The Midnights

by Sarah Nicole Smetana

  I waited for more, unable to tell if her words were sincere. I’m not sure whether I had expected an assortment of exclamatory punctuation and smiley faces, or if I merely wanted something heftier, of greater consequence.

  I just didn’t want you to be mad that I went. Or that I didn’t tell you first.

  I don’t care, she wrote back. Figured something of the sort would happen anyhow.

  I thought back to how the whole thing started: Cameron had asked for my number. Of course Lynn would know, would’ve questioned him first. They were close. He was like a brother.

  They asked me to sing backup at their next show, I added. I guess those choir classes are paying off.

  New Year’s?

  Yeah. Although getting my mother’s permission might be an issue.

  We’ll figure it out, Lynn said.

  I hope so, I said, already imagining the stage and the crowd, the heat of a hundred eyes watching me.

  A minute passed before Lynn replied. I’m glad things are working out. I had no idea it would go this well when I told Cameron to text you. He can be a bit unpredictable.

  I read the message twice, not comprehending. Cameron had asked for my number. He found my napkin and saw my words and he wanted my help.

  Didn’t he?

  My heart plummeted as I clicked back to that conversation and scrolled through all the messages he had sent, searching for some sort of validation of his interest. There was nothing. The exchange was gray and amorphous, based entirely on interpretation.

  And yet—the longer I thought about it, the more I realized that the circumstances of Cameron’s initial text hardly mattered. The results remained the same. All Lynn wanted to do was help. She was the reason I had met Cameron and the boys, the reason I might be onstage with the Endless West on New Year’s Eve. None of this would’ve been possible without her. So what if she gave things a little push?

  Thanks, I wrote back. Looks like I owe you one now.

  Fifteen

  ON A BRIGHT, hazy morning a few days before New Year’s, I decided it was finally time to broach the subject of the party with my mother. I headed out to the garden bordering the stables, where I found her knee-deep in a rebellion of very tall, very resilient weeds. Her face was partially veiled, sandy hair spilling across her cheek, and for one sharp moment, I thought I glimpsed the girl from the old Spades photograph: mysterious and wispy with motion, features just barely captured beneath the spotlight of the sun. Then she turned to look up at me.

  Though the gleam of her beauty remained, she was just my mother again. My mother dressed, beyond all logic, in old khakis and a safari hat. A laugh coughed from the back of my throat.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You look like Indiana Jones,” I said.

  “It’s all I could find.” She examined her attire with dismay before she also began laughing. “Wait. Doesn’t Indiana Jones always carry a whip?” She patted her pockets, her hips. “See? No whip.”

  “Still. You look pretty ridiculous.”

  She pointed her trowel at me. “Keep that up and I’ll start driving you to school like this.”

  I pretended to zip my lips. A smile remained on my mother’s face as she stooped back down to assess the insurgence.

  “How’s your study group going?” she asked.

  “Good,” I said. “They really helped me understand Portrait of the Artist. I think I’ll nail the midterm.”

  “I remember reading that book. I was probably your age. Maybe even in the same class. I thought it incredibly empowering, but at the same time, incredibly tragic.”

  This was such a simple statement, and yet it surprised me. I knew my mother was smart, always able to solve a problem, put food on our table, keep the electricity humming. But her literary history consisted mostly of People magazine and the occasional pick from Oprah’s book club. I had only finished reading Portrait a few days prior, and I’d needed to consult CliffsNotes before I figured out how the story made me feel—let alone make sense of what actually happened.

  “Such a lonely life,” my mother continued.

  “Yeah,” I said, picking a feathery dandelion head from a weed near my feet.

  She nodded, apparently pleased that we had the same reaction.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “I was wondering if it would be okay for me to go to a party on New Year’s Eve with my friend Lynn. I met her at school.” Hesitating, I slid my fingers up the stem of the flower, releasing the fluffy seeds to the wind. “She’s in my class with Mr. Tipton.”

