The Midnights

by Sarah Nicole Smetana

  “You know,” Ms. Grobler said abruptly, “I was your age, a senior in high school, in 1969. Do you know what kind of things happened in 1969?”

  A swarm of facts dashed into my consciousness, like a newsreel my father had spun into my mind: In 1969, Led Zeppelin released their first album. The Beatles filmed their rooftop show. Creedence Clearwater Revival put out both Bayou Country and Green River. Neil Young and Crazy Horse released Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere. The Who, Tommy. Muddy Waters, After the Rain. And, of course, there was Woodstock. Ms. Grobler must have noticed a spark of interest cross my face because she smiled and sat back, waiting. I thought about which answer to give.

  Then I remembered that even though the summer ended magically, the year did not.

  My father had told me stories. He knew every detail of Altamont, the Rolling Stones’ poorly planned attempt to re-create Woodstock on the West Coast. He knew of the terror in Mick Jagger’s voice as he threatened to stop playing, and the gun Meredith Hunter wielded before being fatally stabbed. He knew of the other deaths, too, the ones that had been overshadowed: two in a hit-and-run; one drowned in a drainage ditch. My father even held the same bitter grudge against the Stones as the dismayed fans who had been there. But he wasn’t there. He wasn’t even born yet.

  My stomach began to tumble with something other than hunger. I looked down at the grungy gray carpet, crossed and uncrossed my legs. I didn’t want to remember the violence, the ending, the memories that my father had always claimed as his own. I only wanted the good.

  “Woodstock,” I said finally.

  “Exactly!” Ms. Grobler roared. She slammed her palm on the desk. The pencils in her pencil holder jumped. “Just picture it, Susannah: Woodstock Nation! The first man on the moon! The largest antiwar protest in our country’s history! I’ve seen some pretty amazing things in my day”—here, she put a hand beside her mouth and feigned a whisper—“but it wasn’t all pot-smoking hippies and daisy-chain crowns then, and it sure isn’t now. Over the years, I’ve had kids dealing with situations that no one should ever have to deal with. But you know what else? I’ve helped them through it. Those kids got out of here, went on to better things. Some of them went to Ivy Leagues, to Stanford. UCLA.”

  My heart skipped and I glanced up, struck by the possibility that my mother had known Ms. Grobler. Attempting small talk on the drive to school that morning, she’d told me that she, too, attended Santiago Hills, and though I was still too angry to grace her with a response at the time, I now wondered if she’d sat here in this same office, in the same sticky vinyl chair, and confessed her dreams, her fears.

  “Now, I’m not trying to say that you’re this type or that type,” Ms. Grobler said defensively. “I don’t judge books by their covers. But I’ve seen your academic record, and I’m concerned. You had a steady B-plus average into your junior year, consistent As in English, and then your grades plunged. Three Cs last semester.”

  I picked at my too-long fingernails.

  “I know you’ve been through a lot, but from here on out, you’re on my turf, and I’m going to keep track of you whether you like it or not. We’ll meet weekly for the first month, and see how it goes from there.”

  I shrugged in a way that suggested I would comply, even if I didn’t like it.

  “Now, I know from experience that students perform better when they’re learning something they’re interested in. There’s no way to get out of math class, so don’t bother asking, but I do see some potential wiggle-room in your schedule. So tell me, Susannah. What do you like? Do you play any sports, or have any hobbies? Were you involved in any clubs at your last school? What makes you happy?”

  Happy. The word hadn’t even stumbled into the periphery of my thoughts in weeks. I didn’t know how to be myself without my father, let alone be happy, and the fear that I wanted so badly to banish came rushing back to me. Every day, I lost a little bit more of him, and I was afraid that he would slip away until nothing remained but an old photo and a faint longing, a half smile as I struggled to remember some thing he once taught me on a midnight long ago. I had to find a way to hold on to him. I had to find a way to hold on to myself.

  “Music,” I said. “Music makes me happy.”

  “Perfect!” Ms. Grobler leaned back in her chair. “I have just the class for you.”

