Chasing Midnight (12 page)

“What do you want?” she finally says, a razor-sharp edge to her voice like there’s more to the venom emanating from her than just me getting in her way. Like she’d rather be anywhere else but here.

James pulls at my arm. “Come on, K, let’s eat. I’m starving. She’s nobody. Leave her alone.”

Nobody?

I swear I can hear Aly mumbling under her breath as she turns her head away from me and continues walking past. “Whatever,” she says.

It takes every bit of control inside me not to melt into tears right here right now, not to give James or anyone else the satisfaction of seeing me fumble when I just got the ball. I swallow it all down and force a smile, though, still wondering how I’m going to get through this new life without Aly.

Without my best friend.

James grabs my hand and I hesitantly bring my gaze upward, to him. There’s something there in those dark eyes . . . something reassuring and protective, that I find myself able to swallow my tears and find comfort in him.

“Sorry,” I say to Aly, although she’s already out of earshot by now.

As James heads toward the lawn, I can’t help but break away from him long enough to watch Aly’s retreat, at her long hair catching in the sunlight, swaying back and forth like a smooth curtain of gold.

Right then, something tiny but significant explodes inside me, and I take two steps in Aly’s direction but then stop, realizing I can’t chase after her. Not with James and the rest of the lucky ones looking on. Not now. Not after everything that’s happened. That’s changed.

All I can do is watch my best friend retreat farther and farther away from me.

Until she turns the corner, and every trace of her is gone.

The fog in my head clears and everything comes into focus when I realize how close I came to making a fool of myself in front the whole school by running away from James. I am one of the lucky ones now, and as much as I wish my best friend were, too, current reality says she’s not. At least for now.

Maybe there’s something I can do to fix that.

James’s fingers take ahold of my wrist, pulling me back to him. I remain by his side this time, laughing at all the clever things he’s saying. Trying to focus on all I’ve gained since waking up this morning instead of dwelling on the one thing I’ve lost.

three

A
fter school, the lucky ones meet in the shade of a
redwood tree.

“Hey, so what’s the plan tomorrow?” Brecke asks me like I’m in charge of everyone.

Maybe I am.

I first peek at James, wondering if he’ll speak up. But it seems like everyone is waiting for my response.

“Um . . . I don’t know . . . ,” I answer. Crap, what do we normally do on weekends? I’m guessing not homework.

“We’re free,” James says, speaking for me like we are one person.

Well, at least somebody knows what’s going on.

“I’m up for swimming,” Tanner says.

Liv smiles. “Good idea.”

They all turn and stare at me. James squeezes my hand. “What?” I ask, feeling like the last one in on a joke.

But I don’t get any further clarification. After that, we split our separate ways to our own outrageously expensive cars, like drones shutting down and returning to home base. James walks me to my car, his fingers lightly climbing up the back of my neck as he leans forward to kiss me first on the ear, then on the lips.

I don’t want him to leave. The mere idea of his body next to mine is enough to make me forget my first name.

I’m just K.

“See you in a little,” he says before walking away from me.

I watch him go, in love with the motion of his body retreating, dumbfounded by the realization that this boy, this dreamy boy is mine.

Thank you, Bird Lady, wherever you are.

I’m almost out of the parking lot when I notice a familiar figure crossing the street in front of me.
Aly.
Her hair is pulled into a braid now, her ears stuffed with earbuds. She steps on the curb and hops on her longboard before racing down the hill toward town. I wonder where she’s going, still not ready to believe that she’s not with me, that we’re not even friends. I’d probably be on that longboard with her right now, holding on for dear life. She used to drop me off at work sometimes, even though her house is in the exact opposite direction.

Careful to keep my distance, I follow her for a couple of blocks through the park, straight into the middle of town. It isn’t until Aly opens the front door of Vinyl Underground and steps inside that my mind clicks and everything comes together—the record store job Aly and I fought for over the summer is hers now, not mine, since I was never there with her to fight over it.

It was always hers.

An ice-cold ache numbs me as I watch her through the window. That’s my best friend in there, walking around in my shoes, living my own life without me. And she doesn’t even know I’m missing.

Before I have a chance to duck, she turns around, catching me staring at her through the window. She stops what she’s doing and stands up straight, looking directly into my eyes. I don’t know what to do, caught here like this, like a stalker. She must think I’m some kind of mental case now, after our encounter at lunch and now this. I consider waving or even smiling to ease the tension. But, before I decide on either, Aly turns her back on me

Shoot.

So now I can either run away or go inside; those are my only two options.

Either way, she doesn’t seem to care much about what I do or who I am, even though I’m having a hard time swallowing the fact that the Aly I know—the one who used to drool over James Odera with me and who coined the term “the lucky ones”—doesn’t seem to give a flip about any of that stuff anymore.

But why?

Feeling like the biggest moron on the planet, I lower my head and step inside. The familiar smell of paper record sleeves and musty wool carpet reminds me how much I still love it in here, even from on the other side of the looking glass.

Aly looks up and pulls out her earbuds, shoving them into her backpack, probably fighting the urge to demand what I’m doing here.

