Chasing Midnight (17 page)

Of whom?

Of those two faces.
Those two boys.

My brothers; that’s right.

Indy and Ezra.

The more I try to remember them, to remember what they sound like and look like, the fuzzier their faces become. My heart stutters at their memory, which for some reason doesn’t seem to hurt as much as I remember it hurting yesterday.

Whenever it was.

How long has it been since I pushed my nonexistent brothers to the back of my mind?

I plunk down a couple of notes, holding onto them until their dissonant sounds cling to the walls, trying to sort out the flux of emotion I’m feeling right now. Without knowing what I’m doing, my fingers scale the keyboard, slowing for a minute with indecision, and then coming together faster and louder until the same song I always played makes itself known—Pachelbel’s Canon in D. I always adored its addicting melody and unchanging tempo. I learned it when I was . . .

I can’t remember.

My memory . . .

What’s happening to my mind?

My fingers mirror my emotions as I continue to play and work out the ebb and flow of sadness, regret, anger, passion, heat, and jealousy all surging and swirling around inside of me.

It’s too much. Too much.

It hurts.

Yet it feels good.

I’m so lost. So drawn to validation, so driven by the desire to be loved by anyone who will love me.

The song seems to expose me, the way its two separate melodies, each no more important than the other, refuse to overshadow the other. Most songs are dominated by a single melody, but not this one. Pachelbel gives you two for the price of one; he’s a salesman in disguise. That’s how I feel right now. Two separate lives whose significance remains in the shadow of the other, but which one can stand on its own? That’s where I feel lost. And I’m afraid to dig any further for answers.

I don’t mess up once the entire time I play the song. I keep expecting the harsh pings of missed notes to interrupt me, but my fingers hit all the right keys at the perfect time without me even thinking about it, almost like I’m on autopilot. “Why are you still up?”

I lift my hands and look up. The room falls silent, except for lingering sounds of the last notes still hanging on.

Dad.

“Hi,” I say, relieved it’s only him and not a ninja about to nunchuck me. “I was starting to wonder if you only showed up in the mornings to torture me.”

He smiles.
Yay!
I made him smile. It feels like such an accomplishment with this cold-sober version of my dad.

“Somebody’s got to pay for this place,” he says with a forced smile, at which I wonder if he’s actually trying to crack a joke. But his voice sounds so monotone that it seems unlikely. “Any reason you’re playing the piano this late?” he adds before taking a peek at his watch. “Or should I say early? I thought maybe we had ourselves a piano burglar.” Another forced smile or terrible joke.

But all I can do right now is wonder what kind of piano burglar would actually sit and play the piano he was trying to steal? I ignore his nonsense question (because I don’t have an answer), and instead ask one of my own. “When did you get home?”

He checks his watch again. “Ten minutes ago.”

What a drag.

“Do you like working all the time?” I ask, remembering how Dad was always home for dinner and on weekends, always out shooting hoops with one of us or helping Mom with dinner.

He stretches his arms above his head and yawns, then pulls his phone out of his pocket and focuses on it instead of me. He seems so bothered to be here, like he can’t believe his own daughter is talking to him right now. Is it really so strange in this new life of mine to want to hang out with my own dad for a minute? He’s usually the one trying to get me to stop and tell him about my day. It’s a Freaky Friday kind of feeling.

At least thirty seconds passes before he finally looks up from his phone and responds, though he never really quite makes eye contact with me. “I’m tired, hon. Let’s talk another time. I have an early day tomorrow.”

“You work on Sunday too? What kind of job is that?”

“Don’t act so surprised, Kenzie.”

But then I realize the one way his working early positively affects me, and I’m stoked at the thought. “Wait. You mean I get to sleep in? No running at the crack of dawn?”

“I wish I had time,” he says, “but it doesn’t look like I can fit it in. Not before—”

“That’s right! Nate’s coming home,” I interrupt, realizing we’re due for a visit from my oldest brother any day now.

Except Dad doesn’t seem to share in my enthusiasm. “What gave you the idea Nate is coming home?” he asks, straight-faced.

Oh. Now what did I get wrong? “I . . . I don’t know. You mean . . . Nate
isn’t
coming home for the weekend?”

“Not unless you paid the airfare for him to come home. Don’t tell me you went over your limit again, Mackenzie.”

Airfare?
What?
Why does Nate need a plane ticket to come home if he’s only a couple of hours up the road? “No. I didn’t pay for him to come home,” I say, still trying to figure out what Dad’s talking about.

Dad exhales. “Good. I realize you think money grows on trees in this house, but a last-minute ticket from New York to San Francisco isn’t cheap. So don’t be getting any ideas, okay?” he says, turning to leave. “Time for bed.”

Nate is in New York? When did that happen? I’m stunned. Confused. Even a little scared to find out what my father is talking about.

As he retreats across the wood floor, the soles of his fancy dress shoes click-click-clicking away remind me how big and empty this room really is. I stand up and scoot away from the piano bench.

“Why is Nate in New York, Dad?” I dare ask, though now he probably thinks I’m high or something close to it.

The clicking stops, though Dad doesn’t say anything. He just turns, like he’s contemplating whether or not to answer me.

I gulp, trying to maneuver my way through this. “I’m only wondering . . . why did Nate pick a college so far away?”

Dad leans against the doorframe, his hand resting on the wooden threshold. “I don’t know. I never asked.”

“Oh,” is all I can say.

Click-click-click, and then Dad is gone.

Apparently Nate is too.

nine

O
n Monday we claim the lucky ones’ “usual” lunch
spot out on a grassy section of the quad, enjoying the heat of the midafternoon sun on our legs. Only part of the group is here today—Brecke and Tanner, and James and I; the rest opted for the cafeteria.