  My mother stopped at the mention of his name, a fleeting pause that would have gone unnoticed by anyone other than me. “That seems fine. Will there be a chaperone?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, and I suppose that was true enough.

  “Well, if there’s a chaperone, then you can go.”

  “Can I sleep over at her house after?”

  At this request, my mother stood up again. “You haven’t slept over at anyone’s house since you were a little girl. And even then, it was only Cara’s.”

  As a child, I always preferred my own bed. I didn’t feel comfortable at slumber parties, all the cackling and pillow fights and boy talk, exchanging secrets and crushes like currency. I was a creature of comfort, unable to sleep with the strange creaks of an unfamiliar house, the unknown shadowy passages to the bathroom. I knew Cara’s house so well that it almost felt like my own, but the others were uncharted territory, and I had no interest back then in what I did not already know.

  “I’m not a kid anymore,” I said. “Everything goes so late on New Year’s, and it’s completely out of the way for Lynn to take me back up here. I just thought it would be more convenient to stay at her house. Safer, too.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” my mother said, her tone still dubious. “But I want to talk to her mother first.”

  “Her mother,” I repeated.

  “Yes. If you’re going to be spending a lot of time with this girl, I think her mother and I should at least have a conversation.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I can do that. Let me see if she’s available.”

  My mother nodded and squatted back in the dirt. At least she’s in a good mood, I told myself. There were days when she looked wilted, when her movements were heavy and her crisp brown eyes turned muddy and red. I pulled out my phone.

  My mom agreed to New Year’s, but she asked to talk to your mom first. Probably wants to make sure we’re being properly supervised. What should I do?

  Give me two minutes, Lynn said.

  I waited, watching the careful way my mother surveyed her foe.

  My phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Susie Q. Put your mom on.”

  I offered the phone to my mother. “Lynn’s mom,” I said.

  My mother sat back on her heels and took off her gloves. “Hello?” she said. “Oh, hello, Lynn. Yes, it’s very nice to meet you too. Okay, great. I’m glad we had a chance to say hi.” There was a brief pause. I bit my lip, unsure of what exactly was happening. “Hello? Yes, hi. My name’s Diane. I’m Susannah’s mother. Yes. Well, she asked me if she could stay at your house on New Year’s Eve, and I thought it best to touch base before agreeing. We only recently moved back to town and I haven’t had the chance to meet any of her friends yet.”

  My mother listened. I could hear a voice chiming, high-pitched and jovial on the other end of the phone, but I couldn’t make out the words.

  “Oh good. I’m very glad to hear that. Well, that all sounds fine, then.”

  Across the pool, back at the house, Vivian tugged the kitchen’s sliding door open. “Oh, Diane, there you are,” she called.

  My mother held up a finger. “Me too. I look forward to it. All right, then. Bye.” She handed the phone back to me.

  Immediately, I texted Lynn: What happened?

  “Diane, you’ll never guess who I ran into at the supermarket just now,” Vivian said.

  “
You should have let me do the grocery shopping,” my mother yelled back.

  “I’m perfectly capable, Diane.”

  “At least let me go with you next time, okay?”

  Just making all your dreams come true, Lynn wrote.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Vivian hollered.

  “Yes, I heard you. Who’d you see?”

  “Roger Tipton.”

  A small sound broke from my mother’s mouth.

  “I invited him for dinner Thursday night,” Vivian continued.

  “Thursday’s New Year’s Eve, Mom,” my mother replied.

  “Yes, I know dear. And the poor man told me he planned on grading papers all night. It would have been cruel to not invite him. He was like family, after all.”

  The words ambled across the pool, floundering against the cusp of a breeze, but I was still unprepared when they struck. Like family. I looked to Vivian, trying to decipher her expression, but I could only make out her figure, reedy and slight, leaning on the door frame.

  “Will you be joining us, Susannah?” Vivian asked.

  I turned to my mother. “Can I go to the party?”

  “Sure,” she said. Her hand brushed my shoulder. “I’m glad you’ve made friends so easily here.”

  I threw my arms around her. “Thank you,” I whispered.

