The Midnights

by Sarah Nicole Smetana

  “All this time and you’re still right here,” she said, her head shaking lightly. “You always did love this place beyond reason.”

  A flush of pink crept up his neck. “And you never could wait to leave it. Last I heard, you were living in LA somewhere. Just like you planned.”

  “And that was what, twenty years ago?”

  “Something like that.”

  They continued smiling, staring, unsure, no doubt, of whether one speaks of the past or the present when it has been this long, deciding instead to say nothing. Hours seemed to pass while I stood there with my arms still crossed, trapped on the outside of whatever was passing between them. Then Roger’s gaze drifted, and his eyes darted briefly to me.

  “You’re Susannah’s mother,” he said, one hand smoothing down the front of his shirt. “Hayes?”

  “That was my husband’s last name.” My mother’s smile faded to a parenthesis.

  “Your—” Roger paused, blinking, as though to recalibrate himself in the present. “Oh my God, of course. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you,” my mother said.

  “The musician,” Roger said.

  “That’s right.”

  He forced a smile. “Well I can see now why Susannah wanted to take choir.”

  “Actually . . .” I began.

  “Choir?” my mother interjected, her eyebrows rising, and I was sure that she’d admonish my choice of classes. Instead, she turned back to Roger. “You teach choir?” she said in disbelief. “But you never had a musical bone in your body.”

  Roger laughed. “You may be surprised by how much has changed.”

  “Around here?” My mother looked around brazenly.

  “All right, fine. I’m an English teacher. But the choir teacher retired last year, and they needed a quick replacement, so I volunteered. Honestly, I’m really enjoying it.”

  My mother’s smile widened again. “Same old Roger Tipton. Always trying to save something.”

  “If I remember correctly, we weren’t so different back then.”

  “We should go,” I said, my voice harsher than intended. I shoved my hands in my pockets and felt the matchbook hiding there. Nineteen sticks left. “I’ve got a lot of homework.”

  “Sure, hon,” my mother said. She put a hand on my shoulder but her eyes were still stuck on Roger. “Homework comes first.”

  As we walked toward the visitors’ parking lot, I kept my pace brisk and head firmly forward, but that did not stop me from noticing the way my mother glanced back over her shoulder. I kept walking. I didn’t want her to know that I’d seen. Even more, I didn’t want to know if Roger was still there, waiting.

  On Saturday, I set about my preparations early. I moped around the house in my pajamas, occasionally moaning or resting a hand on my stomach as I watched TV. It was easy to act tired and ill. It was not easy to wait.

  My mother paid little mind to my moods. She hummed as she went about her daily tasks, and kept mumbling cheerfully about her progress hacking away the overgrowth out in Vivian’s feral yard—though I knew better than to believe her sudden glee was brought about by chores. After almost eighteen years on this planet, I was trained in the sharp joy of a crush. My mind was awash with them: Cameron’s disarming smile and easy discourse, the unknowable mysteries of Cody Winters (whose quarter still lined a special pocket in my purse). And then there was Nick—his summery scent and the taste of his ChapStick, the way I imagined my body curling into his on my tiny dorm room bed. I wondered what he was doing, and sent him a message: Will you remember me / scattered between palm trees and train tracks / the years spent walking backward / hoping to outsmart the sun? (To which he replied: Shall I compare thee to a starry night? / Thou art more splendid than my meager words express / so I’ll quit while I’m ahead. / Can you tell that AP English has taught me nothing?)

  No. My mother could not fool me.

  That night, as the sky darkened like a bruise and Vivian called me into the dining room for dinner, I had no trouble staring idly down at my pork chop and roasted potatoes, pushing the various food groups around on my plate, and saying, “I’m not feeling great. Can I be excused?”

  “Hm?” my mother said. We had been sharing a silent meal—each of us equally preoccupied.

  “I’m really tired, and my stomach feels upset. I think I’ll go to bed early.” My head had also begun to throb, but before I added that to my list of symptoms (and these were real symptoms, more or less, which made the whole situation seem a little less devious), I remembered what Lynn had told me: to be believed, one must know exactly how much information to give, and precisely when to stop.

