Midnight Sun Read online

  I start biting a fingernail. I’m trying to be casual and avoid telling her the truth, but Morgan knows me way too well.

  “No. Katie, come on now,” she groans. “You didn’t tell him? You, like, think he’s not gonna find out when you start melting in front of him like the Wicked Witch of the West? Boys are dumb but not that dumb.”

  I wince. “It didn’t come up.”

  “What do you mean, it didn’t come up?” Morgan yells.

  I clap a hand over her mouth. Dad definitely does not need to know I (a) like a boy who (b) asked me to hang out with him after (c) I neglected to tell him about my craptastic medical condition. She sticks her tongue out and starts licking my hand until I drop it from her face.

  “I mean,” I say in a whisper, hoping she’ll get the hint to tone it down in here, “he didn’t ask me if I had a genetic disorder where sunlight will kill me and I did not say yes.”

  Morgan starts to say something else, but I jump back in before she can start giving me a hard time again.

  “Listen to me. When people find out you’re sick, you stop being a person and become, like, a cause. And it ruins everything.”

  For once in her life, Morgan can’t think of a snappy comeback. She just nudges me with her foot. I understand she means, Dude, I know. It sucks. I give her a little smile because I know she knows, at least as best she can. She sees how much I struggle with not being able to do the things I want to do. But we also both know there’s not a damn thing either of us can do about it.

  “I promise I’ll tell him. The next time I see him, okay? Not that I know when that will be…”

  “Oh, I do,” Morgan tells me, jumping up off my bed. “You know the annoying guy who works with me at the ice cream shop?”

  “The nerdy one you hate? Who is also clearly in love with you?”

  “Eww, will you stop saying that?” she protests. “And, yes, Garver. His parents are out of town and he’s throwing a party tonight and he told me to bring friends. So I’m gonna bring you, and you’re gonna bring Charlie.”

  Tonight? I’m so not prepared for this. I need some time to find just the right outfit, maybe get a haircut, and, I don’t know, buy some makeup and figure out how to apply it since I don’t usually go anywhere that would require a fancy face and have zero clue where to start.

  “What? No, no, no. I can’t—that’s not—don’t I have to wait for him to call me or something?”

  “Totally.” Morgan nods. “And then his squire will send a note via pigeon asking if you’d like to merge your kingdoms. What is this, eighteenth-century England? You’re a hot, young, badass woman in charge of her own life, and you text him whenever you damn well please!”

  She tosses me my phone. “Just be confident. Give him the facts.”

  I stare at the phone. My mind is as blank as the screen. There’s no way I’m doing this.

  “If you don’t text him, I will,” Morgan warns.

  I know she’ll make good on the threat, so I start typing. I go with the first thing I can think of, no editing or second-guessing myself. Hey, my friend is having a party tonight if you want to come. I hit send before I can chicken out.

  “But play a little hard to get,” Morgan says the minute my message shoots into the stratosphere.

  Fine. I type some more. I don’t care if you come or not. Send. There. All better.

  “And make sure he knows he’s not the only reason you’re going,” she continues.

  I have lots of friends, I quickly add. Geez, why does this have to be so complicated?

  Morgan grabs my phone and reads my masterpiece. She groans.

  “What?”

  “Remember the dead cat?”

  I nod.

  “This is the same,” she tells me.

  “No, it’s not!” I screech.

  “He’s going to think that not only do you not like him, but you actually hate him,” Morgan tells me.

  “Fix it, then!”

  Before she can start cleaning up my mess, my phone buzzes. Morgan glances at it and then back up at me. She’s grinning.

  “Never mind. Well played, my friend. Well played.”

  “What?” I’m more confused than ever. “I seriously don’t understand how any of this works.”

  She holds up my phone so I can read the screen. There’s Charlie’s reply. I’m in.

  I can’t stop smiling. I don’t know how it worked or why, but it did. “Now we have to convince my dad to actually let me go,” I whisper, aiming a thumb at my closed door.

