Chasing Midnight (5 page)

“Okay, okay.” I snatch the pen from her and tear off a piece of paper.

You’d think I have a whole basketful of wishes overflowing in my head just waiting to be put on paper, the dreamer that I am. But it takes me a while to start up. Probably because I’m still stuck on the idea that this idea is for first-graders and I feel stupid.

But once I get number one down, the next comes a little easier—until I realize how freeing it feels to put everything out there for the taking, like digging through a treasure chest in search of the perfect prize. Except here there is no limit. Tonight bigger is better, and impossible isn’t even a word.

I guess you can say that when it comes down to it I’m pretty good at making my fake life perfect. Who knew?

“There,” I say when I’m finished, convinced my list can’t get any more dreamy.

Aly grabs it and starts reading out loud.

I snatch it back from her, checking our surroundings for stray family member ears. “Will you keep it down?” The last thing I need is for someone to actually hear my innermost desires and then use it against me later, which often happens in this family.

You can never be too careful.

Aly starts all over again, her voice soft and low—much more incognito.

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

2. Nike Flyknits.

Aly laughs. Probably because she’s always telling me how obsessed I am with Nike (no, I do not have a Nike page on Pinterest), and how I should be way more into makeup and fashion. So what? I have a bit of an athletic shoe problem. Big deal.

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.

Other than that, though, I think it’s a pretty good list, one I’m convinced if granted would make for a perfect life.

I’m about to grab my list back from Aly to add a number eight, when Indy’s screams tear through the air, making both of us jerk upright. Our eyes lock on each other in terror, and after a second that lasts for eternity we leave my wishes on the kitchen counter and run to him.

four

“M
om, it’s going to be okay,” I say, hugging her as
she slides into the backseat of the minivan next to my bleeding brother. “You and Dad take care of Indy. Nobody will know you’re missing. Well, I mean they will because you’re a pro and I’m not, but you know what I mean . . . ”

“But you’ve never served before. You don’t even hold your fork correctly,” she adds, refusing to close the car door despite Dad revving the engine and Indy howling beside her. “This is a
huge
event, Mackenzie. There’s a certain protocol to follow and all sorts of rules and things to avoid—”

“Mom, I got it.”

“No. I don’t know . . . I don’t know . . . ” She throws her face into her hands. “I can’t lose this job. We
need
this job . . .”

“You’re not going to lose anything, hon. They’ll understand,” Dad says calmly. “Mackenzie will cover for you until you get back. It’ll be fine. I promise.” He says everything with such repose despite his wife unraveling before his eyes and his boy bleeding in the backseat. I’m amazed at how Dad keeps it together. Always.

“You don’t know these people. They’re not so forgiving,” Mom says, her voice hinting at desperation despite Dad’s reassurance. “What am I going to do? Maybe you should go to the ER without me . . . maybe—”

“Mom!” Indy wails even louder, pulling on her arm. Blood soaks through the white towel wrapped around his forearm while his eyes continue to drown in tears.

What happened is this—Indy tried to jump from the top of the bookshelf all the way to the couch, but got hung up somewhere along the way. By the time I rushed over to him, Ezra was staring wide-eyed at Indy’s bloody arm and Mom was crying. I caught a glimpse of his arm for only a second—a piece of bone poking through Indy’s skin. That one second was enough to make my stomach lurch.

After that, Spencer and Aly distracted Ezra with a promise for ice cream at Fentons, his favorite restaurant. I stood there still in a daze, unable to move, until Dad ordered me to get some ice. Stat. My mind finally woke up as I ran to the freezer and started shoving ice cubes into a plastic bag. The whole time I kept hearing myself tell Mom that I’d cover her shift at the Pumpkin Ball.

She was supposed to be there in ten minutes.

While Dad carried Indy to the car, Mom quickly changed out of her catering outfit and handed the pile of clothes to me, repeating twice that the black, baggy “slacks” with pleats along the front and white button-up shirt clamped at the neck with a clip-on bowtie were not optional.

Great. I’ve never been more self-conscious in my life.

Especially after Spencer and Aly drop me off at the top of Sea View Drive. That’s the moment I’m struck with the realization that there’s no turning back. That this is the real deal.

Flip.

Still in shock at my predicament, I stand out there like a loser in pleats, gaping at the stone monstrosity in front of me. It has to be the biggest house in all of Piedmont. We’re talking a cool fifteen million, at least. I count two turrets and seven chimneys, which doesn’t take into account the back side of the house, either. I’m guessing the stone-paved driveway alone cost more than our entire house.

Mom told me to take the second driveway, as opposed to
the first, because all chaos would break loose if the help showed up at the front door. Lit pumpkins and gourds in all shades of orange and white line the driveway as I make my way under a castle-like tower to the back entrance of the house, ducking under arches draped with twinkling lights and flowering vines. Even dressed up in my ridiculous getup, I still feel like I’ve stepped into the pages of a fairy tale, ready to meet Prince Charming.

I meet Mom’s boss once I’m inside, in the kitchen. She’s all business and makes my ears go numb with her endless list of instructions. Pretty soon I get the hang of this catering biz, though, and after carrying trays of exotic food to stations around all parts of the house, I finally take a moment to catch my breath, thinking, hey—I can do this (after I get some food first, because thanks to Indy’s daredevil feat, I never ate dinner).

As I step from the kitchen into the grand marble hallway, I look for a stray tray to snag some food off of without anybody noticing. That’s when I see a girl my age with long, sleek black hair, her body squeezed into a red dress and who looks like she belongs on a billboard.

Of course she does, because that’s Brecke Phillips.

