Chasing Midnight Read online

  Flip.

  Still in shock at my predicament, I stand out there like a loser in pleats, gaping at the stone monstrosity in front of me. It has to be the biggest house in all of Piedmont. We’re talking a cool fifteen million, at least. I count two turrets and seven chimneys, which doesn’t take into account the back side of the house, either. I’m guessing the stone-paved driveway alone cost more than our entire house.

  Mom told me to take the second driveway, as opposed to the first, because all chaos would break loose if the help showed up at the front door. Lit pumpkins and gourds in all shades of orange and white line the driveway as I make my way under a castle-like tower to the back entrance of the house, ducking under arches draped with twinkling lights and flowering vines. Even dressed up in my ridiculous getup, I still feel like I’ve stepped into the pages of a fairy tale, ready to meet Prince Charming.

  I meet Mom’s boss once I’m inside, in the kitchen. She’s all business and makes my ears go numb with her endless list of instructions. Pretty soon I get the hang of this catering biz, though, and after carrying trays of exotic food to stations around all parts of the house, I finally take a moment to catch my breath, thinking, hey—I can do this (after I get some food first, because thanks to Indy’s daredevil feat, I never ate dinner).

  As I step from the kitchen into the grand marble hallway, I look for a stray tray to snag some food off of without anybody noticing. That’s when I see a girl my age with long, sleek black hair, her body squeezed into a red dress and who looks like she belongs on a billboard.

  Of course she does, because that’s Brecke Phillips.

  She hurries around in four-inch black heels, not stumbling once, of course, attacking every inch of the room with last-minute details as her guests start trickling in through the front door. This is her party, after all; the world starts and stops with her. She knows perfection like I know rejection.

  What can I say—we’re both experts in the field.

  The rest of the wait staff look identical in black pants and white shirts, with hair pulled away from our faces. I feel even more stupid after finding out I’m the only teenager here in employment and that the average age is somewhere close to forty. Other than me, the only teenagers I see are decked out in taffeta and satin and silk, their hair and makeup impeccable, every one of them fluttering around the room like fairies. Even worse, I recognize at least a third of the faces here, all from my school. And just as I expected, only those who live near the top of the hill were invited. It makes me wonder what street Brecke considers the official demarcation line.

  Just being here makes me think I’ve already screwed this gig up, mostly based on the strange looks I keep getting from everyone from school. Then again, I am one of them—a fellow student who lives at the bottom of the hill, serving oysters and caviar instead of eating them. I’d probably give myself strange looks too.

  “I’m sorry about your brother,” a voice says to the side of me.

  I turn to find a petite lady mirroring my outfit, her grayish-blonde hair cropped short and spiked, wrinkles lining her tanned forehead. She surveys the room along with me, probably searching out her next round of spoiled teenagers to offer drinks to, her glass tray clipping my arm.

  “Have you heard anything yet?”

  I shake my head. “No. They said they’ll text me as soon as something new develops. He has to get surgery, though.”

  “Well, tell your mom we miss her. She’s the best. Always keeps everything running smoothly, especially at a function like this.”

  “Okay. Sure,” I say, feeling proud of my mom for being such a rock star. Then again, it shouldn’t surprise me.

  We stand there in silence beside each other, our backs to the wall barely touching, surveying the party as more and more of my school classmates begin to fill in the room and fill up their glasses. The hum of voices grows louder and louder, infiltrating the house like an invisible gas until you’d never know it was ever once quiet in here.

  Only a few feet away from me, a girl with strawberry-blonde hair in a green dress tilts her head backward, the rush of pink bubbly liquid trickling through her lips. In the real world her name is Jessica and she’s in my gym class. She has a terrible mile time and her laugh is obnoxious. But you’d never guess any of that right now. It’s all deception and distraction for the rest of the night.

  Lucky for me.

  I turn to the lady next to me. “Are we supposed to . . . um . . . card everyone . . . or something?” I ask her, wondering if every kid here has a fake ID. It isn’t exactly my area of expertise, even though I suppose that kind of knowledge could come in handy some day.

