Midnight Sun

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Full Fathom Five, LLC, and Midnight Sun, LLC

  Cover art copyright © 2018 by Open Road Films, LLC, and Full Fathom Five

  Cover copyright © 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

  1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104

  Visit us at LBYR.com

  First Edition: February 2018

  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017933410

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-47357-6 (paperback), 978-0-316-47356-9 (ebook)

  E3-20180104-JV-PC

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  About XP

  About the Author

  1

  I have this recurring dream: I’m a little girl, sitting with my mom, and she’s singing to me. We’re at the beach on an old blanket I still have tucked away in my closet. I hear the waves crashing as my mom’s voice rises and falls. I feel the warmth of the sun on my skin and the comfort of her arms around me.

  I want to stay in this moment forever.

  When I wake up, I miss the dream. I miss the sun. I miss my mom.

  I want so badly for this dream to be real, but that would be impossible because my mom died when I was six years old.

  And I can’t go out into the sun… like, at all. I have a rare genetic condition called xeroderma pigmentosum, aka XP, which basically means a severe sensitivity to sunlight. If sunlight so much as glances off my skin, I’ll get skin cancer, and my body can’t repair the damage so my brain starts to fail—which could mean hearing loss, difficulty walking and swallowing, movement problems, loss of intellectual function and capacity for speech, seizures, and, oh yeah, death.

  Pretty fun, right?

  So I spend my days indoors, hanging out with my dad (truly the best dad ever) and Morgan (truly the best friend ever).

  Morgan and I used to pretend that I was like Rapunzel from Tangled, hidden away in my darkened tower (bedroom). We watched that movie about a hundred times when it came out. Rapunzel finally went stir-crazy and broke out of there with some dude. Now that I’m older, I completely and totally relate, girl.

  I guess if there’s one other thing I have in common with Rapunzel, it’s that I’m going to have to keep the faith and keep on fighting until I get my happily ever after. Mine might not be destined to last as long as other people’s—but that doesn’t mean it will be any less awesome.

  2

  There I go, rambling again. It’s a habit that gets me in trouble sometimes. You’ll see. For now, let me back up and start from the beginning.

  Hi! I’m Katie Price, and I guess from the outside looking in—if you could actually see in my windows, which you can’t, thanks to the solar shades that block every bit of UV light from getting in my house—you might think I’m some pathetic sick girl who’s always staring out the window watching life go by. But I’m actually just like everyone else, with the major exception of the “can’t go out in the sun” thing.

  I play guitar and write lyrics and poetry and think I sound awesome when I sing in the shower. I love astronomy and hope to be an astrophysicist someday. I hate brussels sprouts, love Chinese food, think pugs are the most adorable dogs on the planet, and get freaked out by spiders. My best friend—let’s face it, my only IRL friend other than my dad (okay, that right there just made me sound truly sad, right?)—Morgan, kicks butt and would for sure kick your butt if you don’t agree.

  And, oh yeah, I just so happen to have an enormous crush on a guy named Charlie Reed. Ever since I got banished to this house during daylight hours by my XP diagnosis in first grade, I’ve watched him pass by my window on his way to school. Over time, watching Charlie go by became a part of my routine. Along with constant doctor appointments, sleeping during the day and staying up all night—which from what I hear is the dream schedule of most kids my age—and playing music. During the week, he’s the last person I see every morning before I go to sleep and the first person I see every afternoon when I wake up. While I’m getting my “night’s” sleep, he goes off to school and swim practice. He’s living his normal, perfect life. He’s basically grown up right in front of my eyes and gotten cuter with every year. He’s a senior now, tall and lanky with gorgeous floppy hair and eyes that could melt an iceberg faster than global warming. The only thing standing in the way of our great love affair is… he has no idea I even exist.

  When he dragged our trash can out of the street after a windy night—after literally everyone else just walked by it—he didn’t know I was watching. When he stopped to help Mrs. Graham from across the street with her groceries. I’ve seen the thoughtful little things he does, even when he thinks no one is around to notice.

  It’s not like I can just walk out my door one morning and casually bump into him on the street because then I’d fry to death. (Don’t worry—it wouldn’t happen that fast. But, trust me, it wouldn’t be pretty.) I would be lying if I said I didn’t fantasize about one day making a grand gesture, though. Like, I don’t know, bang on the window when I see him. Wave him into the house (when my dad’s not looking, I guess). Invite him upstairs. (Where my dad won’t follow us? Ha! Let me dream.) Run my fingers through that gorgeous hair. Kiss him.

  Fine. Not going to happen. I know.

