Midnight Sun Read online

Page 2


  Me: Well, you see, I kind of had—

  Morgan (covering my mouth with her hand before I can say anything else): You ditched so many classes you barely graduated. Who are you to talk?

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

  Morgan (before I can even try to defend myself): That’s right. Say anything more and she makes you undead forever.

  *We go play beer pong and I officially meet Charlie Reed and we fall madly in love and my dad never finds out I went to a party instead of going to Morgan’s to watch Netflix like I said I was.*

  I sigh and throw the covers off my bed. My eyes land on my new guitar, and I decide to head to the train station to try it out. By myself. Just me, myself, and I. If I can get my dad to agree to my plan, that is.

  I hope he realizes how much I need my independence right now. Years of hanging with my father in places kids usually hit with friends—the movies, the mall, the bowling alley, the fro-yo joint—doesn’t do much to dispel the impression that having XP somehow makes me a superweird person. I know Dad does everything in his power to give me a normal life and I appreciate it, but his efforts don’t change the fact that the way I have to live is not now and will never be normal. Like when he watches a different movie in the same theater complex so I won’t be the loser girl who went out with her dad on a Saturday night? Not normal either. Because who goes to the movies alone on a Saturday night? Right. No one but a superweird loser—and me. Which people generally would assume are one and the same.

  Tonight I just want to be Katie the normal girl who doesn’t have a rare disease and whose father doesn’t follow her around nervously all the time.

  I toss my hair into a messy bun, grab the case, and head downstairs. I look for my dad in the den. He’s not there. I try the kitchen next; maybe he’s having a snack. Nope. There’s only one place left. I go to the basement and see the telltale glow coming from underneath the darkroom door. I knock.

  “Come on in!” Dad calls from inside.

  When I open the door, I’m hit by how bittersweet the vibe is in here. The walls are plastered with magazine covers he shot in exotic locales. There’s an impoverished village in India. An arctic glacier rising out of a churning gray sea. A tranquil savannah in Africa punctuated by a lone giraffe. Glimpses of a life that once was and isn’t anymore. It makes me proud of all the things my dad used to do and be, and sad he doesn’t go anywhere anymore because of my “condition.” Proud that my dad is so talented, and sad he’s wasting it on this nothing town.

  He’s got a bunch of newer shots hanging from a clothesline. In addition to a few landscapes, there are a ton of me. Candid pictures, ones he badgered me into posing for, and now the latest from earlier today: me playing Mom’s guitar. Most of the other ones embarrass me, but I kind of like how I look there.

  “That’s a good one,” I say.

  He points at me hovering above the gorgeous guitar. “That part is kinda weird, though.”

  I playfully punch him in the arm. He laughs and dodges away. I’m grateful for his relaxed mood; it’ll be easier to convince him to let me go out alone tonight. It’s not that I mind that he always finds an excuse to tag along. But how will I ever get honest feedback about my songs with my daddy standing right there next to me?

  “Any schmuck can take a good photo of such a beautiful subject,” he says.

  I roll my eyes and walk over to one of my favorite photos of his, a group of Pakistani girls in school uniforms outside a worn-down building. “Now this is a beautiful subject,” I say, turning to face him. “How can you not miss it?”

  “All that travel?” My dad scoffs. “It was miserable.”

  He moves elegantly through the room. He makes taking and developing great photos look easy. But I know better. He didn’t become one of the most highly sought-after photojournalists in the world by being a hack. He notices my expression, the one that says, Come on, now. You can’t expect me to believe that.

  “I’m serious,” he insists, nodding at the photo I’m standing in front of. “That trip, somebody stole my bags and I ended up wearing the same clothes for a week. I had to sleep on my guide’s floor, no mattress, no blanket. It was so cold I just lay there all night waiting for the sun to rise.”

  He’s full of it. Of course he misses that life. Who wouldn’t? I’d give anything to be able to go anywhere in the world anytime I wanted to and see everything I’ll probably never get to see.

  “I’d much rather sleep in my own bed and teach younger knuckleheads how to go out and get dirty,” he concludes.

