Chasing Midnight (24 page)

At the end of a ledge, I slide further, dropping lower into the cave where the ceiling and walls open up. Aly stumbles after me, lowering the flashlight as we take in our surroundings. Neither of us speaks as she shines the light around the perimeter of the cave, illuminating the rough, stony walls.

Truth or dare—
what a joke.
Why do I care so much what
everyone thinks of me that I’d be so willing to jump into a cave in the middle of the night? Why didn’t I leave and go home instead? Nobody forced me down here.

“I’m sorry about this,” I say to Aly. “I know you think I put you up to this, but I promise that I had no idea what James was up to.”

“I know.”

“You do?” I look up, trying to find her face but seeing only a sheet of black.

“I figured you wouldn’t follow me down here if you were trying to humiliate me. You’re not that stupid.”

“Why didn’t you just listen to me in the first place and pick truth? It would’ve been a whole lot easier than this.”

“James caught me off guard. And I didn’t know what to think. Because of your track record, I chose the opposite of what you wanted. You can’t blame me, can you?”

“I guess not,” I say, relieved I don’t have to beg for her trust but still ticked I am down here at all.

“It’s just a power play. I learned that two years ago.”

“You always were an optimist.”

“How would you know?” She said it so abruptly, her voice sharp and cold, that I don’t realize my mistake until the words have already left my mouth.

“I mean . . . ” But my foot slides backward, sinking into some kind of groove, water soaking my flats. Great. “Stupid cave,” I say, hopping on my dry foot while peeling off my wet shoe. “Stupid, stupid shoe,” I repeat, slamming it against the wall over and over again, hoping to shake loose any remaining mud.

“Why’d you wait two years to apologize, anyway?” Aly says, her voice attacking the silence without warning.

It’s a good thing I can’t see her face, or she mine, because I immediately feel pricks of shame heating my face and pouring through my eyes too.

Why did I take so long?

I want an answer to that question as badly as she does. I want to know if the Struck me is that different of a person than the old me—the same old Mackenzie Love who mowed lawns for extra cash and lived in a rental. Did having money not only change my circumstances but my personality too? Did it make me a jerk?

Not all rich people are jerks, though. Take Cale, for example—he’s as mellow and unaffected as anybody. Tanner’s not so horrible, either. And Brecke—she’s been mostly nice to me, even calling me out when I needed the truth; in fact, I was more of a jerk to her than she was to me.

So what makes the difference?

And what is it about being a lucky one that took Aly out of the picture and forgot to replace her?

I’m stumped.

“I don’t know,” I finally say. Which kind of sucks. I know she wants to make sense of my sudden change of behavior; I do, too. “I guess I’m now realizing how awful of a person I may have been.”

“You can’t make up for two years in one night, you know. It doesn’t work that way.”

She’s right. As painful as those words are to hear, I know it’s the truth, that this lame attempt at trying to pick up as best friends isn’t fair.

“I know. But I don’t know what else to do.”

No response. Nothing. Only the sound of dripping water that has triggered an itchy, crawly feeling inside me.

That’s it.

I’ve had enough.

Thirty minutes or not, I’m out of here. I failed Aly as a friend, failed James as a girlfriend, failed at fitting in with the lucky ones, failed at being sister to my two nonexistent brothers.

Basically, I am a failure.

But it doesn’t matter anymore. This isn’t worth it. Letting James have the upper hand for the sake of getting him to kiss
me again is not worth this. I’ll go up there and demand him to cool it. I’ll use my clout and my popularity to make those people out there accept Aly, and me, or else. They’ll have to.

I’m a lucky one.

I call the shots too.

“Come on,” I say to Aly, grabbing the flashlight from her as I feel my way back toward the incline.

“It’s only been five minutes,” she says behind me.

“Don’t care. I’m done with this.”

“Whatever.”

We climb up the rocky slope toward the entrance and find the outline of the hole in the ceiling. I pull myself upward, out into the fresh air, and look around.

Stop and listen.

Before realizing something isn’t right.

In one good shoe and the other still caked with mud, I slog alongside Aly toward the campfire, tripping over fallen logs and weaving through the trees. We stop at the smoldering fire pit, where only a whimper of hot embers and the smell of water soaking into the charred logs remained.

“Where is everyone?” I ask. “James?” I call. “Brecke?”

They wouldn’t leave me out here. There is no way they would leave me.

Would they?

I scan the opposite side of the campfire, shining my light through the smoky air, looking for somebody. Anybody. The trees have trapped us, their branches like arms trying to strangle us as we make our way up the hill, away from the campground toward the dirt road where we parked our cars, where my friends will be hiding quietly, waiting to scare us.

This is all part of the dare. Just a joke. Any second we’ll hear laughter, and heads will pop out from behind the bushes . . .

Only a little climb to go.

I push my legs forward, upward, climbing the never-ending hill toward the road, needing more than anything to escape
this place . . . this situation . . . this horrible, rank sickness in my stomach.

But at the top of the hill, I stop.

Every car is gone except for mine, a cloud of dust still lingering.

“Hello?” I call, my voice cracking, barely audible.

“You know what’s going on here, right?” Aly says beside me, not a hint of surprise or disappointment in her voice like there is in mine.

I know but don’t want it to be true. I ignore her, rubbing my face.

“James?” I call, my voice fading into a whisper. I turn, staring into her eyes. “Why didn’t you choose truth? I told you to choose truth.”

She only blinks back at me, her impassive eyes missing that predictable empathy I’ve held onto year after year whenever I felt broken, whenever I came to her for comfort. Where is her warmth toward me now? Her sunny heart, that constant, candid Aly Campbell I grew up with?