  “Leave it to me,” Morgan says, and runs out of my room to talk to him.

  I catch up with her just in time to hear him saying, “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Morgan. I don’t know the parents, we don’t know what kind of party it is, Katie doesn’t even know these kids.”

  He’s rushing around the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher, putting away dishes, straightening up the cutlery drawer, anything but making actual eye contact.

  “I know Garver!” Morgan protests. “I work with him. He’s a complete goober. This is gonna be a tame, safe, parent-friendly party.”

  My dad stops the busywork for a second, a smile lighting up his formerly worried face. “That sounds so boring! How about I order Chinese and put on Netflix—”

  “Dad!” I bark. It comes out harsher than I intended it to. My father’s face crumples. I can’t stand how his entire existence seems to hinge on protecting me from the most benign things on the planet. I’m eighteen, not a toddler who might go barreling into a glass coffee table or tumble down the stairs if she’s left to her own devices too long. The sun won’t get me. I can go to a nerdy party without disaster striking. I need him to understand this.

  “I’m a good kid. You know I’m not gonna do anything crazy,” I continue, more gently this time. “But if I stay here for one more night listening to everyone else living their life outside my window, I might go crazy.”

  My voice cracks and I have to pinch myself so I don’t start crying. I normally work very hard at not feeling sorry for myself and being grateful for what I have, but now that I’ve gotten the teensiest, tiniest taste of “normal,” it’s like there’s no turning back. I need more than just the four walls of my bedroom and my guitar to be happy. I need an actual life.

  “Please, please, let me feel normal.” I’m not above begging to get what I want, which is to spend more time with Charlie Reed. “I’ll text you every hour. And tomorrow we can order too much lo mein and have a movie marathon.”

  My dad sighs and opens his mouth. I’m sure there’s some other lame but well-meaning excuse on the tip of his tongue about why I shouldn’t go. I preempt it by throwing my arms around him and giving him a huge bear hug.

  “Thank you! Thank you! You’re the best dad in the world!”

  “If you’re saying that, then I’m definitely making the wrong decision,” he mutters.

  Still, he doesn’t say no. So I grab Morgan’s hand and we run up to my room before he can change his mind. My phone buzzes along the way.

  “Okay, Charlie says he’ll meet us at Garver’s at eight,” I tell Morgan.

  She gasps. “We gotta get ready!”

  I check my watch. “We have three hours.”

  “Oh my GOD, we’re already behind!”

  This is a weird turn of events, since Morgan is about the lowest-maintenance person in the world. Normally, she wears jeans and a casual T-shirt, then slaps a knit beanie on her head and voilà! She’s out the door.

  “Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?”

  “Dude. You are meeting up with the guy you’ve lusted after for a decade—”

  I raise my eyebrows. “I hardly think I was lusting after him when I was eight years old; that’s not even a thought eight-year-olds have—”

  “Semantics,” she says with a wave of her hand. “You are hooking up with a guy you’ve loved for more than ten years—”

  “Who said anything about hooking up? I litera
lly have zero experience in that department. And it’s not like I’m going to go from absolutely nothing to positively everything just because my dad is finally letting me go to a party!”

  “I wasn’t implying you have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Morgan says. “Though I do think it would be a total waste for a gorgeous girl like you to have to die a virgin—”

  “OH MY GOD, MORGAN!” I whisper-scream. “I am not losing my virginity to a guy I’ve talked to exactly twice in my life. And thanks for the vote of confidence, but I’m not planning on dying anytime soon either.”

  An awkward moment passes. We have these a lot because even though we basically tell each other everything, we leave a lot unsaid.

  “Look, all I’m saying is tonight is a big deal,” she tells me. “This is, like, what you’ve always dreamed of. You just said it to your dad—you get to be normal for once. But I happen to think you’ve waited too long to settle for just normal. Tonight is going to be fan-fucking-tastic, and so are you.”

  “It is? I am?”

  She nods. “Yup. No doubt.”

