Chasing Midnight (16 page)

But then I remember. James. His phone call. And I realize
this
is where we are meeting at six.
My
house.

And it’s 6:30.

Flip.

seven

“S
o, what’s the verdict?” Cale asks, leaning his bike
against the porch steps and following me to the front door.

What do I tell him? I’m terrible at being the one stuck in between, trying to get both sides to get along like a tug-of-war. How do you make both people happy? It’s not possible! I don’t know how lawyers and teachers and moms get through life at all.

“I don’t know, Cale. Crap. I was supposed to meet James here a half hour ago.”

Cale leans against the doorframe. “And
we
were supposed to meet at five. Nice planning, Love.”

I shrug my shoulders, avoiding the look he’s throwing my way. “Sorry?”

“So you want me to leave then?”

“No, I don’t want you to leave. But you and James aren’t exactly bros, either. So I’m sort of stuck here.”

“I see.”

I finally lift my head, hoping to find a goofy smile somewhere up there to get me off the hook. But this time he looks like a GQ model, focusing intently on something past me in the distance, like he couldn’t be bothered. I feel like a jerk.

I reach around him for the door handle. “Cale. Really. I’m sorry.”

He snaps out of his brooding model pose and grabs the
door handle first. “Here, let me get that for you,” he says, opening the door.

I can’t tell if he’s serious or mocking me. Still, I have no other choice but to go inside. “Can you meet Monday after school?” I start to ask, but he’s already leaping down the front steps and hopping on his bike, like he can’t get away from me fast enough.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you later.”

“Bye,” I call, watching him coast away from me.

I step inside and close the door, staring blankly around at the grand marble hallway in front of me. Everything is dark and quiet here. I have no clue where to start looking for James. I’m probably more lost in my own house than he is.

My footsteps sound like ghostly echoes as I cross the hallway, past the winding staircase, toward the kitchen—it’s as good a place to start as any.

Just as I round the corner, James emerges from the kitchen, almost bumping into me. He holds a soup-sized bowl of ice cream in his hands, drizzled with chocolate syrup. “You’re out of chocolate, K” is all he says to me. As if him wandering around my house with a half gallon of ice cream in his hands is the most normal thing in the world.

Maybe it is?

“Hello to you, too,” I say, following him back into the kitchen where he leans against the counter, slurping up his ice cream.

He is such a contrast to Cale—the way he talks to me, the way he looks at me, the vibe between us. It’s almost jarring, like I need a reset button so I remember how to act. Being with James feels so much trickier, while hanging out with Cale just confuses me.

“Sorry I’m late. I lost track of time,” I say.

He doesn’t respond or even look up at me, so I apologize again, even though thirty minutes late isn’t
that
outrageous. It’s not like I ditched him completely like I did Cale.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I sort of took at detour in the park and . . .” Hung out with Cale for the last hour? No way am I telling him that.

James still doesn’t respond. Just keeps eating.

I try to think of something to say to bridge the silence but draw a blank. The only sounds between us come from his slurping, followed by a scraping noise when he reaches the bottom of the bowl.

His silent treatment is turning my stomach into a twisty, raw mess. I’m in the middle of considering leaving him in the kitchen all to himself, when the sound of voices bouncing off the ceiling and walls grow louder and louder, until all at once the rest of the lucky ones have joined us in my kitchen too.

When did they get here? Did James tell them to come?

I try to remember if I invited them, but my memory refuses to cooperate. With my luck, I probably invited the whole school to my house some time last week, before I was me. Now the tension I thought existed only in my head is real as every pair of eyes falls on James and me, all conversation coming to a halt like a pivotal scene in a movie that ends with a loaded speech and reluctant applause.

No such luck here.

I don’t know where to direct my gaze—to Katie, who stands much too close to James, her shoulder brushing up against his; or to Liv, who is whispering something to Brecke; or back on James, who has abandoned his empty bowl of ice cream now that he has backup, and is all dimples and smiles again.

Finally, movement from the pack, and then from Jared, “You too good for us now?”

I laugh, thinking he’s making a joke. But nobody else laughs with me.

Liv speaks up next, speaking about me like I’m not even there. “She was with that same tool from the Ball. I saw them on my way here.”

I turn to face her, wondering what she’s talking about. “What?”

I find James for reassurance, but he won’t look at me. Is that how things work with the lucky ones? Some kind of pack mentality where they all band together for a sneak attack on the unsuspecting? The thought makes me feel vulnerable, so naked, and I’m so confused that I’m at a loss for words . . . again.

James finally returns my gaze, and for a second I think all’s forgiven and he is coming to my rescue. But now he is even more steel-faced and unfazed than before, the way his eyes look through me rather than at me, as if responding with a “So?”

Tanner is the first one to change the subject. “Your dad’s wine cellar is sick.”

Thank you, Tanner.