That’s when I realize Aly and I will never be the same as we were in my pre-Struck life, no matter how hard I try. Not without the years we spent together coming to know everything there is to know about a person. Not without an arsenal of memories and experiences that can’t be re-created in one night, much less a couple of weeks.

Can one person change you like that? Make such an impact on your life that their absence renders you an entirely different person? Like an equation missing one of its components and equaling a different solution? Were there certain people with whom we were meant to be close to because without them we’d miss out on something priceless?

“Can you just take me home?” Aly’s discordant voice cuts through my thoughts, dragging my eyes back to hers.

“Sure.”

I can’t stop blinking, embarrassed at the state I’m in. My
makeup feels as if it melted off my face, the residue clinging to my tears and staining my cheeks. My eyes are inflamed, my shoes destroyed. As I drive Aly home, I fight back my tears, realizing I was the big joke of the night. Not only to my friends out there, but to Aly too.

This isn’t supposed to happen.

When I pull in front of her house, Aly puts her hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s not a big deal. Believe me, I would know. It sucks for a minute and then it’s okay.”

“I’m sorry about everything, Aly,” I say, in between breaths. “This prank was about me, not you.”

“Stop taking all the credit, will you? You’re a lucky one, remember? Stuff like this doesn’t happen to you.”

If only she knew.

fifteen

L
ights illuminate half the rooms inside the Oderas’
house as I climb the fourteen steps leading up to their front door. I stop at the top, knowing the lucky ones are inside. I can’t believe I’m doing this, not after what they—what he—just did to me. I don’t even know what I’m going to say. All I know is I have to say something to him about tonight’s little prank.

Even now. I don’t know why it matters so much—it just does. Maybe because no matter who I am or which life I’m living, somehow I’ll always cringe at the idea of James Odera hating me.

Maybe it’s something like closure.

In front of the Oderas’ decorative iron door, I ring the bell once and wait, wondering if anyone even heard me. My arms stiffen, my breath catching in my lungs when I hear the fall of footsteps drawing near. I almost bolt the other direction when the door swings open and a woman with dark skin and short black hair meets me with a smile. “Well, hello, Mackenzie. How are you?”

James’s mother.

“Hi, Mrs. Odera,” I say, feeling a sense of belonging with her. I instantly know she always liked me in this life. Her smile is a jewel that lights up her face, dimples dotting both sides of her cheeks. She’s a beautiful woman, despite stress over the
years drawing lines into her face and adding weight to her small frame.

She lets me in immediately, as if she can’t believe I actually knocked instead of walking in on my own.

I gape at the high arched ceilings draped in shadows, breathing in the tangy scent of peppers and oranges—their familiar aroma awakening a sense of being in this house with James dozens of times before.

“Everyone’s in the back, hon,” she says, pointing to a dark hallway leading to the game room in the back, where laughter and voices break through deep, rhythmic music.

“Okay, thanks,” I say, not letting on that I’m an uninvited guest.

She must know, though, or at least suspect something, because she pulls me into a quick hug, her eyes resting warmly on mine. Her gaze only lasts a moment, though, long enough for the black in her eyes to drop their façade, revealing the pain she’s hidden behind her smile so well all these years.

Like a rush of saltwater over an old wound, it all comes back to me—vivid memories of what Mrs. Odera is hiding. Why she’s still so sad. James told me when it first happened, though I don’t know when or where. Somehow the memory floats out there in space, waiting for me to snatch it back up—but in pieces now. It’s the only time I ever remember seeing James lose control, that morning when he told me his dad left them—his mom, his two little sisters, and him. Just like that. No explanation, no warning, nothing.

I remember how vulnerable I felt when James tried to conceal his emotions without success, how the feelings of helplessness overwhelmed me at failed attempts to comfort him, which only made him more angry.
Mean,
even. I kept my distance for a while until he wasn’t in so much pain and didn’t lash out quite as much. Until the memory of his dad’s betrayal faded enough for him to function normally again.

To put on his act and pretend nothing was wrong.

He’s never told anybody else. Still talks about his dad like they’re going out to dinner or he’s off on a business trip again. Same with his rental house too. It’s his way of making sure he looks better than the rest of us, of remaining the big man on campus. James hides his secrets well, like his mother.

A pretty face is good at that.

I squeeze Mrs. Odera’s hand, wishing somehow to be bold enough for further explanations and apologies right this second, to tell her I’m sorry about everything, about the sucky parts of life. But I don’t think I need to. She squeezes my hand back, as if telling me she is sorry too.

I work my way past the winding staircase and down the dark hallway until I end up in the game room. A movie plays on the screen, the volume barely above the pulsing music. Jared, Liv, and Morgan and a couple of kids from the bonfire are gathered around the pool table, cues in their hands. Brecke snuggles up to Tanner on the long, circular couch, gazing into his eyes. Five other kids from the bonfire fill in the gaps throughout the room—kids I’ve seen around school, mostly, but have never spoken to.

My face stings, my pulse erratic when I realize my mistake. These people humiliated me only an hour ago, and now here I am crawling back to them like a wounded puppy. What is wrong with me that I need their approval more than I value my pride?

“K! Whaz going on, baby?” James shouts from a corner I hadn’t noticed yet. His nickname warms me, even now. But it isn’t the same. Not anymore.

He and Katie are dancing and her hands are all over him. When she sees me, she pulls him closer and kisses him on the lips, as if reminding me I’m the loser now. James is all smiles with killer dance moves—a complete one-eighty from his conniving, manipulative persona earlier. It’s all part of his act, though, how he copes with his anger and remains on top of his game. How he stays in control.

Seeing him like this with my own eyes makes me feel even worse, realizing how callous and cruel James Odera really is underneath all that charm. My stomach churns. What was I thinking, coming here right now? I should have waited to talk to him alone, when he didn’t have an audience. When he wasn’t drunk.