Chasing Midnight (22 page)

Just mad.

I open the door and march into Spencer’s room, not caring how ticked he’ll be. He jerks his head up and slaps his palm against the strings of his guitar. “What the—I said get out, Kenz!”

The last time I heard that nickname was . . .

Before being Struck.

It stuns me, and I lose my momentum.

Spencer stands up, towering over me at his full height, narrowing his eyes in a challenge. “I
said—”

But I don’t let him finish. Instead, I rush at him, stopping before running him over. He stumbles backward in surprise, catching himself against the bed.

“Will you listen to me?” I say.

“Get off me! What’s your problem?”

“Look, I get why we’re not close anymore. It’s probably my fault . . . but I’m starting to wonder if it’s a little bit your fault too.”

“Kenz—”

“You used to be this great, understanding, thoughtful person who cared about stuff, even though you were sick all the time.”

He laughs. “You’re kidding me.
You’re
going to lecture me about thoughtfulness? You’re the last person on earth who should be talking about that.”

Whoa. Right to my heart.

He’s not done, either. “The last time I checked, you only cared about you and your pathetic little group of wannabes. So don’t act so shocked when someone actually calls you out on your crap.”

“That’s not—”

True.

That’s what I was going to say, but considering the longest sentence Spencer has spoken to me since being Struck is to tell me what a jerk I am, it makes me pause.

“I’m sorry,” I finally say, not able to come up with anything better.

“I don’t care if you’re sorry. Just get out of my room.”

“No, you’re not listening!” How can I get him to realize I’ve changed? That the sister he’s used to isn’t me anymore? That we can be friends again? That we
have
to be friends again.
Have to.
“I’m not that person anymore.”

He pushes me on the shoulder, knocking me off balance. “I don’t care. I said get out.”

“What about you?” I yell, pushing him back, feeling a wave of heat flush across my face. “You’re not any better than me, you know. I’m sorry for being so selfish and shallow. I’m sorry for being a lousy sister. But you aren’t perfect, either.”

“Whatever, Kenzie.”

“You used to be optimistic. Did you know that? Despite being on the verge of dying, you lived over there on the bright side of things. You used to be the one who was always trying to pull me away from the dark side. Now you just mope around with a crappy look on your face all the time and ignore people, just freaking mad at the world. Apathetic.”

“Stop the psycho-analysis crap, will you?

“No. I figured it out. You have all you need now, so you don’t need me.”

“What are you—”

“I’m not done!” I shout, angry at how he’s always blowing me off, like there isn’t a thing in the world he would hate
doing more right now than listening to me. “Stop interrupting me!”

He lifts his hands and backs up, as if he has no choice. He doesn’t.

I continue. “I’m sorry Dad’s never home . . . And I’m sorry Nate and Indy and Ezra aren’t here anymore, either, Spence. . . . It’s all my fault,” I say, trying to catch my breath, not realizing until my cheeks start to sting that I’m crying. His mouth hinges open, his dark eyes empty. He steps forward and brings his lips together, like he’s about to speak, but I cut him off too fast.

“You want to know what I’m most sorry about, though?” I ask, my tears dropping faster, where they gather at my chin until I wipe them away. “I’m sorry I ever knew what it was like for you and me to be friends. We were
best
friends, Spencer. Don’t you know that? Don’t you even care?”

My voice cracks.

“And knowing what I lost is so much worse than never knowing at all.”

Spencer steps toward me, his mouth open like he’s about to say something.

But I gasp at my words and run away from him, trying to find my way out of there. Away from him.

Away from the truth.

Mom finds me later plunking around on the piano, where I’ve been hiding from Spencer and anybody else who wants to remind me what a horrible person I am for the last couple of hours. Still in her workout clothes from one of those new, trendy exercise classes requiring expensive getups, she drifts across the floor toward me, stopping in front of the wall of windows overlooking the whole of the San Francisco Bay.

“Hi, hon,” she says, tapping me on the head. “Everything okay?”

I stop playing, pressing my fingers flat against the keys to hold out the tune as long as possible until it fades. “Sure,” I answer, not sure, at all.

My eyes still feel swollen so I try not to look up at her.

“That wasn’t too convincing.”

I lift my legs and spin around, my back to the piano keys as I take in this multi-million dollar view yet one more time. “It’s been a strange week,” I finally say, glad for what seems to be the first time ever for my mother’s uncanny intuition. She’s the only one I
want
to talk to right now, even if I don’t quite know what I want to say.

“Strange? In what way?”

Even in those fancy workout clothes and overdone makeup, my old mom is still there. In fact, she appears to be the only one in my life who’s remained unchanged since I’ve been Struck. Maybe some people remain basically the same no matter what life throws at them.

I wish I was one of those people.

I peek up at her for a second when she’s still looking out the window, and can’t seem to look away. Those knowing eyes are something concrete to cling onto, somehow a part of me. A part of Spencer and Nate and . . .

And . . .

“Mom,” I dare ask. “Why did you stop having kids? After me, I mean?”

I sense a cord of tension threading through her, making me feel bad for throwing something so personal at her—a cheap shot. I almost tell her to forget it, but stop when she lowers herself into a chair beside me.