I laugh, assuming he’s making a joke about this amazing, ridiculous house, but then I stop. Once again, nobody else laughs with me. That’s when I get it—I really
do
have a wine cellar. “Oh, thanks,” I say, waiting for somebody else to say something.

Nobody does.

“Anyone hungry?” I ask, looking for any takers.

Nobody takes.

Someone behind me snickers, and the silence sounds and feels like nails on chalkboard. I feel like I’m in pleated pants and a bowtie at the Pumpkin Ball again, the way each one of the lucky ones stares me down. I don’t get it, either. We’re in
my
house. Talking about
my
wine cellar. I’m James Odera’s girlfriend (I think). Apparently none of that matters if you break whatever mob code these guys all seem to live by. Whatever it is.

Right now I want to run far away from the lucky ones but am paralyzed by my own confusion. Where would I run to in this life? Instead, I pull the fridge open and look for a snack, clinging to the Sub-Zero to give me something to do other than remain a target.

Another forced laugh from behind me and then, “So, are we swimming or what?” asks Morgan. “Cause I’m dying of heat.”

That gets everybody going.

I feel someone behind me, a presence suddenly there. “Come on, baby. What’re you waiting for?” James says in my ear so no one can hear. He then lifts my hair off from my neck and kisses me on the cheek, lingering long enough to draw heat from my skin and ignite the nape of my neck in tingles. I can’t help but draw a sudden breath at his presence, amazed at how he still throws my heart into a tailspin whenever he comes near. How does he do it?

I feel so weak at how quickly he can turn my knees to Jell-O. He was freezing me out just a second ago, and now acts like everything is back to normal. Confused, but pathetically won over, I smile at him, silently begging for his approval, his attention.

But he doesn’t return the smile or even look at me. He just walks out of the room with the rest of the lucky ones, leaving me standing there, a total wreck.

For a second I wonder where they’re going—why they aren’t heading out to the front door. And then it occurs to me: we’re swimming at
my
house.

Oh.

“Mackenzie, jump in!” Brecke yells at me, flicking water at my feet as I stand at the edge of the pool, watching everyone swim in
my
backyard.

Breathe.

Lights glow from within the kidney-shaped pool, turning the water a brilliant turquoise against the deepening sky. I step under a trellis climbing with wisteria, looking back up at the house. It spans three stories from the ground floor, but from where I stand, it seems to stretch into the sky forever.

“Get in!” Jared yells, wet hands tugging at my feet.

I turn around, taken aback by the view of the city from up here—spectacular at night with all those glimmering city lights looking up at me.

Someone grabs me and pulls me into the pool. Cool water engulfs me as I fall in, focusing on the empty dark in front of me, the distinctive taste of salt water in my mouth. My lungs tingle, and I rush to the surface. Water trickles from my ears, down my neck.

“Look out!” Thick arms cradle me, pulling me backward. I hold my breath as my head dips below the surface. In an instant I am lifted out of the water, free. I gasp for air and find James’s face in front of mine, ridiculously close. I hold my breath as he pulls me into a kiss, my heart pitter-pattering against my chest.

Even though there are five other bodies splashing around us, it feels like we’re the only ones here. James’s lips are soft and cool and wet, a hint of saltwater mixed with spearmint. I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him back even harder, wanting more, loving the feel of his face and breath and skin so near mine.

For a moment—a ridiculously unreal moment—I’ve forgotten all about James’s contradictory behavior from the last thirty minutes, and I step off my emotional rollercoaster for just a moment.

A moment I still can’t believe is mine.

eight

I
find the grand piano later that night after everyone
has gone home. It is centered in a distant, empty room in the far corner of the house, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows against a black sky filled with stars.

It seems like forever since I last played. Maybe in this life it’s been a while too; there is no way of knowing. More and more memories of my old life feel as if they’re starting to blend into my current memories, making it difficult to distinguish between the two. Now when I have a flash of something from the past, I’m uncertain which life it’s from. But I’m pretty sure I’ve always wanted a grand piano—in both lives. Like that is one desire I was born with, either way.

Spencer has always been the better pianist. He has longer fingers and a quicker memory. But he gave up when I kept going, even though I should’ve been the one to quit. I’m no Mozart, but I’ve always loved shutting myself inside the studio at work where I could play as long and as loud as I wanted without Spencer telling me to be quiet or Mom pointing out my mistakes, or Indy and Ezra telling me to hurry up so they could practice the violin.

Indy and Ezra . . .

Their faces jump out at me, reminding me how rapidly I forgot them in my perfect life.
Ouch.
When was the last time
I pictured their golden-brown eyes peering up at me in excitement, begging me to make a sweet Lego city with them? It would take us all Sunday. We’d fill up the entire front room with intersecting roads leading to shopping centers and houses. You couldn’t step anywhere without breaking up the city and facing the wrath of . . .