  “Sure, honey,” my mother said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Just sleep,” I said, and smiled weakly.

  Amazed by the simplicity of my escape, I slid my chair back and tried not to let the surprise register on my face. Lynn had been right again; they did not question me. Why would they?

  I was halfway across the room when Vivian spoke. “There’s some Pepto-Bismol under your sink,” she said. “Brand-new.”

  Though the statement was clear enough, something in her tone gave me pause and I felt compelled to turn back. On the opposite side of the table, Vivian examined me through narrowed eyes. For a moment, our gaze remained locked. Then Vivian turned back to her plate, spearing her fork into a sprig of roasted broccoli. I flashed another feeble smile and said thanks before fleeing the room.

  In the hallway, though, I decided that taking some medicine couldn’t hurt, and it might even help sell my story if I left the bottle on the counter, looking less than full. But when I searched beneath my bathroom sink, I found no Pepto-Bismol. No medicine at all, in fact—only some rolls of toilet paper and cleaning supplies. Maybe Vivian meant her bathroom, I thought. Or maybe she forgot it at the store; after all, my mother had said that kind of thing might happen.

  Once ready, I sat on my bed with the lights off and waited until Lynn sent word, my cell phone chiming with our code. The phoenix flies, she wrote. I unlatched the bedroom window and clambered out into the night.

  A shock of cold wind grazed my skin as I hurried through the backyard, down the driveway, but it was too late to get a jacket. The new Susannah would not turn back. Sticking to the shadows, I crept forward, coerced by the night and the gentle whir of Lynn’s engine idling in the street, just out of view.

  “Well, well,” she said as I slid into the passenger seat. “Your first official breakout. How does it feel?”

  My pulse was racing. “So far, so good.”

  “So good,” she repeated. “Welcome to your freedom.”

  She jerked the car into drive.

  “The boys are supposed to play second,” Lynn explained as we traced a path down from the hills, toward the freeway, “so we should be there just in time. The first band usually sucks anyway, and the later it is, the more crowded it is, the easier for us to get in.”

  In my mind, the opposite made more sense: the more crowded the venue, the less likely that any tickets would be left. I wondered if the boys had set some aside for us, and bit my lip to hold back my grin.

  Our drive on the 55 South was fast and straight. After only ten minutes of whizzing past budget hotels and patches of stubby office buildings, brake lights began punctuating the night. It was a strange sensation, seeing a freeway end; we slowed to a stop and filtered out into surface streets, ultimately turning into the crowded parking lot of a strip mall. And there, tucked in the back corner, was the venue: Detroit Bar.

  “Lynn,” I said. “This is a bar.”

  Lynn gasped. “Impossible!”

  “You know what I mean.” I tried to sound casual. “It’s just that I don’t have a fake ID.” If probed, I decided I’d tell her my mother had confiscated it.

  “I don’t have one either,” Lynn said. “Lost mine last summer at a Fire Society party. But that’s not the only way.” She stepped out of the car and I followed.

  Even from the e
dge of the parking lot, I could hear the bass buzzing. The drums, though muffled, were booming and full. Lynn headed down the row of cars, toward a black van parked near the bar’s entrance, where Luke and Gabriel stood smoking.

  “Who’s the opener tonight?” Lynn asked as we approached. “They actually sound decent.”

  “They’re called Pirate Idaho,” said Gabriel, who had perpetually sleepy eyes, the wayward smile of a stoner. “From Long Beach.”

  “Why aren’t you in there?”

  Gabriel grinned in response, covertly pulling open his jacket. A flask filled the inner pocket.

  “Share, please,” Lynn said, reaching for the bottle.

  “Just don’t drink it all,” Gabriel said. “And don’t let the Rock over there see. I swear, he’s had it in for me all night.”

  Peeking around the van, I spotted a security guard. Even while seated on a stool, he towered over most of the kids that came to the door, scowling at them as he examined their IDs with a black light, grunting acknowledgment when he allowed them to pass. I could not imagine what he did to those he caught deceiving him.

