Meet Me at Midnight

by Jessica Pennington

  Captive or not, the idea of hanging out with Caleb doesn’t interest me after last night. I do feel like seeing someone who isn’t Asher, but it’s not Caleb. I shoot him a quick, Sorry, I’m busy text.

  I meet Kara at River Depot at eight o’clock, after her shift. They have the best ice cream in a twenty-minute drive, and she’s assured me that Caleb isn’t working. A boy-free ice cream trip is exactly what I need right now.

  “So about the party,” Kara says, her eyes looking up from the giant cup of ice cream we’re hunched over. It’s her dinner, but I have my own spoon, and I’m dedicated to excavating every piece of cookie out of this cup. Kara lets me because she’s the best.

  “The party you begged me to go to and then basically bailed on?”

  “The party you went to with Asher.”

  “The party I drove to with Asher. I was going with you.” I stab the spoon back into the quickly disappearing mountain of cookies ’n’ cream.

  Kara holds on to the wooden bench and leans back, like she’s trying to stretch. I don’t know how she stands around all day on the concrete and doesn’t want to cut her feet off. She tips her head back up and angles her head at me. “Okay.” One corner of her mouth tips up into the faintest hint of a smile.

  “Okay, what?”

  She shrugs. “Okay, it sounds like you’re not ready to talk about it.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Okay.”

  I point my spoon at her face. There’s something weird about it, like she wants to smile but won’t let herself. “I don’t like your attitude.”

  She finally smiles. “I don’t have one.”

  There’s a long stretch of silence as we finish the ice cream, scraping at the sides with our spoons as the trickle of the river fills the air. River Depot is quiet at night, once the docks are closed for the day. It’s just us and a few other groups and families eating ice cream on the dock overlooking the river. A few kids are sitting by the gas fireplace on the deck one level up.

  Kara flicks my arm with her pink-nailed finger and bites her lip. Words come out of her in a rush. “But things were weird with you and Ash at the party, right? You know, if you two are…” She waves her spoon in the air and her eyebrows will blend right into her hairline if they stretch up much farther.

  “Are what?”

  “I don’t know. Who can know anything with the two of you.” She looks at me like I’m a puzzle she’ll solve if she gets me at just the right angle. Like she has too many middle pieces, and if she could just find a corner piece, she’d be happy. “You hate each other, you obsess over each other. And now you’re being freakishly nice to each other?”

  We go to the movies together. I keep the words in my head, where they belong. “Asher and I aren’t … anything.”

  “Okay, it’s just that at the party, it seemed like—”

  I cut her off with my spoon pointed at her like I’ll stab her with it at any moment. I haven’t completely ruled it out. “There’s no thing with me and Asher. I can be nice to someone without it being a thing.”

  “Even Asher?”

  “Especially Asher.” I hate how high and defensive my voice has gotten.

  “And you’re … sure he feels the same?” She chews on her lip for a second. “Because I’ve always suspected that underneath all the pranks and asshat-ery … he’s actually kind of in love with you.” The last words are barely audible over the sound of the river.

  I drop the spoon into the empty bowl. A tiny, maniacal laugh escapes my throat. “What would ever make you think that?” If I didn’t know she’d just been at work for eight hours, I’d think she was drunk. Or maybe she is. Maybe she keeps a tiny flask on her key chain or something. There is just no other excuse for saying something so ridiculous.

  Kara shakes her head. “I don’t know. Forget I said anything. It was stupid. You two are making me stupid.”

  It’s maybe the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.

  “So you’re positive there’s nothing going on there.”

  “So positive.” I pick up the spoon nervously and drop it back into the little white puddle. “I seriously can’t believe you’re making me say this.”

  “Okay.” Kara raises her hands in surrender. “But for the record, if there was something there…” She catches my eye and words race out of her. “Which there isn’t. But if there was … that would be okay.”

  All I can do is nod.

