Chasing Midnight (8 page)

Eleven . . .

For me, for the chance to be a lucky one—I don’t think I’d ever be able go through with it, not knowing what to expect.
But for Spencer—that’s a whole other story. All I know is that for him, I would give up whatever it takes.

Whatever it takes.

I leave it at that, hoping it’s enough.

Twelve
. . .

And then, silence.

I run up the stairs in the darkness, panting, sweating. Terrified at what I may have done. Exhilarated at the possibility that I did something. And then I fall into bed, my ebbing heart sensing relief after such a long, strange day. Its beat lulls me to sleep inch by inch until my eyelids shut. The necklace radiates heat wherever it touches my skin. I reach for it, wondering if the tingle I feel crawling up my fingertips is something real or only the beginning of a dream.

The final sound in my ears before going under is a crack of thunder, an angry whip snapping in the air above me.

And the taste of hazelnuts on my tongue.

part two

“Shiver and quiver, little tree,

silver and gold throw down over me.”

"C
INDERELLA
"

BY THE
G
RIMM
B
ROTHERS

one

I
awake to a hushed chorus of insects, the chirping
gradually growing louder until it seems as if one has set up camp inside my ear.

Am I dreaming?

Not wanting even an inch of this soft fluff around my face to disappear, I sink deeper into the covers, hoping to muffle whatever rude creature is trying to wake me.

Chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp.

Ugh . . . it’s only getting louder.

Why are there crickets in my room? Has my window screen fallen out again?

I pop my head up and open my eyes to pitch black, blindly shooting my hand at the noise in an attempt to knock dead whatever it is. But I miss the nightstand altogether and swing straight through, smacking into the side of my bed.

Groaning, I scoot closer to the edge of the bed and swipe again, this time my hand stopping hard as my fingers brush over a flat, smooth surface.

What is
that?

Despite my brain still floating around in a fog, I run my hand across the top of the object again, tracing its sides and edges, trying to guess what it is.

“What the . . . ?”

I fumble with the sleek, oblong object, confused. It almost feels like . . . a
phone.
Not my crappy flip phone with its small joke of a keyboard, either. A freaking iPhone.

My mind awakes and I snatch the phone up in my hands, sliding the cricket noise to a stop with the swipe of my finger. It’s 5:12 a.m. As in, nobody should be up this early. I think I’m going to pass out I’m so tired.

But an even more pressing issue—what’s an iPhone doing at my bedside?

Two knocks rap on the door, adding to my confusion because the noise is coming from the wrong direction. My door is supposed to be at the foot of my bed, not to the left of me.

Am I still dreaming? Am I
high?

Did someone slip me a . . .
I don’t know
. . . what kind of drugs do people slip?

Before I come to a sensible conclusion, the door swings inward, revealing a figure in the doorway, the towering shape silhouetted black against the lit hallway. “Time to get up.”

Dad.

Except, why does his tone sound so . . . so
not
like Dad? Where is his usual upbeat “Up and at ’em, Kenzie-bear!”?

I rub my eyes. “What?”

“I knew you’d have trouble getting up. Shouldn’t have stayed up so late,” is all he says, as if every part of this scenario is normal. Did he already forget the whole reason I was up late in the first place?

Indy . . . Spencer . . .

I shoot up, my heart leaping to my throat. That’s why Dad tore me from sleep at such a hellish hour—something terrible has happened, I know it. Why else would Dad be waking me up so early?
No, no, no . . .

“Dad, are they okay?” I ask, terrified to hear the truth.

“What are you talking about?” he says, a thread of irritation in his voice.

“Indy? Spencer?”

He only gapes at me. “What are you talking about?”

Okay, good. So both Indy and Spencer are safe. Relax,
relax.
Everything is fine. Until Dad flips on the light and the room blazes to life.

I gasp, stunned by this strange, enormous bed I’m tucked into, all covered in layers of sheets and blankets and more fluffy stuff, all in a billion shades of white or sea foam green. It’s a wedding cake in bed form.

I flip my head back and forth, not sure what I’m looking at.
Where am I?
Unlike my own room, this room is the size of a house, the ceiling shooting way up to the sky. Everything is too bright, every wall painted turquoise or white or flanked with pristine, white plantation shutters. Above me, a glass chandelier hangs from the ceiling, its graceful, swooping arms dripping in bits of pink-stained glass, like stars greeting a sunset.

“Why are we here?” I ask Dad while pulling the covers up to my mouth.

“Knock it off, Mackenzie. No excuses this time. We leave in ten minutes.” And then he turns around, leaving me to flounder in my confusion.

“Wait . . . Dad!”

He stops, his eyebrows jutting together, creases cutting his forehead in half. Tension pulls at his jaw, making it appear more square and rigid than usual—a look he only gives when something is stressing him out at work.

