Midnight Sun(26)

“Then I’ll be right here,” he tells me.

I lean over and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. Then I get out and start running toward my house. But something kicks in before I get there. Call it my conscience, or Jiminy Cricket, or an angel on my shoulder. Whatever it is gives me an urgent message: He deserves the truth.

So I turn around, walk back, and find Charlie still sitting where I left him. I take a deep breath. “I need to tell you something.”

And I almost do it this time. Honestly I do. But then I see his face, so earnest and open. He looks at me like I’m the totally normal girl I wish I actually was. And I just can’t get myself to say the words.

“I’ve never owned a cat,” I tell him instead.

Charlie laughs. “No shit.”





12

The evening’s events leave me dreamy and floating and inspired. I spend the rest of the night composing a new song—“Love Rocks”—that I honestly believe is the best thing I’ve ever written. It’s complex, nuanced, and deep, an aesthetic I always strive for but haven’t actually achieved until now. Or at least I hope I have. I drift off to sleep with a huge smile on my face just as the sun is starting to rise.

Morgan stops by after dinner. We’re hanging out on my bed when I grab my guitar and start strumming. I value her opinion above almost anyone else’s, so I want to hear what she thinks of my new song.

I’m singing my heart out, really getting into it. But when I look up to see if Morgan is feeling it along with me, I notice she’s somewhere off in la-la land. She’s smiling down at her phone, fingers flying across the keyboard.

I stop midsong and put down the guitar. “Who are you texting?”

She looks up, winces, then tosses her phone under the comforter. “What? No one. Sorry!”

“Morrrgannn,” I say, elongating the syllables in an attempt to sound menacing.

She shrugs and mumbles something incoherent.

“What?”

More mumbles.

“I cannot hear a word you’re saying. Can you speak up?”

“GARVER,” she finally bellows. “I MADE OUT WITH GARVER.”

I start smiling and can’t stop.

“Shut. Up,” Morgan growls.

“I didn’t say anything!” I say, smiling even wider.

“Shut it.”

I completely crack up. “I didn’t say a word!”

Morgan turns beet red and pulls the blanket over her head. Through it, I hear, “He’s kind of cute, though, right?”

“He’s very cute,” I assure her. “And sweet. And he obviously has good taste, because he’s in love with you. I even liked his chili.”

“We both know that last part’s a lie. The chili was vile,” Morgan says, her voice still muffled.

“Well, everything else I said was true.”

As much as I’m loving the fact that Morgan is giving Garver a chance, I’m also worrying about how my dad is going to react to the fact that I have a date. Especially with a boy who has no idea about my XP. Dad will insist on meeting Charlie pronto. And when he does, he’ll definitely let the cat out of the bag. And then the date—not to mention any relationship we might be headed toward—will be ruined. Charlie Reed already has enough on his plate without adding me and my weirdo disease to it. I can’t deal with stopping this thing dead in its tracks before it ever gets a chance to really get going.

A plan is forming in my head, and I need Morgan’s help to carry it out. I decide since I was so successful at acting like a normal teen last night—hello, beer pong and stolen kisses on a boat that belongs to neither of us kissers—I should keep it going today and lie about my future whereabouts.

“Can I say I’m at your house tonight?” I ask Morgan. “I’m meeting Charlie later.”

Morgan throws the blanket off her head and sits up. “You’re asking me to help you lie to your father so you can spend time with a guy?” I swear, she’s choking back tears, and Morgan never cries if she can help it. “I’ve never been so proud.”

“You know what’s weird?” I say, grinning back at her. “I’m kind of proud of myself, too.”

“Go. Go do it now,” she urges me, nudging me off the bed with her foot. “Before you lose your nerve.”

I take a deep breath and head downstairs. I find my dad on the couch in the den sorting through photography portfolios. I feel awkward and weird, like he can see directly into my brain and already knows my plan.

“What are you working on?” I ask. It’s a decent opener.

“Grading papers,” he says as he holds a picture of a bird in flight up to the light. It looks pretty good to me. I’d give it an A.

“But you hate giving a letter value to a photograph,” I say, repeating what my dad has told me a thousand times over. I’m working my way into the lie slowly.

“It’s an impossible endeavor!” he tells me, putting down the photo and smiling. “So how was the party last night?”

“Good. Great!” I begin, then I backpedal. Better he thinks I wasn’t enjoying myself so thoroughly. That will just lead to more questions, which will lead to more lies. “No, you know what, it was really boring. It was fine. It was nothing special.”