James sits on the grass beside me, chomping on a sandwich he made himself. I’ve learned he is sort of famous for knowing how to make a decent sandwich—though in reality, stuffing a bunch of meat inside a couple slices of bread doesn’t seem all that impressive.

Call me indifferent.

I try acting enamored with his sandwich skills, though, but can’t help wondering what the big deal is; it’s
just
a stupid sandwich, but I don’t want to say so because he seems so proud of himself, and once again he’s acting a little cold toward me.

So I try to flatter him instead. “I had no idea you were such a pro,” I say, willing to say anything now to get him to smile or even look at me. But he seems so distant again . . . like the more I talk to him, the further he drifts—the same as Saturday night at my house, when he ignored me for being late. It makes me want to try even harder with him, even though I’m embarrassed at how desperate I feel, and too aware of the way
everyone watches us when we’re together, like we as a couple are the school’s entertainment.

When James isn’t looking, I lean in close to him and brush my lips near his, nearly missing but close enough to send chills spiraling down my back. As much as I try to act cool like it’s nothing, I feel
everything.
And I start to melt all over again. It takes everything in me not to pull back before I even make contact, my mind screaming that this
isn’t
me. Yet, here I am, literally kissing up to him.

But he still ignores me and my heart plummets.

“You should taste his banana bread,” Brecke says to me, forking through her salad. “Maybe some day he’ll bring us some. What do you say, James?”

“Dude. You make banana bread?” Tanner asks, a hint of surprise in his voice.

James smiles at them, not me. “Sure. What do you do with your old bananas?” His hair is a little more unkempt than usual, the breeze blowing a couple of loose strands into his eyes every few minutes, making me want to reach out and brush it out of his face. But I resist this time, afraid of being ignored even more, if that’s even possible. I might as well be the old Mackenzie in her old life—the life where none of the lucky ones even knew my name.

“Seriously, banana bread? You’re tripping me out, bro,” Tanner says, laughing.

Taking another bite of sandwich, I turn my face toward the sun, trying not to feel sorry for myself. I blink away the tears I feel welling up in the corners of my eyes, trying not to think about how much I miss my brothers and Aly. I hate what I’ve lost and would do anything to get Indy and Ezra back, if I only knew how.

But I can’t think about them—not now.

It’s just less painful that way.

Although, I’m still convinced there’s something I can do to make Aly forgive me.

Something.

“So what’s up with you and your loser friend, anyway?” James says, abruptly. I jerk my head back to face him, shocked that he actually knows I’m still here. He is pointing at someone in the distance. “I’m getting sick of seeing his face everywhere I look.”

A shimmer of sunlight blocks my view, making it impossible to tell whom James is talking about. “Who?” I ask, shading my eyes.

Brecke and Tanner stop talking and glance my way. Brecke’s dark eyes narrow and then flicker, hiding something. But I don’t know her well enough to guess what. I frown at her, trying to get her to spill it, but she turns the other way, revealing nothing.

James clears his throat, bringing my attention back to him. “You know who.”

I look up again, squinting even harder until I can clearly see.

Cale.

A long, dark shadow inches across the grass toward us until Cale has come to a stop at my feet. I look up, wondering what he wants, wondering why he decided now is such a good time for a chat, with everything going on (or not going on) between me and James; I mean, Cale and I spoke only twenty minutes ago in art, right before lunch. What else could he have to say?

“What’s up?” I say to him, almost too cheerfully. Like I’m making up for the lack of cheerfulness coming from the side of me.

Today his shirt is white with red words that say
PLEASE REFRAIN FROM TAKING A BATH WHEN YOU ARE DEAD DRUNK
.

Brecke and Tanner distract themselves by gathering up their things and purposely turning their heads the other way, refusing to acknowledge Cale. James groans beside me, making his opinion of him as blatant as possible.

“I forgot to give these to you,” Cale says, handing me two sheets of paper filled with rough sketches for our project we’re
supposed to be working on together. “I thought you could use them for some ideas.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking the drawings from him.

I can feel James’s eyes burning a hole in the side of my face, making me wish Cale had chosen a different moment for catch-up.

Cale leers at James for a second and then finally takes off.

“See you,” I call, feeling like a frayed rope in tug-of-war.

Cale waves without turning back.

“Loser,” James says, once he is out of earshot.

I hit him on the leg in a playful way, hoping this awkwardness between us has dissipated. “Loser? What makes Cale a loser?”

James leans backward on his hands, crossing his legs at his ankles. “I don’t know. How about the fact that he dresses like a loser and rides his bike like a loser and takes art like a loser?” He grabs Cale’s sketches out of my hands and waves them in the air.

I snatch the papers back and shove them in my bag, unable to come up with a better response to James’s reaction. “Why do you suddenly care about him so much, James? I thought you didn’t even know who he was.”

He ignores me and starts talking to the sky like I’m not even there—back to where we started. “Dude probably doesn’t even have a car. Probably lost his license from a DUI.”

And then it hits me and I laugh out loud. “What? Are you jealous?” I punch him in the arm, knocking him backward into Brecke, a big weight suddenly lifted from my shoulders. James isn’t ignoring me because he’s sick of me; he’s just jealous! I don’t think any boy has ever been jealous because of me.

The thought makes me blush.

Brecke pushes James off her. “Hey, watch it,” she says. Tanner protectively pulls her closer to him.

James hops to his feet, his face a stone. What I think is just him being funny and playful turns out to be much more, much worse. When I look up into his face, I can see that he is not
amused. Not laughing. Not joking at all. “You done?” he asks me, pointing to the discarded wrappers from my lunch.

“Relax, James. Cale and I are just friends, okay?”