  Tromping out of the garden and back across the patio, I approached Vivian, who was still standing in the doorway. “I’ve got plans on New Year’s,” I told her.

  Vivian examined me as though she had no idea what I was talking about. “Good for you,” she said, and swerved around.

  On New Year’s Eve, my mother insisted on chauffeuring me to Lynn’s house. The drive took twenty-five minutes—longer than I remembered, but I didn’t mind. The length solidified the fears that I’d instilled in her: that was twenty-five unnecessary minutes on the road after midnight, after the parties had dispersed and the bleary-eyed drivers tried to make their way home.

  “You don’t have to walk me in,” I said as we slowed to a halt in front of Lynn’s house, but my mother turned the car off anyway.

  “I know, but when will I next have the chance to meet your friend? I wanted to say a quick hello to Lorie, too.”

  As it turned out, Lynn’s mother must have had the same idea. Before we’d even unbuckled our seat belts, a tall woman with skintight blue jeans and a nest of teased brown hair came trotting barefoot down the crumbling front path. My mother rolled down the front passenger window and leaned over me.

  “Hi there,” Lorie said. “You must be Diane. It’s so nice to meet you.”

  I had not thought much about Lynn’s mother, but I did not expect the figure in front of me: an effervescent woman in her mid-forties, as bold in manner as the thick swipes of blush on her cheeks.

  “I’m glad to meet you too,” my mother said, reaching across me to shake Lorie’s hand.

  “I’d invite you in, but . . .” She leaned into the window and a pungent whiff of vanilla pelted me. “I just haven’t had the time to clean our little abode lately.”

  “I understand. I often wonder where the time goes.”

  In the background, Lynn headed down the path. Her hair was brighter, redder, blazing beneath the pink-smeared sky. My mother peered around Lorie. “You must be Lynn.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Hayes,” Lynn said. “Thanks for dropping Susannah off.”

  “My pleasure. And please, call me Diane.” My mother placed her cold hand on my arm. “You have your phone?”

  I nodded and opened the door.

  “Be safe tonight,” she called.

  “You bet,” Lorie said. She continued waving until my mother’s car disappeared around the corner.

  We spent the next hour in Lynn’s tiny bedroom, wading through the colorful heaps of clothing that collected like dust in the corners. The walls were painted a deep shade of mustard yellow, but otherwise, it felt like an enlarged version of her trunk—eclectic and chaotic, brimming with vintage clothing and accessories. And, like her trunk, she somehow knew where everything was.

  “Which one?” she asked, holding two dresses in front of me—one sapphire and one olive green. I chose the green and she agreed, explaining that the color would “turn my eyes feline.” I wasn’t sure what that meant but her tone suggested it was a good thing.

  Lynn laughed then.

  “You have had sex before, haven’t you?” she asked playfully as she placed other articles of clothing in front of me (lavishly torn tights, distressed jean jackets), trying to decide which layers worked best.

  “Yes,” I said. “Once.”

  And it could have been true, really, with just a slight shift in the truth. We were there, Nick and I, our hands grasping, our bodies prepared. That night felt so long ago, and I could imagine what didn’t happen as easily as remembering what actually did. It was comforting to pretend that my first time was with him—to know that if it were, he would be sweet.

  Lynn nodded, as though considering something. “Try this,” she finally said, and handed me a camel-colored coat with a faux fur collar—the same one, I realized, she was wearing the day we met.

  I donned the jacket and spun in a circle.

  She smiled. “Perfect. Now all you need is some makeup.”

  In the other room, Lorie turned on her stereo. “Runnin’ with the Devil” vibrated through the walls. She sang in a wobbly falsetto, stomping her feet out of rhythm as she clicked through the hangers in her closet. I liked her exuberance, the way she seemed young and careless, even if her clumped, sticky lashes and puttied coat of foundation suggested otherwise—but Lynn just shook her head and sat me on the edge of her bed.

