Chasing Midnight (4 page)

“Hey, Spencer. What are you doing out here?”

He looks up. “Hey, Kenz.”

I step sideways into a pool of light but freeze at the sound of branches creaking behind us.

Crunch-crunch-creeeeeak.

My heart jumps like a firecracker as a voice calls out from the far end of the yard. “Don’t
moooove
a muscle.”

I step away from Spencer and toward the voice, wondering what’s going on. Spencer seems disinterested in the whole thing.

A disembodied voice orders me back. Dad’s voice. “Turn around!” he whispers as loud as it can still be considered it a whisper.

“What for?” I call out to him, wondering what he’s up to tonight. It’s always something with him.

“Shhhhh,” he whispers more quietly this time. “Just two more seconds. I
got
you. Come on, little bugger. Show me what you got. Just a little
closer . . .
”

“Wha—?” I start to say.

“Gopher,” Spencer explains, still staring straight ahead, pretty much ignoring the whole scene altogether.

Oh, right.
Gopher.

I allow my eyes time to adjust to the darkness at the edge of the yard, and then I see him. Dad. Right near the base of the blackberry bush by the side fence—camo hat and all. He’s belly-down on the ground with his BB gun trained on a spot in the garden. Every year it always comes to this—a full out war between Dad and the gophers, Dad usually the loser.

Shots ring out.

I scream like I’m the one down.

Dad jumps up and runs toward the garden, yelling incoherently, a few swear words thrown in for effect. And then he stops abruptly, curses the air, and stomps into the house.

Defeated again.

“Explain to me again how we’re related to him?” I ask Spencer.

He chuckles, which turns into coughing.

“Why are you out here in the dark, anyway?” I ask, sitting on the arm of his chair. “Doesn’t the cold make your cough worse?”

“I guess so. But I’m tired of staying in bed all day. Plus, I wanted to watch the sunset.”

The only high school boy I ever heard admit to something like that. It’s a trip what sitting and thinking by yourself a lot can do to a person.

“When do you think you’ll start feeling better?” I ask, wishing there was something I could do . . .
anything
to help him . . . but mostly just feeling hopeless.

For years my parents have been researching this new, experimental surgical treatment for severe asthma cases like Spencer’s. The only problem is, insurance doesn’t pay for it. So far I’ve saved 335 dollars for the surgery. Too bad it costs more than a freaking car.

“I’m pretty sure I’ll never feel better.”

“Sucks. You know I’m saving up for you, right?”

Spencer pats my knee. “Thanks, Kenz. But by the time any of us actually saves enough money, you’ll have your own kids in high school and I’ll be Uncle Spencer: RIP. Either that, or they’ll have invented iron lungs and I’ll be the new Iron Man.”

“Knock it off, Spence. Sheesh. What do you have there, anyway?” I ask, pointing to the mug in his hands. Whatever it is has slopped over the brim and is drizzling down the sides.

“Another one of Mom’s nasty concoctions.”

“Ew.”

“Hey—at least it’s keeping me warm,” he says, fighting through another coughing spasm when he tries to laugh again. The poor guy. He can’t even laugh. What kind of disease punishes you for being happy? It makes me want to scream—watching Spencer deal with this crap month after month, year after year. As a matter of fact, it’s getting pretty old. And I’m only doing the watching.

What about him? He’s missed so much already—friends, dates, games, dances. I mean, what teenage guy wants to sit out on in his backyard by himself and watch the stars all night? And who made all the rules, anyway? How did Spencer get stuck with this life while other people I know get to run circles around him in their Porsches and tuxedos—people like James Odera and Tanner Slade and Brecke Phillips?

People who get to have
everything?

“It’s so unfair,” I blurt without thinking.

Spencer turns his head and crinkles up his eyes at my outburst.
“What’s
unfair?”

I throw my hands out in front of me. “This.”

“Huh?”

“You. It’s not your fault you practically die every other weekend because Dad’s cube job and Mom’s little catering stint bring in peanuts while the rest of this town eats peanuts as dessert toppings. You can’t help it that you missed the perfect gene lineup in heaven.”

He stands up and dumps the remaining liquid from his mug into the grass. “Whoa, Kenz. Your point?”