  Morgan walks over to my closet and starts rifling through it. She doesn’t have a lot to work with. Honestly, most days I sit around in leggings and a sweatshirt, because why not be comfy if you’re not going anywhere?

  “Is this the sum total of your clothing?” she calls from inside, her voice echoing against the walls.

  “Yeah, unless you count the two dresses I ordered when I thought my dad was going to let me go to that concert with you in Seattle, but then he said no because we’d have to leave before the sun went down,” I tell her. “I keep forgetting to ask him to send them back. Probably wishful thinking that he was going to change his mind.”

  Morgan pops her head back out of the closet. “Where are they?” she demands. “And why did you need two? Planning a wardrobe change so the paparazzi wouldn’t catch you wearing the same thing for more than an hour at your Seattle debut?”

  I laugh. “I was going to pick the one that looked best and return the other one. But then I didn’t have to pick either, and I forgot to return both.”

  I grab the box from under my bed and hand it to her. She first pulls out a super body-con black romper with a strappy back. I don’t know how I ever thought my dad would let me out of the house wearing it, so good thing it became a moot point. Next, she holds up a sweet ivory lace dress. It’s still short and sexy, but in a much more ladylike and classy way.

  Morgan tosses me the sweet outfit. “If you’re so desperate to hold on to your virginity, I’d go with this one.”

  Truth: It’s a great choice for what I have planned, which is making Charlie Reed fall madly in love with me. I head into the bathroom. Stripping off my usual leggings-and-T-shirt combo, I shimmy into the dress and zip it up.

  I check myself out in the mirror, hoping I’ve somehow turned into a ravishing supermodel. Nope. I look pretty much the same as always, only with a beautiful outfit on. Awkward.

  I step out to show Morgan, wincing. “I feel so stupid. Like I’m a little kid who raided my mommy’s closet.”

  Morgan cocks her head and gives me a long stare. “It’s absolutely perfect.”

  “How can you say that?” I protest. “It’s just plain old me with fancy wrapping on.”

  “Psshhhhh. Finding the right outfit is just the first part of getting ready,” she says. “We still have to do your hair and makeup. By the time I’m finished, you won’t even recognize yourself.”

  It’s funny, because like I said, Morgan is the consummate tomboy tough girl in the way she dresses and acts, but who knew she had such a handle on contouring and winged eyeliner and BB cream and lip kits and whatever? (I do a lot of late-night online shopping. Can’t imagine I’m the only one…) She applies it all to my face like she’s a professional makeup artist.

  One minute, I look like some weird zoo animal with different colored stripes on my cheeks and forehead; the next, everything’s blended and I look insanely natural but also so much more polished than when I roll out of bed in the morning.

  I stare some more at the expert makeup job. It’s truly impressive. “I don’t get how you did that.”

  Morgan bounds down the stairs first, with me following close on her heels this time. My father is standing in the foyer staring up at us. His mouth falls open. I hope that means You look pretty, not March back up to your room and scrub that makeup off, young lady.

  “May I present Katherine Price of Washington,” Morgan announces like we’re making our society debut at some fancy ball.

  My dad still says nothing.

  “Does this look silly?” I ask. “’Cause I can go change.”

  My dad clears his throat. “You look amazing, Peanut,” he finally says, a little catch in his voice. “You’re a beauty. Just like your mom.”

  I smile. It’s the exact right thing to say to me. The exact thing I needed to hear in this moment. He watches us as we run out of the house. I turn back around and give him a huge smile. I’m gonna be fine.

  I truly know it. From the look on his face, I think even my dad believes it this time. I grab Morgan’s hand and hustle us out of sight before he can change his mind.

  8

  Garver’s house isn’t far from mine. Even walking slowly, plotting out with Morgan how I should play things with Charlie tonight, we get there in ten minutes. The old Victorian has a wraparound front porch complete with a swing that looks perfect for soaking up sunny days while watching the world go by. I’d love to enjoy that kind of simple pleasure. It makes me kind of mad to think that people who can often don’t.