  “You’re a terrible liar,” I tell him.

  He gives me a look, like he’s about to divulge something more than the always happy, always positive front he always puts on for me, but then he seems to think better of it. Nothing to be gained from opening that particular can of worms, I guess, but for once I’d love to have an open, honest conversation about how XP has changed just about everything in our lives. I’m the reason he can’t follow his dreams anymore, and we both know it.

  “So what’s up?” he asks instead.

  I take a deep breath and then let forth a fast stream of words. I figure that way he has less of a chance to get a word in edgewise, which translates to less of a chance of his saying no. “I was wondering if I could go play my new graduation present at the train station tonight?”

  It comes out like this: I​w​a​s​w​o​n​d​e​r​i​n​g​i​f​I​c​o​u​l​d​g​o​p​l​a​y​m​yn​e​w​g​r​a​d​u​a​t​i​o​n​p​r​e​s​e​n​t​a​t​t​h​e​t​r​a​i​n​s​t​a​t​i​o​n​t​o​n​i​g​h​t?

  I add a huge smile at the end, meant to convey: I am a competent, confident high school graduate now (with twenty-four college credits!). I am fully capable of walking half a mile down the road and playing my guitar for any late-night commuters who happen to be around. Which will probably be no one, but still. I already checked, and Fred, the station manager, will be there, and you guys have known each other since you were a kid so I will be safe, I promise. PLEASE DON’T SUGGEST COMING WITH ME.

  My dad’s face falls like a ruined soufflé, and he taps his watch. I honestly don’t know what kind of horrible outcome he’s imagining might befall me if I venture outside without him—probably we’ve watched way too many horror movies over the years and his mind is in overdrive—but our sleepy little town has, like, a zero percent crime rate. I’ll be fine. I know he doesn’t want to agree, but he can’t quite come up with a good reason to deny my request yet. So he’s stalling. “It’s already ten o’clock. Why can’t Morgan come over? Or you could just play for me here.”

  While playing for my biggest fan is nice—whatever I’ve performed is always THE BEST THING HE’S EVER HEARD or THAT ONE IS GOING STRAIGHT TO NUMBER ONE—I feel like I not only have to play for more than one person to get better, but I also have to play for people who are the teensiest bit less biased toward thinking I’m the next Taylor Swift only much, much better.

  TBH, I just want to escape this house for a while, and my dad, too. The cabin fever I have to fight on the daily is in full force at the moment.

  “She’s busy with her family,” I tell him, using my sweetest voice possible. XP has taught me a lot of patience. I know better than to try to shove what I want down my dad’s throat. That kind of tactic never works with him; logical, well-crafted arguments do. “And I love playing for you, but I need to expand my audience. My fan page has exactly three likes right now—you, Dr. Fleming, and Morgan. I’ve got to do a better job of putting myself out there. And I graduated today; isn’t it the American tradition to extend my curfew?”

  He’s silent. Still unconvinced. At best, he’s probably about to grab his keys and say he’ll drive me there and Oh, while I’m here, let me just hear one song, which will then turn into my entire set.

  I need to turn this thing around. “Fred will be there, and he’ll look out for me. Plus, I
have this amazing new guitar case designed to be left open to catch quarters and dollar bills, which I know you wouldn’t have given me if you yourself didn’t want me to go play…”

  My dad frowns. I know he wants to protect me. Make that overprotect me. But I hate being treated like a fragile creature who just might drop dead every time she leaves the house.

  “I will extend your curfew for one hour. Which means midnight—”

  “THANK YOU!” I squeal before he can change his mind. “Thank you, thank you, you’re the best dad in the world, thank you—”

  Now come the qualifiers, but I’m used to this sort of thing. I nod my head gravely as he sets the rules for my solo pass out into the world even though I’m not really listening. I don’t need to. He says the same thing every time.

  “Text me every hour, or I won’t just call Fred; I’ll actually come down there, and it’ll be so embarrassing it will become an urban legend about why kids should stick to their curfew.”

  I grab my guitar and head for the door before he can inject a tracking device into my arm.