  I pictured the jazz band at my old school, an ensemble of twelve talented musicians who played at all the assemblies. I’d always marveled at their skill, and how easily they performed in public. Ms. Grobler was right: it was perfect. And I wouldn’t let anything hold me back this time—not shyness, not fear of inadequacy. I would be different now. Stronger. Focus only on the music. Surely the school would let me borrow a guitar until we retrieved the rest of our things from LA.

  “We’ll put you into sixth period choir,” Ms. Grobler said next, and just like that my shiny new future disintegrated into a mass of itchy gowns and too-tight buns.

  “I don’t really think that I’m the choir type,” I said, scratching at the invisible crushed velvet dress around my neck. “I was thinking of something more like jazz band. With real instruments and amps and stuff. I’d even do xylophone band. Do you have one of those here?”

  “I think you should give it a chance.”

  “I just don’t feel like that’s the place for—”

  “If,” she interrupted, “in a couple of weeks you really hate it, then we’ll reevaluate. Deal?”

  Sensing I had no choice in the matter, I shrugged. “Fine.”

  “Mr. Tipton is in charge of the program this year, and the students adore him. I really think you’ll be surprised. And—” Once again, she raised a hand aside her mouth. “Just between us gals, I’ve overheard many a student say he’s quite a looker. Nothing wrong with a little eye candy to pluck some life out of a boring class, right?”

  And then Ms. Grobler attempted to wink at me.

  The day passed quickly until lunchtime when, on my way to the cafeteria, I noticed that the quad was segregated into something reminiscent of the nine circles of hell. My fourth period advanced English class had just finished a discussion of Dante’s Inferno, and the gruesome illustrations of hell were still tattooed in my mind. Instead of classifying my new school’s social cliques by popularity or the often obvious after-school activity, I couldn’t help but identify groups by potential sin: the lustful, the gluttonous, the heretics. This made it much easier to spend my first lunch break at Santiago Hill High School alone.

  At least, I thought I was alone. I’d taken my greasy slice of pizza out to a secluded corner of campus and flipped back through Inferno, engrossed in the idea of the treacherous, the only sin that could not be identified in the quad. The treacherous were hidden, unknown to the innocent bystander, asking you to pick up paint samples and toilet bowl cleaner while they conspired to tear your whole world apart. And I was so consumed by this concept, and all the ways we can never know the people we think are closest to us, that I started to write a new song about it—or tried to, anyway, scribbling fiercely in my notebook before changing my mind and scratching everything out.

  I was so consumed that at first, I didn’t even notice the sound: two jangled guitars filtering out through a veil of nearby trees.

  Closing my notebook, I strained to hear. I could make out the dueling rhythm, built around a purposely disjointed upstroke, and a singer’s battered voice just detectable above the chords. I could not make out his words, but that didn’t matter. The music soared through me. I crept closer.

  In the center of the trees, I saw a group of boys sitting in a circle. The two closest to me faced the opposite direction, strumming acoustic guitars, while another lay back on the dry grass, one arm draped across his face to block out the bright columns of sunlight. For the most part, they were identifiable only at their legs: jeans with a set of worn leather boots, jeans with frayed canvas sneakers, and one pair of dirty, wiggling toes. I continued listening, but did not recognize the song they wer
e playing. They might not have even been playing any real song at all, and surely, something was out of tune, just barely sharp—though somehow that made the music more seductive.

  I was already imagining what the song would become with a full band behind it, the harmonies augmenting the singer’s rough voice, when something unexpected happened: a girl’s laugh punctured the music. I understood immediately that it was a private sound, its silky tone intended only for those in her company, but I didn’t care. I inched forward, trying to see around the trees without making any noise and upsetting the harmony of the music, or the privacy of the girl I could sort of, almost, barely see.

  Then the bell rang. It was alarming how fast they cleared out—the clumsy clanking of nylon strings, a flash of red and suede, and the group dispersed, scrambling through the trees like a pack of wild animals. Only the grass, flattened in whiskery brown patches, and a small plastic wrapper no bigger than a cigarette pack indicated that anyone had been there at all.