  DAY 24

  Sidney

  We drove the extra thirty minutes to get to the cheap grocery store yesterday. The one where you have to deposit a coin to take a shopping cart, all of the bags and boxes are store-brand green, and the powdered mashed potatoes we’re going to dump in the grass cost exactly what they’re worth to us: $1.29 a box.

  I clap my hands together and watch the white flakes disintegrate. “I had no idea a trunk full of dehydrated vegetables could make me feel like such a delinquent.”

  Asher laughs. It’s quiet, like he’s worried someone will hear us, even though we’re still two houses away from Nadine’s and it’s just before 3 a.m. There’s definitely no one around to hear. We’re parked at Kara’s grandma’s house, in the heavy trees at the end of her driveway. The wagon we usually use to haul all our crap down to the beach is already half-filled with opened boxes.

  “As if this is anywhere close to the most delinquent thing you’ve ever done,” Asher says.

  I tear one end of a box open before placing it in the blue canvas basket of the wagon. We need to spend as little time as possible in Nadine’s yard, so we’re taking Asher’s suggestion to prep everything ahead of time. I wanted to do it at our house, but when he pointed out that our parents might wonder why we’re suddenly hoarding mashed potatoes, I talked to Kara and hooked us up with our base of operations for the night.

  “Don’t forget Edith.” Asher jerks his head toward the backseat, and I let out a little moan.

  “Aw. Do I have to?” I open the back door and pull Edith out of the seat, where I have her strapped in. I bring her to the back of the car, cradled under my arm. “I’m sort of attached to her. She’s the elephant in my room.” I smile at my own joke, waiting for my pun to sink in.

  Asher just shakes his head, a smile on his face. He puts a gentle hand on my shoulder, and his voice matches it. “It’s time to send her home, Sid. Time to set her free.” I wedge her into one end of the wagon, surrounded by boxes, and then pull her back out.

  “I’ll carry her.” I’m not trying to be dramatic, I just don’t want her to fall out and get broken. I won’t lie, I’m half-expecting a sign in Nadine’s garden where Edith usually sits. Something like, I KNOW WHAT YOU DID, right next to a grainy black-and-white security cam photo of me running away with her. But when we get to the edge of the house, wagon in tow, there’s nothing behind the bush but a little patch of dirt, dug out of the red mulch. I pat Edith on the head like she’s my good little elephant, and shimmy her down into the mulch, twisting her a little so she doesn’t tip over. This time, I’m careful not to step into the path of the motion-sensor light.

  I blow her a kiss as I turn around, and Asher gives her a little salute. And I don’t feel like he’s mocking me, he’s just playing around, having fun with it like I am. Asher doesn’t take anything too seriously—especially himself—and I’m really starting to appreciate how much fun it is to have someone go along with my weirdness. Because it doesn’t feel so weird anymore.

  Asher leaves the wagon of potatoes in the trees alongside the driveway, where it’s dark with shadows, and both of us take a box in each hand. Now that I’m actually here, in Nadine’s yard, with all of the grass sprawling out around me, I’m not sure where to start. Yesterday we plotted over our pancakes and agreed that doing some sort of design was too much pressure. We’d just go to town on the yard with as many potatoes as humanly possible, and call it good.

  On the opposite side of the yard, Asher is silently shaking potatoes over the grass, wa
lking backward as he empties one box and then two. It feels like watching a movie on mute as he silently moves through the yard, nothing but a faint chuh, chuh, chuh as the powder is liberated from its box.

  I walk around the yard, laying the potatoes down in lines across the grass. When something moves in the tree line, my attention snaps to the noise, and a cascade of potatoes rushes out of the box, making a white arc in the air. I swap my empty boxes for full, and with a box in each hand I twirl in the center of the yard, my arms outstretched. White powder spirals out into the air. I start moving around the yard in little circles, spraying the potatoes around me like a cyclone of white dust. It’s 3 a.m., I’m exhausted, and it’s possible I’ve totally lost it.

  Five minutes in, we’ve each emptied ten boxes, and still the yard looks green. The grass is a little long, hiding our efforts. Which reminds me that Nadine has a sprinkler system keeping her yard so long and luscious. We don’t have to cross our fingers and hope that it rains—our potato masterpiece could be ready as early as this morning. The thought spurs me on, and I grab two more boxes.