  Garver appears at the door without us even having to knock. He’s of average height and weight, and has longish dark curly hair, a cute little-boy face, and zero zits. There’s no major geekiness to him that I can detect, other than maybe his WHY AM I HERE T-shirt. He’s certainly not anywhere near as dorky as Morgan always claims.

  Garver’s eyes light up when he sees her. “You came!” he yelps.

  “Don’t sound so excited,” she says. “Or I might change my mind.”

  I press my foot down on top of her toes. Be nice. She wriggles her shoe out from under mine without acknowledging my silent message.

  “Any chance you or your hot friend knows how to get beer out of a keg?”

  Morgan pushes past Garver, dragging me behind her. She stops short in the kitchen. Two of Garver’s friends—one with a bowl cut and wearing a bow tie, the other with Mr. Spock eyebrows and mustard-colored flood pants—are trying to pry the thing open with a dinner knife.

  Morgan stares at Garver incredulously. “You didn’t get a tap?”

  He shrugs, palms up. “I didn’t know they were separate things! Why would they sell me a barrel of beer I couldn’t access?”

  Morgan spins around the kitchen, then peeks into the living room. Her face falls and she mouths Sorry at me. She’s horrified, and she’s not even trying to hide it.

  “Garver, what the hell?! This really is a tame, safe, parent-friendly party!”

  Garver points over to the kitchen table. On it are a few gallons of ice cream, a can of whipped cream, some sprinkles, and a squirt bottle of Magic Shell. “Do tame parties have sundae bars?”

  Morgan smacks him. I watch his friends—who from the looks of them probably are going to be actual rocket scientists someday—have zero luck liberating the beer from the barrel. Like, they’ll probably figure out how to populate Mars, but they cannot get beer out of a keg. The thought makes me laugh out loud.

  “This is so cool!” I whoop.

  “Don’t listen to her,” Morgan tells Garver as she grabs my arm and starts dragging me away. “She’s never been to a party before, so she doesn’t realize how dire this situation is. We’re outta here.”

  Garver runs ahead of us and cuts Morgan off before she can get out the front door. “You’re leaving?! But I made a huge thing of chili.”

  Morgan rolls her eyes at him. “Chili is not a party food!”
r />   There’s a knock at the door. Relief is written all over Garver’s face. “You see? Party’s just kicking off.” He checks out who it is through the peephole. “Wait. Whoa. What is Charlie Reed doing here?”

  Before I can say I invited him, Garver throws the door open. He welcomes Charlie, pats him on the back like an old pal, and ushers him inside.

  Charlie looks right past him and our eyes meet. Whoosh. We’re totally locked into each other. Nothing else seems to matter. Everyone else ceases to exist.

  “Wow,” he whispers. “Hi.”

  Something about the look on his face makes me think Morgan deserves a huge tip for my makeover. She’s nudging me with an elbow and grinning at us grinning at each other. I know what she means. It’s hard to miss how much we’re vibing.

  “Hi,” I say back.

  Staring at Charlie is like staring right into the sun—and we all know how dangerous that would be for me—so I have to pry myself away. I glance into the kitchen where Mr. Spock Eyebrows has decided it’s a great idea to bring a rolling pin down on the keg. Of course, it bounces off the barrel—that thing must be made of, like, titanium—and hits him right in the face. And still there is no beer. Bruises probably, but no beer.

  I’m momentarily grateful this isn’t some huge rager where I’d also have to contend with talking to people who actually know how to tap a keg and don’t serve sundaes and chili as party food. Safe, tame, and parent friendly is about all I can handle at this particular moment.

  Next, the guys get a mallet, some sort of spike, and a roll of duct tape. They line up the random items on the counter like surgical instruments. I sigh. It’s going to be a while.

  “Maybe we should go sit on the porch while these guys figure that thing out?” I suggest.

  Charlie follows me outside and sits down next to me on the swinging bench, and we float gently back and forth. I’m staring up at the sky. He’s staring at me.

  “You look amazing,” he says.