“I’m so confused,” I start to say but don’t know how to finish. Especially when he stares at me so blankly, like he’s ready to give me up for adoption. “Sorry. It’s just . . . ” I scan the room and stick out my hands, trying to gesture at the enormity of this . . . situation.

But all he does is shake his head and disappear down the hall, leaving me hanging.

Not knowing what else to do, I slide out of the sheets and land on a plush, white rug. It stretches halfway across a dark
wood floor—the biggest rug I’ve ever seen in my life. At the side of the bed I linger, falling spellbound to my surroundings, trying to figure out where I am and why.

I start across the rug, but stop when a hint of wind purrs through the room, bringing with it the powerful smell of hazelnuts and cinnamon. Above me, the sound of rustling paper floats downward. I look up as a yellow sheet of paper drifts about the room in the dying breeze, flitting around me until it finds its way into my hands.

I turn it over to find my list of wishes from last night’s wish session with Aly. My hands fly to my neck, to the necklace still at my collarbone. When I release the charm, my fingers are covered in a fine residue of gold dust, and I’m almost positive I can hear some kind of ticking sound coming from it . . . almost like a real, working clock. Bird Lady’s voice from last night floats through my ears again. “Is this what you want?” she had asked. Yes. I’d said yes.

When was that? Yesterday?

Maybe she is some kind of fairy. Or angel. Or a mystical being who pops in and out wherever she desires, merely going about granting wishes for people . . .

I laugh at the absurdity of it.

Can this really be happening?

I spin around and run across the room to the wall of shutters, pulling them open. The sky behind the glass slumbers in an inky black, a hint of the moon trying to materialize through the gauzy fog. But even in the dark, the view from up here is unmistakable—twinkling lights dotting a descending hill folding out below me, and in the distance, the topmost tips of the lit-up Bay Bridge boring through the fog.

The kind of view you can only get at the top of Sea View Drive.

Trying not to hyperventilate, I hold my breath and read through my wish list again.

1. The biggest, fanciest house on Sea View Drive.

2. Nike Flyknits.

3. A ski-jump nose.

4.
My own car.
A new BMW.

5. Be a total pro at the piano.

6.
James Odera to like me.
Be James Odera’s girlfriend.

7. Get Spencer’s lungs fixed.

Did all my wishes come true? Is this the house I think it is?

Is it
mine?

I inch my way across the rug, stopping in front of an open door next to the closet. At the dark opening, I peek through, trying to guess what’s inside. The floor is cool and smooth beneath my feet as I step in and flip on the light, not sure where to hold my gaze. It’s the fanciest bathroom I’ve ever been in, made almost entirely of pewter, glass, and slabs of gray stone.

When I catch my reflection in the oval mirror above the countertop, I about die. “No. Way,” I say out loud, bringing my hand to my face as I draw closer to the glass. I can’t stop gawking. I want to stand in front of the mirror the rest of the morning and stare at my nose.
My beautiful nose.
It is so perfect without that big bump in the middle. Gone. Just like that.

I might actually be kind of pretty.

Maybe.

The sudden thought of showing up at school in new clothes and a new nose (and possibly a boyfriend named James Odera . . .
I hope so I hope so I hope so
. . . ) nearly throws me into a tailspin. Aly is going to flip when I see her. I am so excited. Nervous. Terrified. Happy . . . all at the same time. My heart blossoms inside, my hands scrunching my wish list against my chest.

All of a sudden I’m afraid to move. To breathe. To do anything, for fear of the Bird Lady suddenly appearing and magically swiping away this bedroom, this perfect nose and whatever other wishes still await me.

“Mackenzie!” Dad’s voice, right behind me.

I spin around. “What?”

“Why aren’t you ready yet? You know I have to be back by six. Hurry. UP!” he says with a half-eaten banana in his hand, his pale legs screaming for attention from the sun. The only thing more show-stopping than his legs are those new fluorescent Nikes I didn’t know he had.

Lucky.

“When did you get those?” I ask, sensing a hint of jealousy rearing up inside of me.

He looks down. “What are you talking about?”

“Your shoes. Why didn’t you tell me there was a Nike sale?”

He stops chewing, deadpans me like I asked the dumbest question in the world, and then marches out the door. “Get dressed!” he yells on his way out, leaving me standing there, wondering if he is even my dad at all.

“Okay,” I say, figuring the closet is as good a place to start as any.

It happens to be twice as big as my old bedroom, and I find it almost impossible not to linger inside this temple made just for clothing. Still, I hurry and suit up in a sweet new Lululemon exercise outfit folded neatly inside one of many drawers, the whole time terrified that any second New Serious Dad is going to barge in and strangle me before I have a chance to fully appreciate the moment.

It isn’t until I pull open the bottom drawer that I’m fully convinced this whole wish-making situation is for real. Lined up in a perfect row are three pairs of running shoes (yes, I have a drawer for
shoes).
Three pairs of the
same
running shoe too—each in a different color. Not just any shoe, either. Nike Flyknits.