  A flash of movement in the corner of the yard closest to Lake House A catches my eye, and I hear the faintest squeak as Asher pushes himself forward on the little swing set there. It’s old and covered in weathered green paint with peeling white stripes. The sand that used to surround it has been almost completely overtaken by weeds.

  When Asher waves me over, there’s an almost magnetic pull urging me to approach the old green monstrosity. Those swings hold a lot of memories for us. The first summer Asher was here, we spent time on them—late nights talking, swaying gently as we shared the kinds of things teenagers divulge with someone new—our favorite songs, the coolest things we’d done that year, everything that annoyed us about our best friends. But we never swung on them. Thirteen-year-old Sidney was way too cool for that. She didn’t know Asher well enough, hadn’t wanted to look like a dork in front of this cute boy she was still figuring out. If only I’d known then what a game-playing little nerd he would become. The thought makes me almost laugh out loud.

  By the time I reach the swings, Asher is already in the air. I follow, pushing myself up, higher and higher. I can’t remember the last time I was on swings like this, and I wonder why, because it’s sort of awesome. And a little disorienting in the dark, when I’m drunk from no sleep. We’ve both ditched our green boxes, and are soaring higher and higher, the squeaking of the chains crescendoing through the night air.

  Asher jumps, and in the silence it’s beautiful, the way he arcs soundlessly through the air, landing in a graceful crouch on the grass ten feet in front of me. Just as he stands, a door slams. It’s the familiar, clanging metal of Nadine’s side door. There’s a little yip and the faint scratch of paws on stones.

  Asher’s head snaps to me, and he motions with his hand for me to jump. I let go, my hand holding on a second too long, and land much less gracefully than he did. As I topple to the side, sharp pain lances through my ankle. My gasp is muffled by the last squeaks of the swings we’ve abandoned.

  “Are you okay?” Asher whispers so quietly, I’m almost not sure he actually said it. He reaches a hand down for me and I take it. My first two steps have me wincing, and we need to run, not walk. Maybe I can hop. God, what a nightmare. All of our careful planning, and we’re going to get caught because I can’t do something most eight-year-olds have mastered. Kill me now, I’ll never hear the end of this.

  Asher steps in front of me, and it takes me a second to realize what he’s doing. Even when he crouches down a little, I’m still looking at him, confused. “Get on,” he whispers over his shoulder, and the scuffing of gravel draws my eyes to Nadine’s house again. She usually takes the dog in the trees along the driveway, but she could hear us and be around that corner in seconds.

  Then, I don’t think. I jump. The second I’m on his back, we’re tearing through the yard, my legs pinned under his arms. We cut along the far left edge of the yard, near the trees, where it’s dark. I’m smacked by a low branch as we push through the narrow area between the trees and Lake House A, where everything is overgrown. A mumbled apology floats over Asher’s shoulder as I squeak at the hit and dip my face into his neck to shield myself from anything else I don’t see. We make it to the front of the house, and turn sharply to the right. We’re outside the doors to the boathouse that sits under it, its entrance hidden by the deck looming overhead.

  Asher pushes on the old wooden door, and it opens just as he leans back, letting me know to get off. We can’t make it in together—not if I want to keep my forehead intact. He pushes the door open and I hobble in behind him, holding his arm for support. When we’re inside, he closes the door behind us.

  He flicks his finger across his phone, places it on a little shelf, and the rafters above us are lit up, the whole space bathed in dim light. The boathouse is a weird place; it’s filled with randomness. On the left wall are long wooden pegs that hold old orange life jackets, speckled with mildew. Along the back wall are random beach toys, paddles, lawn chairs, and a few of Nadine’s rejected yard sculptures. There’s a cartoonish frog with a cracked head, and a gnome that’s missing a foot. I feel your pain, pal. I see an old five-gallon bucket and flip it over before sitting on it.

