Midnight Sun Read online

  “Don’t worry, I’m not holding my breath,” I tell my dad. And then, because I want to knock that fake smile off his face, I say, “I’m sure Dr. Fleming also reminded you that any sun exposure at all will be the death of me and that kids with my kind of XP rarely live past twenty, am I right?”

  Dad’s face falls. “Of course not,” he protests. “And if she did, I certainly wouldn’t listen. Maybe you have a disease that affects one in a million, Katie, but you really are one in a million. None of those statistics apply to you. We’re going to beat this thing. Together.”

  “Right,” I say. But nothing ever changes when it comes to XP. There’s not even a ray of hope. No new treatments. Just “stay out of the sun until the disease somehow finally gets you.” I’m a prisoner of my genetic code, which sucks totally and completely.

  “Katie, promise me you won’t ever give up hope,” he says, his voice cracking with emotion.

  I look up and see Dad struggling to keep his composure. I wish we could actually talk about how little time I statistically have left and everything I want to accomplish during it. Come up with a game plan for quality of life, knowing that quantity is something we don’t have much control over. But he just doesn’t seem capable of it. I wonder, not for the first time, how my mom would’ve handled all of this. Since she died a few months before I was diagnosed, I’ll never know, which means I’ll always wonder. Would she have been better at facing the facts?

  I don’t like to think about it either. My expiration date, that is. Or what dying might be like. But I do sometimes. Of course I do. Usually late at night, when it’s darker than dark and I’m the only one awake—in my house, on my block, in the city—I wonder if death is somehow similar and just as lonely. Like, just you, in the dark, awake and aware. I sincerely hope not, because that would be unnecessarily cruel. Like living my same life all over again, only for all of eternity.

  So I force a smile on my face instead, and say, “You know I’d never do that, Dad. We’re fighters. I’m not going anywhere.”

  He tries to smile back at me, but the color is still drained from his face, so I add, “Come on. You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

  “Good, because I don’t think I could survive that,” he says as he stands to leave. And there’s that honesty I said I wanted. It breaks my heart along with my dad’s.

  I’m catching up on the latest posts in one of the rare-disease forums when Morgan sends me a text. Got the notebook, but I had to run to work. I left it at the ticket counter. I sigh. It’s so Morgan not to have enough time to do both. I have an unproven theory that she has massive ADHD, what with all the twirling around she does in the desk chair in my room—that girl never sits still—and her absolute inability to be on time for anything. She claims I’m totally off base and that she’s just a super-energetic person who tries to cram too many activities into too few hours. We’ve agreed to disagree on this one.

  Still, I’m relieved I haven’t lost basically an entire lifetime’s worth of songwriting, and for all my grumbling inside my head, it’s actually not a bad thing that I have to go get the notebook myself. I need to go for a walk and clear my head. Fresh air can cure almost anything, even being the cause of your dad’s deep sorrow and royally screwing up meeting the guy of your dreams.

  I pull on an oversize Seattle SuperSonics sweatshirt (the now-defunct basketball team my dad was obsessed with back in the day), a pair of ratty old jeans, and my black Converse. Downstairs, I find my dad simultaneously working on his laptop—probably inputting grades on the latest project he assigned his students—yelling at the Mariners game on TV, and eating a sandwich so stacked with meat that it’s at least three inches high.

  “I’m going to run to the station to pick up my notebook. I left it there last night. Fred has it.”

  Dad barely glances up at me, he’s so engrossed in his sandwich. “Text me when you get there, be careful, and come right home. Love you,” he says through a mouthful of ham and cheese. Sure, a quick back-and-forth trip is something he can handle, but any outing that holds the possibility that I might actually have some normal fun makes him a total basket case.

  “Love you more,” I tell him. And even though I get frustrated with him, I mean it.

  He swallows in a big gulp, and before going in for another bite, he replies, “Not possible.”

