Midnight Sun(5)

While playing for my biggest fan is nice—whatever I’ve performed is always THE BEST THING HE’S EVER HEARD or THAT ONE IS GOING STRAIGHT TO NUMBER ONE—I feel like I not only have to play for more than one person to get better, but I also have to play for people who are the teensiest bit less biased toward thinking I’m the next Taylor Swift only much, much better.

TBH, I just want to escape this house for a while, and my dad, too. The cabin fever I have to fight on the daily is in full force at the moment.

“She’s busy with her family,” I tell him, using my sweetest voice possible. XP has taught me a lot of patience. I know better than to try to shove what I want down my dad’s throat. That kind of tactic never works with him; logical, well-crafted arguments do. “And I love playing for you, but I need to expand my audience. My fan page has exactly three likes right now—you, Dr. Fleming, and Morgan. I’ve got to do a better job of putting myself out there. And I graduated today; isn’t it the American tradition to extend my curfew?”

He’s silent. Still unconvinced. At best, he’s probably about to grab his keys and say he’ll drive me there and Oh, while I’m here, let me just hear one song, which will then turn into my entire set.

I need to turn this thing around. “Fred will be there, and he’ll look out for me. Plus, I have this amazing new guitar case designed to be left open to catch quarters and dollar bills, which I know you wouldn’t have given me if you yourself didn’t want me to go play…”

My dad frowns. I know he wants to protect me. Make that overprotect me. But I hate being treated like a fragile creature who just might drop dead every time she leaves the house.

“I will extend your curfew for one hour. Which means midnight—”

“THANK YOU!” I squeal before he can change his mind. “Thank you, thank you, you’re the best dad in the world, thank you—”

Now come the qualifiers, but I’m used to this sort of thing. I nod my head gravely as he sets the rules for my solo pass out into the world even though I’m not really listening. I don’t need to. He says the same thing every time.

“Text me every hour, or I won’t just call Fred; I’ll actually come down there, and it’ll be so embarrassing it will become an urban legend about why kids should stick to their curfew.”

I grab my guitar and head for the door before he can inject a tracking device into my arm.

“Every hour, Katie,” he reminds me before I can escape.

I give him a big grin over my shoulder as I’m leaving. “Love you!”

I step outside. Cool night air fills my lungs. It has been two days (well, nights) since I’ve ventured past the front porch. I exhale and stare up at the stars. They wink back at me, like they think something magical is about to happen.

My dad stands in the doorway watching me. “Love you more.”

“Not possible!” I tell him, and head off.





4

Fred is where I always find him, sitting in his little office at the train station ticket window. He’s one of dad’s oldest buddies, both in the amount of time they’ve known each other and also in chronological age. They were neighbors back in the day, when Fred was Dad’s sometime babysitter. He has great stories about what a little pain in the ass my dad was as a kid.

I wave to Fred to get his attention. “Hey-o, Fred.”

He looks up, his mop of silver hair gleaming in the moonlight. “The graduate! I was wondering if you were gonna show up tonight.”

I gesture around at the empty platform. “And disappoint all my fans?”

Fred laughs appreciatively even though this has been our running joke for the past few years. Then he spies my awesome old-new instrument, which is most definitely different than the one I normally have with me. His expressive face registers so much delight and surprise that he basically morphs into a reallive heart-eyed emoji.

“Is that a new guitar?”

I pat it proudly and nod. “It was my mom’s,” I tell him, and his eyes soften. Then I turn to find my spot. After a last wish upon the brightest star out tonight that something truly exciting will happen for once, I open my guitar case.

I launch into one of my newest compositions—a song called “Waiting for the Sun”—as two tired and dazed-looking people step off the train. The melody is slow and deep, and pretty much matches their pace. The first guy seems drunk, and he almost falls on top of me before stumbling around the spot where I’m playing. The other is a lady in a severe red pantsuit who is definitely not drunk. She walks past me without even making eye contact.

And then no one for a good half an hour. I keep playing and singing like I’m headlining at Carnegie Hall. Finally, another train rumbles into the station. A girl I suspect may be one of Zoe’s many minions gets off, eyes me curiously, and then drops a half-eaten bag of Skittles into the case.

“Thanks a lot,” I call after her as she walks away.

She looks back over her shoulder and gives me a little shrug and a lot more attitude. Whatever. I’m no quitter. I launch into another original.

A thirtysomething hipster-looking guy with a lumberjack beard appears at the top of the stairs and donates a few coins to my case. It’s not even enough to feed the parking meter, so good thing I walked here. Dad doesn’t think I’m “ready” for my license yet. I wonder if he’s afraid I’d just drive off into the sunset if I had a way to. Who knows, maybe I would pull a Rapunzel. But I don’t really have anywhere to go, so I don’t bother fighting him on that one.