  “Shit,” I mutter just as Asher squats down next to me. His elbows rest on his thighs, and he’s now eye-level with me. He takes his cell phone from the shelf and places it on the ground in front of him. It washes his face in harsh shadow. “I think I just rolled it,” I say softly. “It’ll be fine in a few hours.” I wince. “Probably.”

  He moves silently to where my leg is extended, and puts a hand on either side of my ankle. “We’re not staying here a few hours.” His eyes meet mine, and his brows rise. I nod, letting him know it’s okay if he touches my injured foot. His fingers push gently above my ankle, and in the cool dampness of the boathouse, his skin feels like it’s on fire. My skin feels ablaze under his touch. He cradles the ball of my foot in his palm, and tips my foot one way and then the other. I should be worried about all of the spiders that are undoubtedly setting up their underground fortress in this room, but all I can think about is the way Asher has one hand on my lower calf, and the other on my ankle. And how no one has ever been this gentle with me. Also, how long has it been since I got a pedicure? Am I sandpapering his hand right now? This night is falling apart in so many ways.

  A slight twist has me hissing, and Asher stops, his hands stilling against my skin. He whispers a very sincere apology as he rests my foot back on the floor. The smell is back again. Even against the mustiness, the smell of Asher is winning out over everything. I stand up, and Asher’s hand is on my arm. “Sit back down,” he says quietly, but I don’t listen.

  “We have to get out of here. I’ll be fine with some help. We’ll go out the same way we did last time, along the water. Then you can come back and get the wagon.” I look up at him, wondering if he’ll take that as me throwing him under the bus. “If that’s okay with you. I would, but you know…” I glance down at my offending foot.

  Asher slips an arm around my waist, gripping me above my hip. I put my arm over his shoulder and he softly pushes the door open. Outside, it’s quiet. We creep to the edge of Lake House A, poking our heads out in tandem to see if anyone is in the yard. I half expect to see Nadine come tearing through the yard, but the coast is clear, and we make our way past Lake House B and into the line of trees that separates the yard from the neighbor’s. After twenty minutes of walking through the trees very ungracefully, we’re slipping back into the car, letting out twin sighs of relief as we reach safety within the SUV.

  * * *

  By the time we get home, my ankle is already feeling less tight, but Asher still insists on helping me walk until he dumps me on my bed. With a crash and a huff, I sink into the softness of my yellow comforter. Asher moves for the door, and I expect him to leave, but instead he quietly shuts it.

  “That didn’t exactly go as expected.”
My voice is little more than a whisper. The last thing we need is our parents wondering why we’re awake—and in the same room—at four in the morning.

  Asher squats down next to the bed. He catches my good foot in his hands and slips my shoe off, setting it on the floor by my nightstand. Then he gently holds the other, and slips that one off, too. I turn on the bed, swinging my feet onto the mattress, trying not to think about how easily Asher has helped me tonight, or how weird it is to have him in my room for the first time since it became mine.

  All of those strange thoughts from movie night are back again, milling around in my brain, forcing me to think about weird things like why anyone would ever break up with someone so sweet. The only light is the little lamp next to my bed, and it washes us in a soft yellow light. “Sorry,” I say, shifting my hips until I’m no longer on the edge of the bed. I reach behind me to stack my pillows so I can lean back against the headboard.

  “For what?” Asher is standing now, and reaches over me for one of the extra pillows on my bed. He puts it under my foot. Holy hell, the sweetness just keeps coming. I’m going to have to undo all of this work when I change into my pajamas, but I can’t make myself stop him when he’s being like this. “I’m pretty sure you didn’t intentionally twist your ankle.”

  “Still.”

  Asher squats down next to me again, his head cocking to the side. “You know you can make it up to me, if you feel bad. I mean, you did jeopardize the mission.”

  I turn my head to face him, ready to tell him I know exactly what he wants. And I’m not getting up to make breakfast for anyone tomorrow. It will probably be lunch before I wake up. But when my eyes meet his, I don’t say anything. Because he’s not looking at me like he wants pancakes.