  She laughs out loud, like I’d just cracked a joke, her voice jarring and brassy. “That’d really throw them for a loop, wouldn’t it?” she says. But then maybe she sees the confusion on my face because she stops laughing and pats me on the shoulder in slow motion, like she pities me. “Rich people, Mackenzie. In case you haven’t figured it out yet—they do what they want.”

  Before I can ask her to clarify a little bit, she takes off down a side hallway, retrieving empty dishes as she goes along while yelling at a poor waiter whose overfilled tray nearly came crashing down at her feet.

  Bum! brrum! Brrruuuuum! Something loud and brassy starts up over by the piano. I jerk my head at the sound while retrieving a half-empty glass with waxy lipstick on the rim. Before Jessica or anyone else I know spots me, I beeline it back toward the kitchen.

  “Hello.”

  Woops. A tall, muscular boy with wavy brown hair has stepped in front of me. His neck seems to be suffocating under a thickly knotted blue-and-black striped tie that coordinates nicely with a navy suit. I have to tilt my head upward to find his eyes. I don’t recognize him, but he seems nice.

  He lowers his gaze to my neck and then crawls back up to my eyes again. “Nice bow tie.”

  “Thank you,” I say, blood rushing to my face, trying to refrain from saying something snarky back. “Can I get you anything?” I hate myself for asking that. It feels so wrong.

  “Nope.” He tips his drink to me. And laughs. At me. “But I’ll come find you again when you can.” He winks.

  Ugh. I spin around and head toward the kitchen, popping an hors d’oeuvre in my mouth when no one’s looking. If I’m going to break one of the house rules it might as well involve food. Whoa. Hold everything. I have to stop walking because of the crunchy, buttery flavor concoction that’s suddenly exploding on my tongue—a flux of citrus and basil and I don’t know what else—all bursting at once, making me weak in the knees. This is not regular food. This is . . . actually, I have zero idea what it is, but it’s definitively the best thing I’ve ever had. Do rich people make their food out of gold? Sheesh.

  “Whoo hoo hooo! Lookie here.”

  I quit chewing and hold my breath at that voice, forgetting in an instant about the deliciousness in my mouth.

  I know that voice.

  James Odera.

  Before I even find his face I can already tell I’m sweating as a rippling wave of heat attacks me. I gulp down the remains of my hors d’oeuvre and am still licking my fingers when he steps out of a crowd, rocking a tuxedo like he’s freaking James Bond. Of course he is. James Odera gets applause just for walking down the hallway. He’s a celebrity. I’m not sure if it’s his dimpled chin or that smooth, dark complexion, but whatever it is, it works for 99 percent of the female population at our school.

  “Looks like we’ve got one of our own serving drinks. How do you like that, Slade?” James glances to the right of him.

  Did somebody turn up the heat?

  Tanner Slade steps forward, a perfect smile drawn across a perfect chiseled face. His hair never looked so princely—that chestnut pompadour standing two inches above his hairline, not a hair out of place. My legs start melting into my feet as James offers me a champagne glass bubbling with amber liquid, my head going dizzy at his gesture. But when I reach for it, he draws the glass backward into his ch
est, just short of my fingers touching the glass. The way he and Tanner stand there, James staring down at me with a half-drawn smile, makes me wonder whether he’s being friendly, or . . . or not.

  Before I can figure it out one way or the other, I’m surrounded as the rest of the lucky ones emerge from behind him like a peacock fanning out its feathers—Jared Call, Liv Sandstrom, Katie Lee, and Morgan Moeaki; only Brecke is missing now. They all smell of sugar and cloves, and in each of their hands are tall, fluted champagne glasses half-filled with varying colors of bubbly liquid.

  I’m guessing nobody carded them.

  “You go to Piedmont, right?” James asks above the noise of the crowd, his dark eyes drawn wide, trying to hypnotize me. And working. “I’ve seen you around, I think.”

  “Yes, she does, silly,” says Katie, slapping his arm. Her athletic, bronzed body fits perfectly into a silver, strapless dress as she smiles at me reluctantly, her lips nude and glossy, her black hair in a high ponytail. Beside her, Morgan appears much more serious and polished, her hair pulled back into a low auburn bun, a single braid wrapping her head. She wears a basic black sleeveless dress with a tulle skirt poofing out around her, just above her knees. In other words, she looks perfect.