  As I step out onto the porch and close the door behind me, I briefly let myself wonder where Charlie is right now, what he’s doing, and with whom, before I silently start berating myself all over again for the dead-cat-funeral debacle. It doesn’t matter what Charlie’s up to, because we certainly won’t be hanging out anytime soon.

  I walk up the stairs to the train platform and head for the ticket counter. Fred’s not in his usual spot. So I peek around the corner, thinking he might have left my notebook on the bench that’s in front of where I normally set up.

  I am right about that last part at least: My notebook is on the bench. Sitting in Charlie Reed’s hands. He’s flipping through it like it’s a trashy gossip magazine that’s already old news.

  I don’t know what’s worse: Me babbling like an idiot when I finally meet the guy, or him manhandling what amounts to my most private thoughts. I am more humiliated than ever. I just have to figure out how to get the notebook back without him knowing I’m here, and I’ll be on my way.

  I dart behind a wall and call Morgan at work.

  “Help!” I whisper the minute she picks up.

  “Hellooooooo, Purdue Creamery,” she trills. “How is your second date with Charlie going?”

  “Wait, what?” I say, my mouth falling open. “How did you know he was here?”

  “I gave him your notebook for safekeeping,” she says, like that’s a perfectly okay thing to do.

  “I’m going to kill you, Morgan! How could you do this to me? I’m in a size XL SuperSonics sweatshirt! I didn’t even brush my hair!”

  Morgan just laughs. “Katie, I don’t know how to tell you this but… you’re super freaking hot. I can’t even see you right now and I know you look gorgeous.”

  “That’s not the actual case,” I hiss. “And if you could see me, you’d agree.”

  “Katie, hold on a sec,” she says, and then I hear her practically yell, “Excuse me! Can’t you see I’m on the phone?”

  I truly hope she’s not talking to someone trying to order a cone; Morgan needs the extra cash from working at the ice cream shop for college. Getting herself fired would really be a problem. There aren’t many other places to work in town, and it’s small enough here that everyone would know she didn’t leave her last job of her own accord.

  “Please tell me that wasn’t a customer,” I say when she’s back on the line.

  “Oh, it was,” she says. “A customer, and then that annoying geek I work with, Garver. He asks me like eight jillion questions a night. What do you like to do for fun, Morgan? What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream, Morgan? How many siblings do you have, Morgan? What’s your favorite TV show, Morgan? I swear, he’s like a toddler with all his yapping.”

  “That’s called being interested in your life.” Leave it to her to hate any guy who shows an honest interest in her. Morgan tends to like bad boys who only ever talk about themselves. “That’s called conversation.”

  “It’s called one hundred percent annoying,” she corrects me. “And now, as for Charlie, just be yourself, Katie. He’s a nice guy. And he likes you, I can tell. Just promise me you’ll try not to ramble, okay?”

  By now I’ve come to terms with the fact that talking to him is pretty much my only option if I ever want to see my notebook again. I sigh. “Only if you try to be nice to this Garver guy. I feel sorry for him.”

  “Gross, no,” she snorts. “Call me after.”

  She hangs up before I can say anything else.

  Left with no other choice, I take a deep breath and start walking over to Charlie. I’m almost in front of him when he looks up and sees me. I’m rewarded w
ith the biggest, most welcoming smile I’ve ever seen. He’s got these perfect lips—not too pillowy, not too thin—that look like they’ve never been chapped a day in their life. His teeth are perfectly straight and white. His eyes are so warm and friendly that they make me feel like I’m drowning in an ocean of kindness. I’m so dazzled, I even forget for a second that I’m mad he invaded my personal space.

  “You are real,” he says. “I thought I might’ve dreamed you or something.”

  “Were you in the REM stage of sleep?” I say. He looks unsure of how to respond to my lame joke, so I plow ahead. “Just kidding. I mean, I know you weren’t because I talked to you and you were awake. But that’s when dreams happen, because your brain activity is high, and your eyes are actually moving the whole time behind your eyelids, which is so weird, it looks like a typewriter or something…”

  I stop short, realizing I’ve done it yet again. Charlie is grinning at me. Not in a mean way. Just, like, nice. Amused.