  I’ll just watch him like I always have (in a totally noncreepy way!)—at least until that unfortunately placed tree blocks my view—and wish him well on the stars when they come out tonight. Wish that he’s happy to be graduating high school today and that he’s headed for a life full of excitement and adventure. That he gets everything he ever dreamed of. He deserves it. We all do. My biggest wish (to have a normal life—trying not to be bitter here) will never come true, but I sure hope Charlie’s does.

  I open my laptop to watch the live stream of what would have been my graduation, too. That is, if I hadn’t been homeschooled since first grade. It’s a little anticlimactic for me, seeing as I’ve already accumulated enough online credits to be a college sophomore at this po
int. What can I say? I like learning. Plus, I’ve got a lot more time on my hands than most kids.

  Still, it’s graduation. A defining moment in most people’s lives. Not sure it symbolizes anything more than the same old same old in my case, though. Come the fall, I’ll still be sitting here in my room, taking classes online, endlessly avoiding the sun instead of heading off to some fabulous university. Sigh. Somehow I’m feeling nostalgic nonetheless.

  Names are called, and kids stream onstage to shake the principal’s hand. They leave clutching a newly minted diploma. Morgan heads for the camera instead of the stairs after getting hers, then strikes a pose and mouths, Yeah, bitches! She’s quickly redirected back into line, but not before I laugh so hard I snort. I wasn’t sure she’d actually go through with it—but when have I ever known Morgan to back down from one of my dares?

  I impatiently wait for them to get to the Rs. Wow, there are a lot of Ps in this class (minus this one, of course). And a Q? What are the odds? (Ooh, poor girl. I assume Quackenbush was not a high-school-friendly last name.) They’re finally calling Charlie’s name. I can’t wait to see how dignified and handsome he looks in his graduation gown, how melty fabulous those eyes are under his cap. Just as Charlie steps into the frame, my dad bursts into my room.

  “Katie Price!” he booms.

  He’s standing there with a goofy grin on his face and a rolled-up piece of paper in his hand. At this point, most girls would probably yell something like “UGH! Would you PLEASE get out of here.” But I know he’s only trying to make me happy and feel included, so I close my laptop and laugh instead. He has, of course, put in the extra effort; why not let him feel good about it? It’s not his fault I’m sitting on my bed right now instead of walking across that stage with the rest of my class.

  Wait, I take that back. It kind of is his fault. Make that half his fault and half my mom’s. Both needed to contribute a mutated recessive gene to give me XP. Whatever. He didn’t mean to, obviously.

  “What are you wearing?”

  “The faculty and staff always wear a cap and gown, and so do the students,” he replies, holding out the hat part of the getup.

  I take it from him and put it on. He hands me the hand-printed diploma that states I am now an official homeschooled high school graduate. There’s a little footnote that acknowledges I already have twenty-four college credits to my name. I smile up at my dad and shake his hand. Mostly, and especially at times like this, I like how well he knows me. He understands how much value I place on my academic accomplishments, since learning is one of the few things in life the sun can’t screw up for me. Dad understands I’d rather stand out for my brains than for inheriting a disease that affects only one in a million.

  “So, as valedictorian, I assume you have a speech prepared?” he asks.

  I adjust my cap and think about what I can say to commemorate this really-not-all-that-special day. “Well, I would definitely like to offer a great thanks to my headmaster,” I begin.

  “Ah, well, you’re welcome,” my dad says, his eyes twinkling.

  “And my Spanish teacher—”

  “De nada.” He tips an imaginary hat.

  “And my English teacher—”

  My dad gives a little bow here. “It was my pleasure!”

  “And state again for the record that my gym teacher had no idea what he was doing.”

  Dad throws a hand over his heart. “Oh, that’s a low blow,” he exclaims. “I was going to give you this card, but now…”

  He dangles it close to me, then snatches it back when I try to grab it. I shrug like I don’t care. He admits defeat and drops it gently in my lap, then plops himself down on the edge of my bed.

  I reach into the oversize envelope and pull out a card. It is cartoony and corny, and features a smiling star wearing a graduation cap. Emblazoned across the front in cheeseball Comic Sans font it says: ConGRADuation, Superstar!

  I roll my eyes. “This is the dorkiest card I’ve ever seen.”

  “I know,” he says with a grave nod. “I went to three stores to find a card that lame. All right, are you ready for your present?”

  “Present?” I wasn’t expecting a gift. “What present?”

  My dad jumps up and hustles out into the hallway. He comes back a few seconds later carrying a weathered guitar case with a single red bow on it.

  I already know that inside is the most gorgeous instrument I’ve ever seen, with a cool tortoise-colored sunburst body and inlaid mother-of-pearl frets. I pick it up gently and run my hand along its smooth surface until a tiny set of grooves stops me. I look down at the spot where my fingers have come to rest and see the initials TJP. My mom’s initials.