  “Lynn,” I said, unable to hide the uncertainty in my voice.

  “Drink,” she said, and handed me the flask. I took a long pull before giving it back to Gabriel.

  “Glad you could come, Susannah,” Gabriel said as he buttoned up his jacket. “Don’t tell Josie about the flask.” Next to him, Luke nodded in accordance, though I wasn’t certain to which statement he was responding.

  “Me too,” I said.

  I couldn’t remember if Gabriel and I had even spoken that afternoon at Lynn’s, but he obviously knew me, had known I was coming. Either he truly remembered me, or I had somehow become a topic of conversation among them. A thrill rushed over my skin.

  “The others are inside?” Lynn asked.

  “You know Cameron,” Gabriel said. “He thinks these guys might really have something. And Josie is commandeering Alex’s drink tickets, as usual.”

  “Three sheets?” Lynn asked.

  “Maybe two,” Gabriel said. “But the night is young.”

  “Well, I guess we should get in there.” Lynn held out her hands. “Stamp me, kind sirs.”

  The boys looked at their right hands, which had been stamped in purple ink with some sort of emblem. Once it was decided that Luke’s stamp was the most pristine, he proceeded to lick it, and then pressed it hard against Lynn’s pale skin. They held the backs of their hands together for nearly a minute. When they finally pulled apart, Lynn was marked. The ink appeared slightly faded, but the design was clear enough. I would not have been able to tell the original from the fake.

  After, with Luke’s stamp too dim to transfer a second time, Gabriel licked his hand and held it against mine. My stamp came out slightly smeared, not quite as precise as Lynn’s—Gabriel hadn’t taken as much care as Luke, had not cradled my hand between his or waited patiently as the ink grafted—but the result was close enough. It was that simple. Too simple, I feared, but I smiled and thanked Gabriel, hoping that no one could sense the violent pounding of my heart while they leisurely finished their cigarettes, chatting about the other bands playing and the upcoming tour.

  On our way to the front entrance, Lynn twisted her arm through mine, drawing us closer. “The trick is to act anonymous,” she told me. “Once they know you, it can go only two ways. They like you and never ask for ID again. Or, they don’t like you, and the next three years become a wasteland—no band, no bar, no fun.”

  “There are other venues,” I said. “Other shows.”

  Lynn stopped, unlatching herself. “That’s not the point. This is your chance to take control. You’ve come this far.” She ran her fingers through my hair, arranging it aside my cheeks. “And once you know that you can get through those doors, you’ll never be content in another parking lot again.”

  I gazed down at my hand, rubbing the pad of my thumb against the ink. “But what if he can tell?”

  “You worry too much,” she said, and proceeded in front of me. Pausing at the door, she lifted her hand to show the security guard. The whole endeavor took no more than a second: she lifted and he grunted. She was through.

  Up close, I noticed the security guard seemed distracted. Though it had been easy to misinterpret the expression as perennial distaste for the entire concert scene, I saw now that his face held no scowl. Disinterest, maybe. Callousness. His mind was obviously elsewhere.

  “I said go ahead,” he growled.

  “Oh—uh,” I stammered, “thank you,” and rushed through the door.

  Detroit Bar was twice the size that it appeared from the outside, split in two, with the bar acting as the mediator between the sides. A wide lounge area lit only by tealight candles occupied the right, and on the left was the stage, where Pirate Idaho played in front of a small group, maybe twenty people drenched in darkness. I tried to find Cameron among them but the lights that ricocheted from the stage only turned the individuals further into silhouettes. In my ear the singer’s smooth voice trilled, a somewhat tickling feeling that produced, strangely, laughter. It had been a long time since I’d heard anything so loud, so wonderful.

  “They’re not that bad,” Lynn yelled.

  “No, they’re good,” I yelled back, eyes roving across the stage, the bar, the dark, shadowed booths where groups sat huddled close, straining to hear one another. “They’re really good.”

  “Wait until you hear the Endless West.” She paused, fixing her gaze on me. “Looking for Cameron?”