“My point? My point is—we don’t get to choose where we’re put in this life, what neighborhood we belong to, what ugly facial feature we’re born with,” I say, thinking specifically about my nose. If only it could have a nice ski-jump slope and not that noticeable bump that will never go away on its own. “So why do most of us get screwed because of choices we never made, while the lucky ones get all the breaks?”

“The lucky ones? What
lucky ones?
There are people way worse off than me, you know. Some people have cancer. Or worse.”

“I know . . . I know. But for reals, Spence. Can’t you and I be a little human for once? Can’t I wish to be the pretty one, the popular one, rich enough to be invited to the Pumpkin Ball? For once, a guy to ask me out instead of just wanting to hang out? A lucky one?”

Spencer furrows his brow, probably wondering where all this is coming from. I don’t know myself, only that ever since I watched James and Tanner drive away from me—the nobody that I am—without a clue I was ever even there, my emotions seem to have balled up inside me and are now sneak-attacking like a tsunami.

“Of course you can be human,” he says in his typical placid voice. “It’s just that compared to the rest of the world,
we are
the lucky ones.” His words seem to echo through the trees.

I don’t know what to say.

He starts back to the house like he’s had enough of me. “Everyone has problems,” he says, turning around. “Just . . . everyone’s problems are different.”

I remain fixed in the spot next to his empty chair, watching him go. The sound of the creek seems to amplify as a gust of wind shoots past me, whipping my hair into my face. In the sky, a bolt of lightning rips through the clouds, leaving behind a deafening clap of thunder like the air around me has ignited. My vision flickers in and out like the flame, and comes back again. And then, as quickly as it started, the tumult in the sky dies down to the simmering sound of silence, leaving only a chill that circles up my leg and coils around my neck, making me feel like I can’t breathe.

Just like Spencer.

I cough hard, trying to shake loose the tightness in my chest, and then run toward the house, suddenly engulfed with gloom. Trying to avoid everyone, I sneak in through the front door, stepping directly into the remains of another day spent—coats, backpacks, and shoes shed across the entryway, books and toys cluttering the couch or stacked up on the floor. Total chaos.

Usually, seeing these tokens of our lives scattered all over the place is a relief, a patchwork of clues that bring to mind the fact that we’re real people, not poseurs hiding behind pretense and posturing. Tonight, though, it reminds me of where we live. Or rather, where we
don’t
live. Especially while the Pumpkin Ball rages on and here I am, traipsing through the mess, another day spent, another paragraph in my book of life skipped because I’m too unlucky to be important.

I start up the stairs but stop at the sound of Indy and Ezra in the family room, their high-pitched laughter intermingling with airplane sounds and Aly’s monster growls—her Godzilla game they can never get enough of. I lean over the railing and peek down the hall to find them soaring around the room,
jumping from chair to couch, each with a toy airplane in their hands while trying to avoid Aly’s aerial attacks.

I wish I could skip backwards to when I was nine years old, where the most disappointing thing to ever happen was forgetting my lunch. Even being labeled the class’s foursquare loser doesn’t seem nearly as horrible as the 101 ways there are to be marked a loser in high school.

Mom’s voice cuts through the commotion in her peaceful, never-ruffled way, politely reminding my brothers to remove their bodies from the furniture. Which is followed by twenty questions, all aimed at Spencer. “Why were you outside? Oh, honey, didn’t I tell you to get to bed early? That cough will only get worse if you don’t take care of yourself. Did you drink the broth I made? It had extra vitamins and antioxidants in it . . . ” And so on and so forth. She says it all in such a sweet, kind way, though; you can’t get mad at her.

“Kenzie-bear! Are we running in the morning?” Dad’s voice explodes out of nowhere.

I jump backward in surprise, nearly tripping down the stairs. He is bounding toward me, a pair of old Nikes cushioning his steps. It looks like he’s already ditched his gun and camo gear and is now back in sports mode like the face-off with his gopher nemesis never happened. He’s pro at shedding disappointment in a heartbeat, like he has an on/off switch. I’m not quite as adaptable. I must have inherited Mom’s anxiety instead of Dad’s mellow take on everything.

“I don’t know, Dad,” I say, trying to squeeze past him up the stairs.

Too late. He’s already thrown a long, muscular arm around me and is pulling me close to him, making it impossible to break free. “Hey, where’re you going?” he asks, forcing me along with him down the stairs and through the hallway, into the kitchen, despite my protests. “What time should we head out in the morning?”