She hurries around in four-inch black heels, not stumbling once, of course, attacking every inch of the room with last-minute details as her guests start trickling in through the front door. This is her party, after all; the world starts and stops with her. She knows perfection like I know rejection.

What can I say—we’re both experts in the field.

The rest of the wait staff look identical in black pants and white shirts, with hair pulled away from our faces. I feel even more stupid after finding out I’m the only teenager here in employment and that the average age is somewhere close to forty. Other than me, the only teenagers I see are decked out in taffeta and satin and silk, their hair and makeup impeccable, every one of them fluttering around the room like fairies. Even
worse, I recognize at least a third of the faces here, all from my school. And just as I expected, only those who live near the top of the hill were invited. It makes me wonder what street Brecke considers the official demarcation line.

Just being here makes me think I’ve already screwed this gig up, mostly based on the strange looks I keep getting from everyone from school. Then again, I
am
one of them—a fellow student who lives at the bottom of the hill, serving oysters and caviar instead of eating them. I’d probably give myself strange looks too.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” a voice says to the side of me.

I turn to find a petite lady mirroring my outfit, her grayish-blonde hair cropped short and spiked, wrinkles lining her tanned forehead. She surveys the room along with me, probably searching out her next round of spoiled teenagers to offer drinks to, her glass tray clipping my arm.

“Have you heard anything yet?”

I shake my head. “No. They said they’ll text me as soon as something new develops. He has to get surgery, though.”

“Well, tell your mom we miss her. She’s the best. Always keeps everything running smoothly, especially at a function like this.”

“Okay. Sure,” I say, feeling proud of my mom for being such a rock star. Then again, it shouldn’t surprise me.

We stand there in silence beside each other, our backs to the wall barely touching, surveying the party as more and more of my school classmates begin to fill in the room and fill up their glasses. The hum of voices grows louder and louder, infiltrating the house like an invisible gas until you’d never know it was ever once quiet in here.

Only a few feet away from me, a girl with strawberry-blonde hair in a green dress tilts her head backward, the rush of pink bubbly liquid trickling through her lips. In the real world her name is Jessica and she’s in my gym class. She has a terrible mile time and her laugh is obnoxious. But you’d never guess
any of that right now. It’s all deception and distraction for the rest of the night.

Lucky for me.

I turn to the lady next to me. “Are we supposed to . . . um . . . card everyone . . . or something?” I ask her, wondering if every kid here has a fake ID. It isn’t exactly my area of expertise, even though I suppose that kind of knowledge could come in handy some day.

She laughs out loud, like I’d just cracked a joke, her voice jarring and brassy. “That’d really throw them for a loop, wouldn’t it?” she says. But then maybe she sees the confusion on my face because she stops laughing and pats me on the shoulder in slow motion, like she pities me. “Rich people, Mackenzie. In case you haven’t figured it out yet—they do what they want.”

Before I can ask her to clarify a little bit, she takes off down a side hallway, retrieving empty dishes as she goes along while yelling at a poor waiter whose overfilled tray nearly came crashing down at her feet.

Bum! brrum! Brrruuuuum!
Something loud and brassy starts up over by the piano. I jerk my head at the sound while retrieving a half-empty glass with waxy lipstick on the rim. Before Jessica or anyone else I know spots me, I beeline it back toward the kitchen.

“Hello.”

Woops. A tall, muscular boy with wavy brown hair has stepped in front of me. His neck seems to be suffocating under a thickly knotted blue-and-black striped tie that coordinates nicely with a navy suit. I have to tilt my head upward to find his eyes. I don’t recognize him, but he seems nice.

He lowers his gaze to my neck and then crawls back up to my eyes again. “Nice bow tie.”

“Thank you,” I say, blood rushing to my face, trying to refrain from saying something snarky back. “Can I get you anything?” I hate myself for asking that. It feels so wrong.

“Nope.” He tips his drink to me. And laughs.
At
me. “But I’ll come find you again when you can.” He winks.

Ugh. I spin around and head toward the kitchen, popping an hors d’oeuvre in my mouth when no one’s looking. If I’m going to break one of the house rules it might as well involve food.
Whoa.
Hold everything. I have to stop walking because of the crunchy, buttery flavor concoction that’s suddenly exploding on my tongue—a flux of citrus and basil and I don’t know what else—all bursting at once, making me weak in the knees. This is
not
regular food. This is . . . actually, I have zero idea what it is, but it’s definitively the best thing I’ve ever had. Do rich people make their food out of gold? Sheesh.

“Whoo hoo hooo!
Lookie here.”

I quit chewing and hold my breath at that voice, forgetting in an instant about the deliciousness in my mouth.

I
know
that voice.

James Odera.

Before I even find his face I can already tell I’m sweating as a rippling wave of heat attacks me. I gulp down the remains of my hors d’oeuvre and am still licking my fingers when he steps out of a crowd, rocking a tuxedo like he’s freaking James Bond. Of course he is. James Odera gets applause just for walking down the hallway. He’s a celebrity. I’m not sure if it’s his dimpled chin or that smooth, dark complexion, but whatever it is, it works for 99 percent of the female population at our school.

“Looks like we’ve got one of our own serving drinks. How do you like that, Slade?” James glances to the right of him.

Did somebody turn up the heat?

Tanner Slade steps forward, a perfect smile drawn across a perfect chiseled face. His hair never looked so princely—that chestnut pompadour standing two inches above his hairline, not a hair out of place. My legs start melting into my feet as James offers me a champagne glass bubbling with amber liquid, my head going dizzy at his gesture. But when I reach for it, he draws the glass backward into his chest, just short of my fingers
touching the glass. The way he and Tanner stand there, James staring down at me with a half-drawn smile, makes me wonder whether he’s being friendly, or . . .
or not.