  “Every hour, Katie,” he reminds me before I can escape.

  I give him a big grin over my shoulder as I’m leaving. “Love you!”

  I step outside. Cool night air fills my lungs. It has been two days (well, nights) since I’ve ventured past the front porch. I exhale and stare up at the stars. They wink back at me, like they think something magical is about to happen.

  My dad stands in the doorway watching me. “Love you more.”

  “Not possible!” I tell him, and head off.

  4

  Fred is where I always find him, sitting in his little office at the train station ticket window. He’s one of dad’s oldest buddies, both in the amount of time they’ve known each other and also in chronological age. They were neighbors back in the day, when Fred was Dad’s sometime babysitter. He has great stories about what a little pain in the ass my dad was as a kid.

  I wave to Fred to get his attention. “Hey-o, Fred.”

  He looks up, his mop of silver hair gleaming in the moonlight. “The graduate! I was wondering if you were gonna show up tonight.”

  I gesture around at the empty platform. “And disappoint all my fans?”

  Fred laughs appreciatively even though this has been our running joke for the past few years. Then he spies my awesome old-new instrument, which is most definitely different than the one I normally have with me. His expressive face registers so much delight and surprise that he basically morphs into a real-live heart-eyed emoji.

  “Is that a new guitar?”

  I pat it proudly and nod. “It was my mom’s,” I tell him, and his eyes soften. Then I turn to find my spot. After a last wish upon the brightest star out tonight that something truly exciting will happen for once, I open my guitar case.

  I launch into one of my newest compositions—a song called “Waiting for the Sun”—as two tired and dazed-looking people step off the train. The melody is slow and deep, and pretty much matches their pace. The first guy seems drunk, and he almost falls on top of me before stumbling around the spot where I’m playing. The other is a lady in a severe red pantsuit who is definitely not drunk. She walks past me without even making eye contact.

  And then no one for a good half an hour. I keep playing and singing like I’m headlining at Carnegie Hall. Finally, another train rumbles into the station. A girl I suspect may be one of Zoe’s many minions gets off, eyes me curiously, and then drops a half-eaten bag of Skittles into the case.

  “Thanks a lot,” I call after her as she walks away.

  She looks back over her shoulder and gives me a little shrug and a lot more attitude. Whatever. I’m no quitter. I launch into another original.

  A thirtysomething hipster-looking guy with a lumberjack beard appears at the top of the stairs and donates a few coins to my case. It’s not even enough to feed the parking meter, so good thing I walked here. Dad doesn’t think I’m “ready” for my license yet. I wonder if he’s afraid I’d just drive off into the sunset if I had a way to. Who knows, maybe I would pull a Rapunzel. But I don’t really have anywhere to go, so I don’t bother fighting him on that one.

  Just when I think it’s going to be a totally typical slow night, an angel-faced little boy tugs on his mom’s hand, making the two of them stop short right in front of me. It’s clear the kid should be home in bed, but he seems entranced by my song. He’s completely digging it and will not move until I finish. Then he claps his little hands off.

  “What’s your name?” I ask as the applause fades into silence. Too bad he’s too young to be on Facebook, or I’m pretty sure I’d have my fourth official like on my fan page.

  “Tommy,” he says. “I’m taking the night train.”

  “That’s very cool,” I tell him.

  He makes his hands into chubby little fists and sticks them on his hips. “Are you taking a train?”

  I shake my head and smile. “Nope. I’m just playing here.”

  “Why are you playing so late?” he asks. And I have to admit, it’s a valid question. There’d be way more people to ignore me and give me half-eaten bags of Skittles during morning rush hour. Smart kid, this one. I decide to give it to him straight.

  “Because I can’t go out in the sun.”

  He squints at me, assessing things. He quickly comes to the same conclusion all the other kids did when I was his age. “So you’re a vampire?”

  I laugh. It would probably be easier being a vampire because my life expectancy would be centuries longer and I wouldn’t feel such pressure to do something huge and earth-shattering just to prove I was here for the limited time I have. “I wish. That’d be much cooler. But it’s more like a really bad allergy.”

