Chasing Midnight

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

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.”

"C
INDERELLA
"

BY THE
G
RIMM
B
ROTHERS

one

S
omeone’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 stops 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.