  I look up at my dad, and before I can say thank you, he says, “You’ve outgrown that kids’ guitar,” gesturing to the one in the corner of my room. “But I know this one is old, so if you want a newer one—”

  I shake my head to cut him off before he can even finish the crazy thought. Having Mom’s guitar is like having a small part of her with me always. The thought fills a tiny bit of the gaping hole in my heart she left behind, the one that will never fully heal. “I love it. So much.”

  I stand up to hug him. He hugs me back, holding on tightly. We’re probably both about to burst into tears. I let go to try to regroup. Awkward silence ensues.

  “All right, well… try to get some sleep,” he finally says, giving me a kiss on the head. “I’m proud of you, Peanut.”

  No need to feel sorry for me about my life of sleeping during the day. It’s probably the most normal thing about me. I know this for a fact because there are tons of people—including kids my age—online all night, every night, and it’s definitely not because they’re forced to live an upside-down life like mine.

  I’ve found a couple of online communities for people with rare diseases, and even though I’ll never meet any of these people in real life and we all have different symptoms and are at different stages in our diseases, it’s nice to know they’re out there.

  The Internet is full of info about XP. I learned about a small village in Brazil where one in forty people have XP, which is insane for a condition that usually affects only one in a million. And in the Navajo population, it affects one in thirty thousand. What’s that about?

  And I’ve followed chains of people off of Morgan’s social media—some of them people I used to know. It’s shockingly easy to spend an hour going down the rabbit hole of a stranger’s life. I stalk their Facebook statuses and Snapchats and Instagrams and blogs, watching how easily they navigate the world with undisguised FOMO. I consider trying to make friends with the ones I seem to have the most in common with; I type comments and the perfect replies to their captions. But I never actually end up posting anything or DMing anyone to try to forge a new relationship. Because how disappointing and awkward would it be if the person I reached out to reacted to my XP the same way the kids I used to go to school with back at Purdue Elementary did?

  Zoe Carmichael had been the absolute worst. It’s not like we’d ever been friends, but we weren’t enemies. When I got diagnosed after a school trip to the beach that ended with me in the emergency room because my skin burned so badly, she started a rumor that I was a vampire, and that was that. Everyone was terrified of me, they started calling me Vampire Girl, and no one but Morgan would even talk to me anymore. Charlie had just moved to town and joined our class that year. We’d never talked (because back then I was all, Eww, boys), but I remember that when some of his friends were making fun of me he told them to stop and smiled at me apologetically. That was my last day at school. After that, my dad homeschooled me. And we started getting ice cream and going to the movies in other nearby towns just so I wouldn’t have to endure kids like Zoe (or actual Zoe) staring and pointing at me whenever we ventured out at night.

  And that’s pretty much why I figure it’s better to stick to who and what I know than take a chance trying to branch out friendship-wise in the real world. I refuse to give
any more bullies an invitation into my life.

  3

  I wake up from my “night’s” sleep to a ruckus outside my window: car horns blaring, kids whooping, general celebrating. This part I know I could participate in—if only Morgan actually liked anyone in our graduating class. Which she doesn’t. And if Morgan isn’t going to whatever parties might be happening right now, that means I’m not going either.

  HOW I IMAGINE A SCHOOL PARTY WITHOUT MORGAN WOULD GO

  Zoe Carmichael (who Morgan says is still a total mean girl): Who are you?

  Me: I… um…

  Zoe’s Minion: Are you even in our class?

  Me: Well, you see, I kind of had to study from home… extenuating circumstances… but I would have graduated from Purdue High today otherwise…

  Zoe (studying me carefully): Oh wait, no, I remember. You’re Vampire Girl, right?

  Zoe’s Minion (screaming her head off): Aaaaah.

  *The whole party goes silent. Everyone clutches their necks to keep from being bitten by me. I slink home and drown my sorrows in takeout Chinese food with my dad.*

  And… scene.

  So there’s no way I can go without Morgan. And she’s stubborn as anything about not “fraternizing with the snotty girls and fratty boys in the popular crowd at PHS, especially that flaming crotch rot Zoe Carmichael.” Even though it’s not like I think we’d have the best time ever if we were celebrating with our class tonight, we could probably avoid Zoe and her crew, and hang with the nice people instead. There have to be at least a few, right?

  There’s a song by an Australian singer-songwriter named Courtney Barnett that I feel like sums up my entire existence as it pertains to parties: “I wanna go out but I wanna stay home.”

  HOW I IMAGINE A SCHOOL PARTY WITH MORGAN WOULD GO

  Zoe: Who are you?

  Me: I… um…

  Morgan: She’s my best friend, and she’s hotter than you’ll ever be.

  Zoe’s Minion: Are you even in our class?