  All throughout fifth period and on my way to sixth, I couldn’t stop thinking about the musicians in the trees, the soft melody of the girl’s laugh. Who were they? How could I meet them? And, most important, what if they never came back?

  What if. Those two torturous words still haunted me, burrowing deep into the marrow of every chance I didn’t take, and I was sick of always wondering what would’ve happened had I just done something different, been different. I already felt a boulder of regret beneath my rib cage, its weight suffocating. Any more, I thought, would crush me.

  So as I entered the choir room that first day, I made a resolution: I would banish what if from my vocabulary. Not even an army of my past mistakes could stop me from approaching the musicians tomorrow at lunch.

  But tomorrow, as I imagined it, never came, because then one of them entered the choir room.

  The girl.

  “Class started fifteen minutes ago, Ms. Chandler,” Mr. Tipton announced lightly, trying to sound unfazed by the interruption. “I don’t suppose you heard the bell?”

  The whole class turned to look at her. Even now, I remember that instant so clearly: the first time I saw Lynn Chandler, I thought I was seeing a ghost.

  This was not because of her complexion, pale as it was, nor the fact that a brisk, relieving breeze seemed to float into the stuffy room with her. The whole effect might have been a coincidence, after all—the air-conditioning kicking in at precisely the right moment, or a gust of mountain-chilled wind whirling down from the hills where Vivian and my mother likely sat with coffees, plotting their next coup. Regardless of science or magic or whatever I felt that day, the reason for my first impression was simple; she looked remarkably like the young Michelle Phillips—a member of the Mamas and the Papas—immortalized on the cover of a seven-inch single my father owned for “California Dreamin’.”

  I stared as she strolled up the row beside me. She had that same slender face, the same icicle eyes. Her hair, despite its deep red color, was also long and straight-parted, pooling in the collar of her lovely (but unnecessary) suede coat. A furry cuff grazed my desk and I noticed her nails were blunt—purposely short. I wondered if she played an instrument.

  “Sorry, Mr. T,” she said, taking a seat near the back. “Female problems.”

  In the front of the room, the muscles in Mr. Tipton’s face tightened. “Better late than never, I suppose,” he said before retreating to the whiteboard.

  Though my classmates did not settle back into routine as easily as Mr. Tipton, covertly pulling cell phones into their laps and doodling in the margins of their textbooks, I tried to focus. The day’s lecture centered on pitch and its place on the treble clef, something my father’s less technical teachings had never even referenced. But my effort was pointless. Like an itch somewhere unreachable, my mind kept returning to her.

  I can’t quite explain the effect that she had over me, except to say that Lynn Chandler, the exact apparition of a figure on the cover of an album I once loved, lured my mind in a strange, forgotten direction. My father disapproved of singles as a concept, so it was a wonder that the “California Dreamin’” seven-inch ever made its way into our home. The problem, he claimed, was that you couldn’t fully understand a song without also experiencing its composite parts. You needed to know the album’s arrangement, its movement, the spaces of silence in between. What came before, and what followed after.

  But despite my father’s intentions, this only made the song more alluring. At ten years old, I was fascinated by the mysterious idea of ghostly cogs existing between what can be seen or heard or felt. And when I listened to the song, I detected a dark layer beneath the sugary harmonies, a sinister allure in the gospel-like croons. I became consumed by the obvious contradiction: I had lived my whole life in Los Angeles, and yet the song evoked a shadowed paradise I could not recognize, a place that didn’t even exist in my world. It was an invisible in-between that I could sense but could not see—just like my father’s California.

  A similar feeling emerged from Lynn Chandler. I felt a latent connection to her, like she’d been in that place, or in some abstract way understood. And I knew right then, only twenty minutes in, that Ms. Grobler had been right. There was no way I’d be asking to transfer out of choir class now.

  When the period finally ended, everyone hurried from the classroom. Mr. Tipton called Lynn up to the front while I lingered, shamelessly eavesdropping.