  “So what—you’re a server?” Jared asks me, sounding as dumb as he looks with his long, unruly bleached hair and perpetually peeling red face. Not even a five hundred dollar tuxedo can help him.

  “I’m filling in for—”

  “Nice outfit,” Liv interrupts, scrutinizing me from top to bottom. Despite her put-down, her voice is all bubbly, her enthusiasm as wild as her messy blonde Bohemian hair. She’s in a lace ivory dress that stops an inch above heeled, open-toed boots. At least five or six thick, chunky gold necklaces circle her neck, with even more bracelets on her arms. Antique earrings clank and tinkle with every move she makes; it’s her signature sound.

  I try to remove myself from their circle before anyone else comments on my clothing, but Jared steps in front of me, blocking my way.

  More giggling.

  “Where do you live, baby?” James asks, dimples dotting his cheeks and chin. Instant heat floods my face and I can’t help but try to get closer to him.

  “Um . . . a little past the school, down by the creek,” I say, trying not to sound so mortified by my address.

  Silence follows, though James is still smiling at me even if nobody else is. But like before, his smile is the kind of smile that can either flatter you into unconsciousness or make you feel small, depending on how much confidence you happen to have to start with. As of now, my confidence is in the red. Combine that with feeling like prey to a pack of wolves, well . . . you get the idea.

  “That makes sense,” Jared finally breaks the silence, chuckling. At me.

  My hands are calm but my insides are shaking. I want to get out of here now, away from all these condescending questions and pretentious looks.

  Liv leans in close to Morgan and Katie, speaking loud enough for me to hear: “When did Brecke decide to let the riffraff in?”

  A tap on my shoulder.

  I whirl around, terrified to face the next attack. Instead, my view is the front of another tuxedo. I sweep my eyes up a long torso, past a pair of broad shoulders, finally stopping on a familiar face. A wave of relief sweeps through me.

  Oh hello, Cale Blackburn. What are you doing here?

  I almost laugh, surprised at how glad I am that he’s here. But I’m too stunned at his appearance to say or do anything . . . other than stare. After seeing him in that stupid T-shirt earlier today, I’m still having a hard time picturing him as a black-tie sort of guy. He looks so impressive all dressed up like this—sandy blond hair shaved close on the sides, a little longer on the top, styled like an actual style. A close shave. The scent of sandalwood or something like that coming from his general direction. Cuff links.

  “Looks like you made it after all,” he says, smiling at me and ignoring everyone else.

  I wonder where he lives. Probably at a higher altitude, considering he’s here in a tux and not holding an hors d’oeuvre tray. But, when I finally take my eyes off him to survey the faces around me, I notice that James and the rest of the lucky ones seem to eye Cale as suspiciously as they’ve been eyeing me.

  Like he wasn’t invited, either.

  Nobody says a word.

  Cale moves toward me like I’m just another girl looking for a dancing partner, not the kitchen help with sweaty armpits. “I thought you said you weren’t coming,” he says, biting into a piece of shrimp wrapped in prosciutto and smothered in plum sauce (see, I know these details).

  I’m watching him eat. Yes, I am. “Huh?”

  “You said something about not being a lucky o—”

  I cut him off before somebody hears. “I wasn’t. But then I thought since I had nothing better to do, why not wait on a bunch of rich kids for the rest of the night? You like my outfit?”

  “Yes. Especially the bow tie,” he says, straightening it out for me.

  “It’s a long story, actually. I’m covering for my mom. Are you enjoying your Love and Rockets record, by the way?” But he isn’t paying attention to me anymore. His eyes have shifted, and are now focused on something behind me.

  Before I can turn around to investigate, someone with long, cold fingers finds my arm and pulls me away. “Excuse me?” the distinctive low voice belonging to Brecke Phillips whispers in my ear. It’s the first time she’s ever acknowledged my existence. And she smells like roses too.

  “Yes?” I answer, scared to breathe. Afraid she’ll demand I find my own air somewhere else.

