly distracted Ezra with a promise for ice cream at Fentons, his favorite restaurant. I stood there still in a daze, unable to move, until Dad ordered me to get some ice. Stat. My mind finally woke up as I ran to the freezer and started shoving ice cubes into a plastic bag. The whole time I kept hearing myself tell Mom that I’d cover her shift at the Pumpkin Ball.

  She was supposed to be there in ten minutes.

  While Dad carried Indy to the car, Mom quickly changed out of her catering outfit and handed the pile of clothes to me, repeating twice that the black, baggy “slacks” with pleats along the front and white button-up shirt clamped at the neck with a clip-on bowtie were not optional.

  Great. I’ve never been more self-conscious in my life.

  Especially after Spencer and Aly drop me off at the top of Sea View Drive. That’s the moment I’m struck with the realization that there’s no turning back. That this is the real deal.