“There are many ways to tweak a chord,” my father told me in the pauses between my strums. “You can use pedals and treble and distortion. You can jiggle a whammy, or glide an EBow across the neck. Even the specific instrument you’re playing will affect your sound, whether the body is solid or hollow, the action and gauge of the strings. It all matters. See?” He twisted the nobs on my amp as he spoke, making my strum fuller, deeper, adding a light twinge of distortion. When he was satisfied with the results, he sat back in his chair, picked up his Telecaster, and began tinkering over me.
“There’s one thing you have to remember, though,” he continued. “Sustain can only resonate for so long.” He played an elaborate series of notes and then suddenly muted the strings with the base of his palm, plunging the room into silence. All the while his blue eyes tunneled into me.
He said, “It comes down to control. You decide how long each chord lasts. You decide when to let it linger, and when it has to end.”
My father’s voice may have grown quieter, as Lynn said it would, but I can see now that he actually left me something after all. He left me these little plucks of wisdom that spring forth when I need them most, and his perfectionist’s insistence on finding the perfect tone for every song. He left me the twitch, that sudden jolt of my muscles when I see someone else on a stage, or when I realize my hands have been idle for too long. And he left me the yearning I get in the deepest fold of midnight when the rest of the world is sleeping, when the dark is too quiet or the air is too still, and something begins to strum in my gut.
So maybe he didn’t fail. Maybe neither of us did.
My calluses are reemerging now, and the Martin is tuned, waiting in the rack above my head. Even though I can’t hear it yet, don’t know the next chord or progression or line, I know that a new song is forming. It might be hidden in the rhythm of the decelerating train, or in the pulse of this brand-new city, the chorus of dinging streetcars and the buildup of summer fog—just waiting there, ready to be discovered, as long as I’m willing to trust myself, my instinct, my heart. As long as I’m willing to listen.
And I’m listening. I’m ready. My mind, finally, is clear.
I can’t wait to hear what the winds sound like in San Francisco.
Acknowledgments
So many incredible people have given their time, dedication, and support to this novel. I owe the most effusive, eternal gratitude to:
Jess Regel, my rock-star agent. Thank you for believing in this book from the very first line you read—even as I sat across a table from you, mumbling nonsensically about my half-complete manuscript. Your faith in Susannah’s story played a huge part in my ability to actually finish it. I feel so lucky to have you in my corner.
Emilia Rhodes, my brilliant editor, whose kindness knows no bounds. Your insight and guidance have made this book a hundred times stronger. I’m still amazed by how smooth and joyful this process was, and I know that it’s entirely because of you.
Jen Klonsky, Sarah Kaufman, Alexandra Rakaczki, Tyler Breitfeller, Laura Kaplan, and everyone else at HarperTeen whose hard work helped transform this book from long-time dream to tangible reality.
Mia Nolting, the incredible artist behind the stunning cover.
Amy Kurzweil, Elisha Wagman, Katie Peyton, and Rebecca Nison—some of the most amazing, talented, and hard-working women I’ve ever known. Your feedback has been indispensable. Thank you for always holding the flashlight steady while I waded around in the dark, searching for the roots and sinews of this story. Thank you for always inspiring me to push forward and be better.
Valerie Aper, Emily Amodeo, James Suffern, Brian Morgan, and Danny Goodman, who have all so graciously offered to read (often multiple) versions of this book. Your comments helped shape the story in the most surprising and lovely ways.
James Blaylock, Tim Powers, and Chapman University’s creative writing program for your astounding generosity in helping a strange, aspiring poet find her voice in fiction all those years ago.
Helen Schulman, Ann Hood, and the New School’s MFA program for teaching me so much, always asking the hard (but essential) questions, and for the wisdom you’ve shared.
Teddy Wayne, who chose an early excerpt of this book as the winner of the New School’s alumni fiction chapbook contest, and made me feel like a Real Writer for the first time.
Dana Spiotta and the Tin House Summer Writer’s Workshop for allowing me to see my story through a different lens, precisely when I needed it the most.
My parents, Cindy and Daryl Smetana, for always encouraging my creativity, and for always pursuing their own. To my father, the musician: Thank you for filling my childhood with music and inspiring me to play the guitar. That decision changed my life. To my mother, the visual artist: Thank you for supporting every single one of my endeavors, and for all the beautiful art you have made and continue to make. I am an artist because you showed me how, and I know how fortunate I am to have a family that values these things.
My sister, aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws—basically the whole extended family. Your love and enthusiasm mean the world.
And, most of all, Justin. Thank you for moving across the country with me so I could get my MFA. Thank you for supporting me when I’m immersed in my work, and also for leading me back into the big, bright, beautiful world. My life is infinitely better because you are in it. I couldn’t have done this without you.
About the Author
Photo credit Justin Ostiz
SARAH NICOLE SMETANA received her BFA in Creative Writing from Chapman University and her MFA in Fiction from the New School. Originally from Orange, California, she now lives in Brooklyn with her husband and their three-legged cat. Visit her online at www.sarahnicolesmetana.com.
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HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
THE MIDNIGHTS. Copyright © 2018 by Sarah Nicole Smetana. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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COVER ART BY MIA NOLTING
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017949555
Digital Edition MARCH 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-264464-0
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-264462-6
18 19 20 21 22 PC/LSCH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
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