  He nods. “I’m allergic to strawberries. My nose gets runny and I get hives.”

  “That sucks,” I tell him, glancing up at his mom. I hope she’s not mad about my mildly bad language. But she’s staring at her phone, fingers flying all over the keyboard. I’m in the clear; I don’t think she even heard me.

  “What happens to you if you’re in the sun?” Tommy asks.

  I scrunch up my face and shrug. I certainly don’t want to scare the kid by telling him I’d be complete toast if I went out in it for too long. Or give him a lecture on the ugly realities of skin cancer. I finally go with a vague “Worse than hives.”

  Tommy nods again. He seems pretty impressed. Well, he hasn’t seen anything yet.

  “Did you know I have a song about you and your allergies?”

  His mouth falls open as I start improvising a fast and silly ditty, making up the words as I go along.

  “Iiiiiiiiiiiif Tommy eats strawberries, his nose gets runny, Tommy is my allergy buddy! If I go in the sun, it’ll mean my end; thank God I have Tommy as my allergy friend!”

  Tommy giggles.

  “If you think that was good, just wait until you hear the chorus,” I tell him, and I launch into it.

  “Doo-da-doo-da-doo-ACHOO! Doo-da-doo-da-doo-ACHOO! Tommy’s my allergy buddy.”

  He’s grinning from ear to ear as his mom ushers him away. He turns and waves good-bye, the big smile still there. There’s no way anyone will be more into me tonight than that little dude. So now is probably a good time to try out one of my newer songs. That way I can see where it needs tweaking without anyone noticing if (when) I mess it up.

  I open my trusty notebook—full of the lyrics and chords to songs I’ve written, and basically my other best friend, next to Morgan—and flip to the page where I’ve scribbled my latest. I take a deep breath and go for it. After a false start, I go again and everything’s working. My voice weaves through the music and I get totally lost in the moment. For the time being, it doesn’t matter that I’m singing only to myself, that I have this rotten disease, and that I’m not at a wild and crazy graduation party like I should be right now.

  When I look up from the frets of my guitar, it’s like the apocalypse has happened, because life will nev
er be the same. Charlie Freaking Reed is standing right in front of me. Watching me like he’s actually interested. Listening to a song that’s pretty much about him, if I’m being honest.

  I go into total spaz mode and screech, “Oh my God!”

  “Hi,” he says, laughing at my overreaction.

  That’s it: hi. Yeah, maybe not the most original line. But it doesn’t make a bit of difference; I’m still completely flustered and in awe that it’s really him here in person after I’ve watched him from afar for so long. My pulse starts racing so fast that I’m convinced I’m going to pass out. I jump up and try to shove my guitar back in the case. The bag of Skittles plops to the ground.

  The plan is to run away as fast as I can. I have absolutely zero experience talking to the hottest guy on the planet. Make that any guy older than Tommy, my number one superfan, no matter his level of attractiveness. I’ll talk to Charlie Reed some other time, when my brain isn’t a scrambled, panicked mess.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to freak you out,” Charlie says, handing the candy back to me. Our fingers touch. A wave of tingling energy runs up my arm.

  The fight-or-flight adrenaline coursing through my veins retreats enough for my brain to register that I need to chill out. “What?! Um. That’s—no. Me freak? Never. I’m not a freak. I mean I never freak.”

  I’m not sure what language I’m trying to speak but it’s definitely not English. This is not the way I envisioned us meeting. What a complete, epic failure. My instinct is to walk away because that makes sense. Finally get the chance to hang out with the amazing boy you’ve been drooling over for the past ten years? Refuse to speak to him. Smooth move!

  To my horror, Charlie is still talking to me. “Hey, where are you going?”

  “Home,” I tell him. “I gotta get home.”

  It’s not a lie. My dad is probably all over Find My iPhone, tracking the little dot that is me. In fact, he has probably been tracking me the entire time I’ve been at the train station. I wouldn’t put it past him to ask Fred to broadcast my whole set on Facebook Live so he can watch me sing and monitor me all at the same time.