“I don’t know, honey. I always thought I’d have more than three kids. All growing up, four was the magic number,” she says, almost wistfully, her eyes glazed over. “But then your dad got so busy with work and you kids started getting older . . . and then we bought this house, and there were more bills to pay and I . . . I don’t know . . . ” She looks up, as if she
doesn’t know what else to say, like she is looking for a concrete reason herself.

“Oh,” I answer, the matching faces of my twin brothers fading from memory the more I try to draw them forward.

“That was a strange question,” she says, meeting my eyes. I turn the other way before she can guess I’ve been crying. “What brings it up?”

I can’t talk to her about these things without feeling like I’m lying. She knows me too well not to notice it, either. So I change the subject before I end up having to go rogue and admitting the truth about my being Struck with every wish I ever wanted. My mom is a great listener, but not
that
great.

“Do you like James?” I ask her, out of the blue again.

“What?” She wrinkles her brow, confused.

“For me. Is he a nice guy? You know—from a Mom perspective.”

“I don’t know. Sure, I suppose.”

“That didn’t sound too convincing.”

“He’s nice, Mackenzie. I’ve always thought he was nice. Polite. Charming. Attractive.”

“Does it seem like I like him, though?” That’s what I really want to know. Sure, I feel sparks. Sure, I get all flustered and tingly inside whenever he’s near me. But that doesn’t necessarily mean I like him. Or
love
him. Especially not that. It just means I like the attention. Who wouldn’t like the attention from James Odera?

Mom laughs. “What kind of question is that? He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know anymore. Lately things have been weird between us. And I’ve been kind of confused. I think I like him . . . but sometimes I wonder if it’s more about liking who he is, rather than liking him.”

“I don’t know . . . I guess now that I think about it, maybe you don’t seem yourself as much when you’re with him.”

“Really?” I say, wondering what being “myself” is like, versus not.

“I actually saw him just this evening,” she adds.

“James? Was he at your yoga class or something?” I joke.

She laughs. “Pilates, not yoga. And, no, he wasn’t in my Pilates class; he stopped by the office to drop off a check, is all.”

“A check? For what?” I ask, wondering if she also sells Tupperware on the side. Or drugs.

“Rent, my dear,” she adds.

“Rent?”

And then it hits me. Words like
rent
and
market
combined with her fancy clothes and odd hours.

My mom’s a realtor!

Mystery solved.

She confirms it too. “You’d be surprised at how many tenants procrastinate until the last possible second—as if we all don’t have our own deadlines to meet,” she says, standing and stretching in the sun, her brown hair streaked gold. “Though, I have to admit, the Oderas aren’t the worst of them.”

Wait.

RENT.

The Oderas.

As in, James Odera.

No. Way.

How did I not know about this?

“You mean the Oderas are renters?”
Like me?
I want to add, thinking about my old self—the old me who was convinced that in order to fit in in this town, my parents had to have a piece of real estate attached to their name. That we were imposters in our rental house. That we didn’t belong in Piedmont because we had to do our own yard work as part of our agreement . . .

My mind is flipping out.

Mom slaps her hand over her mouth. “Oh, shoot. That is
not
supposed to be public information.” She stands up and
roams around the room, looking for an escape. All I can do is picture the Oderas’ picture-perfect house in my head—the brown and green Tudor with a tall, peaked roof and storybook chimney, with the meticulous landscaping leading up to the front door.

Mom’s eyes come to rest on mine. “Mackenzie—you can’t say a word to James or his family, or
anybody.
Do you understand?” she says, her forehead etched in crooked valleys. “I could get in serious trouble.”

I can’t believe it.
The Oderas are renters.

My mind is officially blown.

“Mackenzie?”

I look up. She stares at me, her eyes bulging. “Do you understand?”

“Understand? What?”

“Not a word. To anyone.”

“Okay.”

It’s all a façade. Not
his
façade—but
mine.

For years I made up James and Brecke and all the rest of the lucky ones to be something they never were. That smile and those dimples and the way he walks into a room like he owns it, high-fiving the world, charming the girls; his “babys” and nicknames and that deep, smooth voice—the way it purred in my ears . . . James Odera invented himself. And what an invention! He is as much of a poseur as I am, yet that never stopped him. Not even close.

And Cale—what about Cale? Here is a dude the exact
opposite
of James—royal by birthright but who refuses to take the crown. He wants nothing to do with the lucky ones though he has every right to be one.

“Kenzie, look at me.”

My eyes fly open.

For ten seconds I can’t remember anything. Not even where I am. Until the sound of Mom’s voice pulls my brain out of the fog and jerks me awake.

“Promise me you won’t say anything,” she begs, her brown eyes still pleading with mine.

I grab her hands and clench them tight.

They are so cold.

That’s when I realize I was wrong; Mom
has
changed. Her hands never used to be so cold.

“I promise,” I say.

thirteen

T
here is laughing behind me. And where the party
used to be is only thick, black smoke searching out more victims. I turn away, squeezing my eyes shut against the ash until the wind shifts the other direction.

Most have already abandoned the campfire, except for Aly and me. Orange flames leap higher from the pile of wood, cracking and hissing into some kind of smoke-creature, burning hotter and drier until the smoke disappears and draws everybody’s attention back to the lick of flames.