Midnight Sun(6)

Just when I think it’s going to be a totally typical slow night, an angel-faced little boy tugs on his mom’s hand, making the two of them stop short right in front of me. It’s clear the kid should be home in bed, but he seems entranced by my song. He’s completely digging it and will not move until I finish. Then he claps his little hands off.

“What’s your name?” I ask as the applause fades into silence. Too bad he’s too young to be on Facebook, or I’m pretty sure I’d have my fourth official like on my fan page.

“Tommy,” he says. “I’m taking the night train.”

“That’s very cool,” I tell him.

He makes his hands into chubby little fists and sticks them on his hips. “Are you taking a train?”

I shake my head and smile. “Nope. I’m just playing here.”

“Why are you playing so late?” he asks. And I have to admit, it’s a valid question. There’d be way more people to ignore me and give me half-eaten bags of Skittles during morning rush hour. Smart kid, this one. I decide to give it to him straight.

“Because I can’t go out in the sun.”

He squints at me, assessing things. He quickly comes to the same conclusion all the other kids did when I was his age. “So you’re a vampire?”

I laugh. It would probably be easier being a vampire because my life expectancy would be centuries longer and I wouldn’t feel such pressure to do something huge and earth-shattering just to prove I was here for the limited time I have. “I wish. That’d be much cooler. But it’s more like a really bad allergy.”

He nods. “I’m allergic to strawberries. My nose gets runny and I get hives.”

“That sucks,” I tell him, glancing up at his mom. I hope she’s not mad about my mildly bad language. But she’s staring at her phone, fingers flying all over the keyboard. I’m in the clear; I don’t think she even heard me.

“What happens to you if you’re in the sun?” Tommy asks.

I scrunch up my face and shrug. I certainly don’t want to scare the kid by telling him I’d be complete toast if I went out in it for too long. Or give him a lecture on the ugly realities of skin cancer. I finally go with a vague “Worse than hives.”

Tommy nods again. He seems pretty impressed. Well, he hasn’t seen anything yet.

“Did you know I have a song about you and your allergies?”

His mouth falls open as I start improvising a fast and silly ditty, making up the words as I go along.

“Iiiiiiiiiiiif Tommy eats strawberries, his nose gets runny, Tommy is my allergy buddy! If I go in the sun, it’ll mean my end; thank God I have Tommy as my allergy friend!”

Tommy giggles.

“If you think that was good, just wait until you hear the chorus,” I tell him, and I launch into it.

“Doo-da-doo-da-doo-ACHOO! Doo-da-doo-da-doo-ACHOO! Tommy’s my allergy buddy.”

He’s grinning from ear to ear as his mom ushers him away. He turns and waves good-bye, the big smile still there. There’s no way anyone will be more into me tonight than that little dude. So now is probably a good time to try out one of my newer songs. That way I can see where it needs tweaking without anyone noticing if (when) I mess it up.

I open my trusty notebook—full of the lyrics and chords to songs I’ve written, and basically my other best friend, next to Morgan—and flip to the page where I’ve scribbled my latest. I take a deep breath and go for it. After a false start, I go again and everything’s working. My voice weaves through the music and I get totally lost in the moment. For the time being, it doesn’t matter that I’m singing only to myself, that I have this rotten disease, and that I’m not at a wild and crazy graduation party like I should be right now.

When I look up from the frets of my guitar, it’s like the apocalypse has happened, because life will never be the same. Charlie Freaking Reed is standing right in front of me. Watching me like he’s actually interested. Listening to a song that’s pretty much about him, if I’m being honest.

I go into total spaz mode and screech, “Oh my God!”

“Hi,” he says, laughing at my overreaction.

That’s it: hi. Yeah, maybe not the most original line. But it doesn’t make a bit of difference; I’m still completely flustered and in awe that it’s really him here in person after I’ve watched him from afar for so long. My pulse starts racing so fast that I’m convinced I’m going to pass out. I jump up and try to shove my guitar back in the case. The bag of Skittles plops to the ground.

The plan is to run away as fast as I can. I have absolutely zero experience talking to the hottest guy on the planet. Make that any guy older than Tommy, my number one superfan, no matter his level of attractiveness. I’ll talk to Charlie Reed some other time, when my brain isn’t a scrambled, panicked mess.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to freak you out,” Charlie says, handing the candy back to me. Our fingers touch. A wave of tingling energy runs up my arm.

The fight-or-flight adrenaline coursing through my veins retreats enough for my brain to register that I need to chill out. “What?! Um. That’s—no. Me freak? Never. I’m not a freak. I mean I never freak.”

I’m not sure what language I’m trying to speak but it’s definitely not English. This is not the way I envisioned us meeting. What a complete, epic failure. My instinct is to walk away because that makes sense. Finally get the chance to hang out with the amazing boy you’ve been drooling over for the past ten years? Refuse to speak to him. Smooth move!