I want to tell him to forget about running tomorrow. I’m tired and cranky and not in the mood to wake up early again.
But I can’t. As always, that lopsided, carefree grin of his does me in. The truth is, I can’t stand to disappoint my dad. Nobody can. He’s always on the verge of bursting with excitement over something, and nobody wants to be the one to deflate his spirit. It’s like being the one to put Santa in jail.

“Fine,” I say with a bit of an edge, hoping he’ll catch on to my mood. “But how about a compromise? Twenty minutes?”

“No way, lady. I can’t go soft, or Nate will end up beating me in hoops tomorrow night.”

That’s right! I almost forgot—Nate’s coming home! My oldest brother’s monthly visits top everything else in our house. It’s like Christmas and New Year’s Eve and Thanksgiving combined. We usually spend the entire weekend together playing basketball or watching football while eating Mom-approved junk food; it’s one big party only Mom knows how to shut down.

If anything can pull me out of a funk, it’s Nate’s return. Maybe missing the Pumpkin Ball won’t be so tragic after all.

“Six a.m., Kenzie. Don’t forget to set your alarm,” Dad says, knocking me on the head and bringing me back down to earth.

“Ugh.” I sigh, already feeling tired.

“First one ready picks the route,” he adds enthusiastically before leaping over the back of the couch and settling in next to Spencer in front of the TV.

“Mackenzie, honey, do you think you and Aly can take over for me here?” Mom asks, untying her apron. “I need to scoot upstairs quick and get ready.”

Fine. Go ahead and get ready for the Ball while I stay here. That’s right—my own mother gets to go to the Pumpkin Ball while I’m stuck at home doing all the work. This life of mine . . . such a dream.

Before I know it, I’m in an apron, slicing tomatoes and telling Aly about the strange lady who mysteriously appeared and disappeared at work today, about how her clock necklace somehow ended up in my chemistry book.

“Are you sure it’s the same necklace Bird Lady was wearing?” Aly asks me, giving her an official name.

“Yes. I’m positive,” I say, feeling like Bobby Flay while stirring this pot of pasta. Stirring stuff is the one kitchen thing I’m really good at.

“I don’t get it. Why would some random lady just give you her necklace? Maybe it fell off her neck or something,” Aly suggests while chopping up chives. Or onions. Not really sure there’s a difference.

“Seriously? Just, plop, onto my desk, right under my nose? Me never seeing a thing?” I say. “I think she might have followed me there from school too. Which makes it even more mysterious.”

But Aly isn’t quite so dramatic or observant as I am. “I don’t know . . . it just seems so strange,” she says, her tone flat and sensible-sounding. “Maybe it’s a good luck charm or something like that,” she says, scooping up the chives/onions and putting them into a bowl.

“Do you see any luck running around here?” I ask, leering at the dull mustard yellow wallpaper we can’t take down because we’re renters, not owners. Renters can only look, not touch. Well . . . and mow the lawn.

“You just have to make your own luck then,” Aly says with her trademark optimism that makes me want to chase her down with a couple of really dark clouds.

“And how do I do that?” I ask, tapping her on the back with the wooden spoon while she digs through the junk drawer for something.

She pulls her hand out of the drawer and hands me a pen and a pad of paper. “Here. Wish time.”

“Wish time?”

“Yes. Your mysterious Bird Lady inspired me.”

“Meaning . . . ?”

“Meaning that tonight while all of Piedmont royalty dances the night away, you and I will write down everything we wish
we could ever
have
or
do
or
be
right this second. And for each item you write down that’s different from mine, you get a bite of ice cream. And vice versa.”

I laugh. Her games always involve ice cream.

“I’m serious,” Aly says, still waiting for me to take the pen and paper from her.

Oh. She
is
serious.

“It’s not like we have anything better to do. Other than stirring this pot of pasta.”

She has a point.

“Start writing, Kenzie.”

I smile, wondering how Aly always manages to find a bowl of ice cream in every situation, no matter how bad things get. Like today with her longboard flying into traffic, or that time last year when we tried Zumba and she fell on her butt. Twice. She jumped up too, and kept on going like nothing ever happened. When class ended she didn’t say a word about it, either—just headed straight to the front of the class and complimented the instructor on her killer dance moves.