  “That’s seven tardies so far this semester,” Mr. Tipton was saying, “and two absences.”

  “But I’ve had good excuses for all of them,” she pleaded.

  “Excuses don’t make up for missed classes, Lynn. The last thing I want is for you to fail, but you’ve got to meet me halfway here, and actually start participating in this class.”

  “Is there some sort of extra credit I can do? Make-up assignments?”

  “The point is not to bog you down with busy work. I already know you understand the concepts. Your first exam proved that.”

  “So how can I make it up, then?”

  “You tell me,” Mr. Tipton said, sitting casually on the corner of his desk.

  He waited. The room grew silent. I saw my opening, and this time I didn’t let go.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Tipton?” I said. Hoisting my backpack onto my shoulder, I approached the front desk.

  “Ms. Hayes,” he said, surprised. “Our newest addition. How may I help you?”

  “I didn’t mean to overhear, but I have an idea that I think might benefit all of us.”

  “Is that right?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, let’s hear it.”

  “It’s just . . .” I paused. My heartbeat swished in my ears. “At my old school, whenever there was a new student, teachers would offer extra credit to volunteers who helped the new person get caught up. And so I was thinking that if Lynn—Lynn, right?” I asked, trying to play cool. She crossed her arms, but I could tell she was curious. “If Lynn already has a strong grasp of all the material, maybe she can earn some participation points by helping me get caught up?”

  They both stared at me.

  “I guess I’m feeling kind of overwhelmed with all my new classes,” I added, punctuating the idea with a sympathetic smile. “I need all the help I can get.”

  Mr. Tipton pursed his lips as he considered, and though I’d been staring at him for the past fifty minutes, I felt like I was seeing him for the first time. Initially, he’d seemed much younger than the other teachers, perhaps because of his unconventional enthusiasm, but up close he just looked tired. As he glanced between us, I noticed his eyelids were heavy, in direct contrast with the liveliness of his tone as he said, “I think it’s a great idea. Lynn?”

  I grinned at her. For an instant I thought she smiled back, one side of her mouth curling slightly up—but I couldn’t be certain. Her eyes bore into me. She nodded in agreement.

  “It’s settled, then. Lynn Chandler, Susannah Hayes—you are officially partners.”

&nbs
p; The sun was warm and white as I followed Lynn out of the classroom, across the quiet campus. Choir was my final class, but because I had not known my schedule that morning, I couldn’t give my mother a time to pick me up. I told her I would call. We passed the two ancient pay phones still standing near the office building. I kept walking.

  “That class is kind of a joke,” Lynn said as we headed down the center of the parking lot. About half of the spaces were already empty. “You probably don’t need my help.”

  “No,” I said. “Probably not.”

  Lynn stopped. Her eyes glistened, suspicious, as she examined me. “So why’d you do it?”

  We were standing by the trunk of an old dust-covered silver car. A single sticker embellishing the back window read The Endless West.

  I shrugged. “It’s my first day here. I haven’t really met anyone yet.”

  Lynn was still watching me. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the faint squeak of tennis shoes.

  “You remind me of a friend from my old school,” I lied.

  “He probably would’ve let me off with another warning, you know. Tipton’s a total pushover.”

  “He seems pretty nice,” I said.

  “That’s his problem. He wants to see the good in everyone. It’s kind of annoying, actually.”

  Lynn unlocked the trunk of the silver car, tossed in her coat, and began pawing through the clutter. Her tank top had a sheer back, and I could see the ridge of her spine through the fabric. Something about her frame—the graceful curve of each limb, the sharp protrusion of bones—reminded me of a ballerina: a body that appeared fragile, but was not.

  “Thanks, though,” she said suddenly, glancing over her shoulder. “For getting me off the hook.”

  My cheeks flushed. “It’s no big deal.”

  Lynn located a pack of cigarettes, apparently what she had been searching for, and placed one between her lips before offering them to me. I shook my head. She began rifling through her backpack. “So where’re you from?”