“Hi,” is all I say, even though something inside me aches to reach out to her and offer something more. Like, maybe an offer for the chance to be best friends again.

But I’m too scared, too embarrassed to say anything more.

A smile, or maybe a sort of half-smile (for sure a step above a frown, at least), appears on her face. Whatever it is, it’s pleasant, at least.
Friendly.
I wait for it to expand, knowing what her smile can do when freed, hoping for the smallest hint of sunshine. But it never comes, and I’m disappointed.

She starts to say something. I hold my breath, waiting for her to call me by name, or to say anything that means maybe we’re still on track at becoming friends. Just hoping that all is not lost.

“Can I help you?”

That’s it.

That’s all she says.

I try to respond politely in the same dispassionate tone as hers . . . but I can’t fake it anymore. It hurts too much to hear her voice when that voice is hollowed out and empty.

She turns away from me when I don’t answer, leaving me standing there, my hand on the door handle. She hefts her backpack onto the front desk and spreads her homework across the top of it, the way I always do.

I watch.

Until one of those misplaced breaths that get stuck somewhere inside you surfaces, sending a shudder through me.

Aly looks up one more time as if pleading for solitude.

And then I leave her.

Alone.

When I walk in through the garage door, the house is still as quiet and clean as this morning. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense how impeccable this place is. I mean, how can anyone mess up a twelve-thousand-square-foot house? There can’t possibly be enough clutter to go around.

“Hello?” I call, waiting for someone to greet me like I’m used to.

The house remains oddly quiet, the air weighted with stillness. I wonder if I’m the only one home right now, or if my “new” family sticks to our own wing of the house like in the game of Clue.

I turn around to find myself staring at a yellow sticky note covered with my mom’s handwriting, stuck to the hall mirror:
Don’t forget to practice the piano. I love you!
I unstick the note from the glass, impressed at how she still manages to
Mom
me even when she isn’t here.

After wandering around the house for a bit, I find myself in a library or study. A large wooden desk is centered between a bookcase and a window streaming sunlight across the wood floor. On top of the desk, a short stack of Dad’s business cards fit neatly inside a shiny gold tray.

I stare at the title printed beneath his name and stifle a laugh. It looks so official, like he’s much more important than
the computer tech guy he used to be. And for reals—what does “Account Executive” mean, anyway? It sounds like some made-up title, to me.

Next to the tray of business cards is one more yellow sticky note tacked to a calendar with another message from my mother:
Practice the piano for an hour today! Practice makes perfect. XOXO.

Amazing. It seems the only responsibility I have in this new, sweet life is to practice the piano. No more chores, no emptying the dishwasher, no mowing the lawn. Someone even made my bed for me this morning. All I need to do is just tickle those ivories and keep breathing.

I’m not kidding about the lucky ones having it easy.

Just beyond the foot of the grand staircase is a hallway I haven’t yet explored. It is long and light, and bathed in sunlight from a row of floor-to-ceiling windows running along one side of the wall. I follow it wherever it takes me, descending another set of mahogany stairs to a lower level.

A door swings outward, almost hitting me in the face as Spencer emerges from a room, panting. Beads of sweat dot his forehead, soaking into the line of hair curving around his ears, a white elastic headband doing everything in its power to hold back all his crazy hair. Except for a gray towel hanging around his shoulders, he’s shirtless. He wipes his face on the towel while I peek past him into a brightly mirrored room filled with weights and machines and TV screens.

Whoa!
Why does Dad insist on running down by the creek when he has such a sweet setup in his own basement? I feel betrayed.

Spencer tries to sidestep me, his eyes averting me.

“Hey, Spence,” I say all cheery, hoping to bring out his smile.

But his face remains blank and he soaks up the silence before heading down the hallway, away from me.

I decide to follow him, thinking maybe he’ll feel obligated to engage in a little conversation with me beside him.

I’m wrong.

The walk ends up being painfully quiet, and before I know it we are back in the kitchen, not a single word having passed between us the entire time.

This guy is
not
my Spencer.

What this guy is—is infuriating; I want to shake the old Spencer loose from the new Spencer and tell the old Spencer to get out of here and run as far away as possible.

After downing half a water bottle, Spencer trudges through the kitchen and out into the marble hallway. I don’t know what else to do, other than keep following him with the hope for some kind of acknowledgement from him that I’m alive.

At the foot of the stairs he finally stops, making eye contact with me at last. “Can I help you with something?”

He speaks!

“I . . . I’m headed this way too. That’s all,” I say, my nerves all jumpy. My confidence shot.

“Really.”

I nod. “Yes.”

At that, he turns and starts up the stairs, dragging his towel along the floor behind him. I dig through my brain, trying to think of something to say to get him to open up to me. To stop being so weird so that things between us can return to normal.

Normal.

Spencer is definitely not normal.

At the top of the stairs, he turns and heads toward his room, leaving me with no legitimate place to go but either back down the stairs or to my own room. “Spencer,” I call out.

He stops. Slowly turns. Rolls his eyes. “What?”