  “Your mom’s really coming tonight?” I asked as Lynn kneeled in front of me. She slid cool, liquid liner across my eyelids. It tickled and I wiggled slightly.

  “Don’t move,” Lynn said. The base of her palm rested on my cheek and I tried to hold still, centering myself on the scent of patchouli oil, the audible draw of her breath as she concentrated. “And not if I can help it. She had other plans, anyway, but talking to your mom inspired her. She decided she needed to be a good parent and go with us—not that she has any idea what good parenting means. She was already halfway to Saturn by the time you got here.”

  “You should have gone without me,” I said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Lynn swiped the mascara, began lining my lips. “It’s just an excuse for her to party with us. A few weeks ago, when I had people over here, she tried to go home with Davis from the Vile Bodies. She actually got in his car and I had to drag her out. Smack your lips.”

  I smacked my lips.

  Lynn sat back, head cocked to the side as she studied me—or, not me, exactly, but the image of me, my aesthetic components. She brushed another dash of powder across my forehead and then nodded. “Done,” she said. “What do you think?”

  Examining myself in her full-length mirror, I was arrested by the strange sensation of seeing someone beautiful and unfamiliar gazing back. As Lynn predicted, the olive dress had emphasized my eyes, turning them a crisp, emerald green that radiated from within the smoky contours of black eyeliner, and my mouth was full and shiny—smirking, I noticed after a moment. Later, when a hundred sets of eyes rested on me, this is what they would see. I felt buoyant with anticipation of that moment.

  Lynn gazed over my shoulder with a pleased look on her face. “You’re going to knock them dead,” she said. I grinned. A glimmer of my old self shone through, so I shut my mouth, letting only the slight upward curl of my lips remain.

  Her phone dinged then. While she scanned the message Lorie whizzed by the door, heading for the bathroom. “Just give me a few more minutes, girls,” she cooed.

  Lynn sighed and typed something on her phone. “For one night,” she said, looking up at me, “I just want to be a normal kid, breaking the rules, not worrying about the inappropriate advances of my mother.”

  “So what do we do?” I asked.

  Lynn though
t for a second. Then she tossed the suede coat at me and said, “Run.”

  “What?”

  Lynn grabbed her purse and raced from the room. “Come on!” she yelled.

  I grabbed my bag and chased after her, all the way out the front door and down to her car. We jumped inside. The ignition thundered to life and her foot pounded the gas, a cloud of dust exploding behind us as we screeched down the street. In the side-view mirror I saw Lorie teeter out of the house in tall black boots, hands signaling in the air. My eyes stayed glued to those streaks of motion until we zoomed out of view.

  “She’s not going to tell my mom, is she?” I asked, breath short with the thrill of escape.

  Lynn cranked down the window and laughed. Even now I can still hear that sound, its mischievous peaks and falls. “No,” she said. “She won’t remember any of this tomorrow.”

  We must have all gathered in the wide backyard while the first two bands played, talking or laughing, but I don’t actually remember much of what happened before our set. I know I’d had a few sips of whiskey, needing warmth in my stomach and a calm in my nerves. Otherwise, I recall only the waiting, a general feeling of anxiety that had spread to all ends of my body. My fingers, in particular, trembled.

  “It’s going to be weird singing without any instrument in my hands,” I said to Luke once we’d mounted the stage, while the other boys tweaked treble and bass. “I’m not sure what to do with them.”

  I held out my hands, palms up, as if to display their awkwardness, and noticed the cuts were completely healed. They must have been healed for weeks, at least. But I hadn’t noticed.

  Luke leaned over and rummaged through the old suitcase where he kept the tools of his kit and other small percussion pieces. “Here,” he said, and handed me a tambourine.

  I laughed. The tambourine was an ornament, a prop. Something people did when they couldn’t play anything else. I took it anyway.

  Behind me, Alex said something to the crowd. Luke picked up his sticks. I turned around, awed by how infinite the audience appeared, almost magical, just a thousand tiny movements in the dark.

  Then Cameron started strumming the opening progression of “Coming with Me.”