  “Anyway, thanks for babysitting my notebook,” I tell him, trying to grab it.

  But he’s gripping it too tightly. It stays in his possession. “I still don’t know your name.”

  “It’s Katie.” I guess that’s the secret password, because he hands my notebook over. I scan the pages to make sure nothing’s changed. It looks okay, but I just have to ask. “Hey, you didn’t actually read it, did you?”

  “Maybe a little…”

  Now I’m mortified and mad all over again. Maybe the girls at Purdue High let him get away with anything just because he’s cute, but that’s not how I roll. “Are you kidding me?”

  “What?” His eyes are wide, like he’s actually surprised I might not want him knowing what’s in my journal.

  “You can’t just read people’s stuff,” I tell him, holding up the book as evidence. “This is like my diary, you know. Is that your move? You do that grin thing, and just because you’re handsome, you think you can get away with invading people’s privacy?”

  Charlie grins that charming grin again. “You think I’m handsome?”

  Shame burns up my cheeks and my ears. I’m blushing so hard I’m practically sweating. I’m hoping the fact that it’s nighttime makes this less obvious.

  Charlie holds up his hands. “Hey, the invasion of privacy was minimal and necessary. You left so fast, and I just wanted to see who it belonged to.”

  I stay silent. I’m not letting him off that easy.

  “I like that you handwrite things,” he adds softly. “It’s old-school. It’s cool.”

  And just like that, I’m, like, totally in love with him again. I can’t help it. My major crush is no match for my minor anger. A little smile curves up my lips. “Well, thanks. For not invading it too much, I guess.”

  I consider that maybe Morgan and Dear Gabby were right. Maybe I do need to give Charlie—and other people my own age—a chance to surprise me. After all, tonight went relatively smoothly. I turn to leave, proud of myself for handling the situation so well without all the talk about dead cat funerals this time.

  “Did another cat die?” he calls after me as I go.

  I laugh and turn back around. “No, I’m just heading home.”

  “Can I walk with you?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” I’m giddy with happiness on the inside but don’t want to act anywhere near as enthusiastic as I’m feeling. Something tells me Charlie Reed has never had to work very hard to get a girl, and I need him to know I’m different. Not because of the XP, I mean, but just because I’m me. “Fine, okay.”

  We walk slowly down the middle of the road. There aren’t any cars around to worry about, so we’re just meandering and making small talk. Everything’s quiet, and our footsteps echo off the sleepy houses we pass. It’s nice. Comfortable.

  “So you were homeschooled?” Charlie repeats after I tell him. “That’s wild.”

  I think about all those nights my dad drilled me on the periodic table, or the constellations, or Latin conjugations. Charlie’s assessment of homeschooling is so off base it’s laughable. “It was kind of the exact opposite of wild,” I tell him. Then I add, “My dad’s really protective,” even though I figure by now that this has got to be pretty clear.

  Charlie looks left, right, up to the sky, then back at me. “He’s not, like, watching us right now, is he?”

  “Oh, totally. He’s got a drone on us for sure.”

  He laughs. And then I laugh, mostly because I’m amazed I made him laugh. Who knew my life could go from the deepest depths of the dumps to this kind of amazing high all in a span of twenty-four hours?

  “So I kind of need to know… what did you think?” I ask.

  “Of your dad following us with a drone? It’s kind of over-the-top, don’t you think?”

  I crack up again. “I meant, what did you think of the songs. That you read. Without my permission.”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know, really. You can’t read a song. I’d have to hear them.”

  I stop walking. We’re nearly to my house, and ten bucks says my dad is standing in the living room alternately staring at his Find My iPhone app and out the front window, waiting for me to walk back through the door. The last thing I want to have to do is explain who Charlie is and why I’m out here with him.