  I shook my head, not wanting Lynn to think I was more interested in the boys than the band. And besides, between the loud music and whatever had been in Gabriel’s flask, I was having trouble focusing. Even I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. But how incredible it was, just to look. To be there.

  That’s when Josie appeared, screaming. Like a flash, she emerged from some corner of the darkness, her bleached hair blazing as she clobbered Lynn in an off-balance hug.

  “Finally,” she said. “I’ve been stuck here since sound check. What took you so long?”

  “Susannah, meet Josie.”

  “Hi,” I said, extending my hand. I couldn’t see much of Josie in that faintly lit room except black-framed glasses, the glint of a nose ring, and her hair, which was styled in a messy bob with full, swooping bangs. Though blond was clearly not her natural hair color, I thought it suited her; she was spry and unreserved, the opposite of Lynn in many ways. If Lynn was like a complex pattern in the sediment of tea leaves, then Josie was a billboard off the 5.

  Her drink sloshed onto my arm as she enveloped me. She said, “It’s so nice to meet you. We need another decent girl around here.”

  “Susannah just moved here from LA,” Lynn explained. “Josie would have been at school with us, but she dropped out.”

  “You know that’s not at all true. I got my GED and now I’m going to cosmetology school.”

  Awed, I asked, “And your parents are okay with that?”

  She looked at me curiously. “What do they have to do with it?” Then she turned to Lynn and smacked her playfully on the arm. “By the way, you haven’t even commented on my new hairdo yet.” Josie posed, pouting her lips and angling her chin downward. Behind the glasses, her black eyes glittered.

  “Totally classic,” Lynn said, gently touching Josie’s hair. “You’ll be the stylist of the stars.”

  “It looks beautiful,” I said.

  “I like her,” Josie said. Then, “I have to tell you about Andrew. Let’s go get a drink.”

  At the bar, Josie proceeded to tell Lynn about the latest betrayals of someone named Andrew’s most recent girlfriend, who, apparently, had been trying to sleep with Alex before she turned her sights on a more attainable target: the singer of a band called Great White Whales. But the myriad of unfamiliar names quickly became too cumbersome, and I didn’t want to remind them that I had no idea who anyone was. Instead, I laughed and scowled and nodded when appropriate, offering j
ust enough reaction to make my presence relevant while my mind focused instead on the arrangement of the music, the tinny timbre of the singer’s voice. I wanted to know what he was saying but his mouth was right on the mic, more concerned with the pitch and flow of his voice than whatever he actually said. So I decided to make my own words.

  Josie leaned toward Lynn, saying something about Saint Summer’s bass player. I pulled a pen from my purse. On a cocktail napkin, I wrote.

  Is this the beating of my heart,

  or the bass against my bones?

  This is the explanation

  for my broken words.

  I paused, thinking, listening to the music and the high pitch of Josie’s voice, the crescendo of elements that made my heart surge. Ever since my father’s death, I’d felt this deficiency within me—not the lack of him, which was an entire other realm of emptiness, but a lack inside myself. Like I’d lost a part of me that previously seemed as essential as water. But there at Detroit Bar, sipping on the round of whiskey-Diet Cokes that Lynn bought to commemorate the start of a new era in my life, I saw an end to the silence, the blank pages in my notebook. I could hear the words and their simple vibrato, the inflection produced with each vowel.

  I’m speaking in fragments,

  and I’m moving on.

  I’ll stay put if you do

  (not).

  As I read the lines back to myself, they made strange sense, as if I’d been writing from some future version of myself. I even felt them in my chest, bubbling in my throat.

  “See?” Josie said to Lynn. “Susannah gets it.” She placed a hand on my knee and leaned forward. “Isn’t that the funniest thing?”

  “Yes,” I said, gripping her hand with my own. “It’s hilarious.”

  When it was finally time for the Endless West’s set, Lynn, Josie, and I ordered fresh drinks and stood near the front of the stage as the boys tuned and tested pedals. Around me, the sparse crowd had swelled into a sea. Heads trickled back as far as the entrance, most of the faces cloaked in shadows. Together, we waited. Anticipation turned into a subtle murmur.