  “I’m not paying you to flirt. So I’d appreciate you getting back to work.”

  I freeze, and so does my stomach and my nerves and anything else that keeps me alive. I can’t look at anyone. Not James or Tanner or even Cale now. “Sorry” is all I manage to say, offering her the weakest smile there ever was before turning away from them all.

  As if delivering their very own message for me to beat it, the lights dim and the music shifts from classical to a hypnotic, thumping beat, throwing the whole room into movement. James and Tanner immediately blend into the throbbing crowd, with Brecke and Katie right behind them, their hands swaying above their heads.

  “Let’s get this party started!” Jared knocks into me hard, pumping his fists into the air before vanishing into the crowd, leaving only Morgan and Liv beside me. I try to avoid eye contact with them, but they continue to stare me down, as if contemplating whether or not I might steal the jewelry off their necks. I look for Cale, but it appears he has abandoned me too.

  “Have you tasted the champagne gels yet?” Morgan asks Liv over the beat of the music, loud enough for me to hear. The pupils of her dark eyes are rimmed with green, sparkling like the jewels around her neck.

  “Not yet,” Liv says even louder, tapping me on the shoulder. “Hey. Will you bring us a tray of those champagne gels? The lemon ones.”

  “Sure,” I mumble, averting my eyes from hers while twisting out of her reach. I weave through the circular glass tables topped with towering fruit and desserts behind her, trying to make my way toward the upstairs bar where the champagne gels are made. White, wispy gas orbits skewered pieces of fruit, forcing a cough from me when I inhale too quickly. Tears break out of the corners of my eyes at my coughing, nearly releasing a flood of emotions that I refuse to let loose no matter how miserable I feel right here right now. Instead, I blink furiously and focus on the seashell of winding stairs in front of me, which take me away from the marble hall to the second floor, where I stop on the balcony above the mass of pulsing bodies. Over a hundred teenagers are down there, dancing and mingling, laughing and drinking and eating, all important and rich and beautiful enough to be here. All lucky enough to be here. All not me.

  A shiver licks the spot between my shoulder blades.

  I fold my arms, trying to fight off the chill, trying to get through this night. Trying to push this lump in my throa
t back down before it overtakes me.

  I hate my life.

  “Excuse me.” I squeeze through more rich kids, trying to get to the bar. “Pardon,” I say, bumping smack into some guy’s chest. “Sorry.” A lump catches in my throat.

  Breathe.

  “Hey,” Cale says, stepping in front of me. Again.

  I try to go around him but he puts his hands on my shoulders and stops me.

  Why isn’t he sick of me yet?

  I’m sick of me.

  “Sorry, I can’t talk. I’ve got some champagne gels to deliver,” I say, slipping past him and stopping at the bar.

  The bartender is down the counter a ways, pouring steaming clear liquid from a flask into two glass tumblers. It gives me time to get my emotions under control while I check my phone for any messages about Indy.

  Nothing yet.

  I text my mother: Need update. All OK here. Everyone says hi. You are a rock star. They all wish you were here instead of me.

  “Hey,” Cale says, coming up behind me. I drop my phone on the counter like I’ve been caught texting and driving. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” He lowers himself into the swivel seat beside me.

  I eye him, wondering why he’s not out on the dance floor like everybody else. “It’s okay. I’m just a little jumpy tonight. That’s all,” I lie. My hands are still shaking as I return my phone to the safety of my pleated pants pocket.

  The bartender finally acknowledges us and comes our direction. He’s short and stocky, his head shaved bald. He looks like he could probably bench an elephant. “Hey, buddy,” he says to Cale. “You keeping me company again tonight?” “You guys know each other?” I ask.

  He leans across the bar and eyeballs two half-filled glasses on the counter. “Looks like you brought a friend,” he says to Cale, ignoring my question.

  “Fritz does all the parties,” Cale explains to me. “He’s the only reason I come. Otherwise, I’d have no one to talk to. Well, except for tonight.” He smiles.

  “Oh, don’t give me that. I’ve seen you out there dancing with the ladies,” Fritz says, whistling.