  “Is this your house?” he asks, pointing at the one right in front of us.

  I gesture beyond where he thinks it is, a block farther up the hill. “No, it’s that one. But my dad is a pretty light sleeper, and I’d rather not wake him up.”

  Charlie stares at where I live. “I can’t believe we’ve never met before. I’ve probably skated by your house like every day on the way to practice.”

  “Practice?” I ask, even though, of course, I know what he’s referring to. How could I not know? He always had that Purdue Penguins backpack, his kickboard, and all sorts of miscellaneous swim gear tucked under one arm as he rode by. Not to mention the fact that his name was in the local paper every week when he would break records at the latest meets during the season.

  “Yeah, I used to be a competitive swimmer.” And just like that, the adorable spark in his eyes is extinguished.

  “Used to be?”

  Another shrug. “Story for another day.”

  I switch gears, hoping he goes back to being Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky again. “It’s weird, right? That you know my house.”

  “Sure.” Charlie still looks sad. The spell between us is broken. Maybe next time—if there is a next time—we’ll get it back. As for now, I figure I should just disappear again.

  “Well, I gotta go. Thanks for walking me home,” I tell him.

  I get only two steps up the hill when Charlie says maybe the ten greatest words in the English language.

  “Hey, Katie. Would you maybe want to do something sometime?”

  I whirl back around. “Together, you mean?”

  Charlie laughs, back to his regular relaxed self. “No, I meant in general, by yourself, in life. Of course I meant us, together.”

  I worry about how I’ll explain my extenuating circumstances to Charlie, and if my dad would even agree to let me go out with him, and whether I could keep my rambling to a minimum even if he did. But then I realize, this is Charlie Reed. Dream Boy. I have to try. For Morgan and Dear Gabby, but especially for me.

  “I… I’m pretty busy during the day. I’m really free only at night,” I tell him, skipping over all the complicated parts.

  “I can be free at night,” he says with an adorable little shrug.

  “Put your number here, then,” I say, walking back over to him and flipping through my notebook to find a spot for him that’s not full of doodles and lyrics and chords. And then I see it. He’s already printed his name neatly on the first available blank page. His digits are right next to it.

  I stop short. “Ooooooooh. Oh, that was smooth.”

  Charlie gives me another heart-melting grin. “Another one of my moves. I’m old-school.”

  And then we just stand
there smiling at each other. After a while, it gets kind of awkward that neither one of us is making a move to leave. So I say good-bye for real this time and run up the hill to my house.

  I have a date! With Charlie Reed! I turn back around to wave good night to him and discover he’s still standing there, watching me and smiling. Instead of feeling embarrassed this time, I feel all warm and toasty. Like a fire has been lit inside me.

  Me. Charlie Reed asked me out.

  This is all new—liking an actual real-live Charlie and not just the figment of him outside my window, and him quite possibly liking me back. It’s kind of scary. In a good way.

  I think I like it.

  7

  Morgan bursts into my room the next afternoon right when I’m getting up. “TELL. ME. EVERYTHING.”

  I’ve, of course, already texted her what happened, but she wants to hear it from my mouth. She sprawls across my bed as I try to get all the words and Charlie’s expressions just right. I describe the way the moon danced between us as we walked home, how he asked me on a date, and how his name and number were already in my notebook, so it must have been premeditated, not just like a whim or, worse, a mistake. She’s grinning at me and I’m grinning at her and I feel stupid but stupidly happy, too.

  “That’s so romantic it disgusts me,” she says when I finish.

  I sigh and throw a hand over my heart. It’s beating faster than normal even a day later. “I know. It was perfect.”

  Morgan sits up and grabs my hands. “So he was cool about your XP, huh? I had a feeling about him. I knew he wouldn’t be a jerk about it. That’s the only reason I let him give you back your notebook, I swear. I never would’ve let him put his grubby paws on it otherwise.”