One Past Midnight

by Jessica Shirvington

  I pressed my fingers to my temples. I hated thinking about this stuff. Most of it was just weird and made me feel . . . wrong. Like I’m wrong. To avoid mistakes, I was careful all the time—trimming my hair only when I needed to, keeping it long and its natural boring brown, never giving it the kind of style either of my worlds would really approve of. Hovering somewhere in between. Safe. That’s where I stayed, all the time. Safe. Prepared. Alone.

  I have two lives and yet I’m a ghost.

  In less than two hours I’d be in my other life and I’d have three very big problems. One, I’m not supposed to have a broken wrist there and have no reason to have broken it. Two, the cast won’t come with me; it’s a material object. And three, it’s my belated eighteenth birthday party tomorrow night, and a broken wrist will not go with my dress. At. All.

  I lay back, stared at the paint peeling off the ceiling, and tried to figure out a solution. The only one that made any sense was going to hurt. A lot. But throwing myself down the stairs when I woke up was the only way I could be sure to convincingly fake the same injury.

  About half an hour before the Shift I changed out of my clothes, shimmying my fitted mini off with one hand and wriggling into my oversized T-shirt nightie. I ditched the sling; it was more hindrance than help. I left my black Doc Martens for last, wincing as I gave a one-handed pull to loosen the laces before using my feet to kick them off.

  I relied on rituals. Found comfort in the patterns I’d developed over the years. I settled into bed, ignoring the sheen of sweat on my forehead and the sick feeling in my gut as I arranged myself against the pillows as usual, making sure there would be nothing out of the ordinary to return to tomorrow night.

  I almost made it too.

  But with only minutes to go, my mouth started its telltale watering. I had to bolt to the bathroom to throw up before hurrying back to bed before midnight struck.

  The last thoughts that slipped into my mind marked the beginning of the change in my worlds. How could this have happened? How has nothing like this happened to me before?

  I knew the Shift had happened.

  I’d been asleep in this life, so it took me a while to rouse my body, despite my live-wire mind. It’s an awful, drugged feeling, willing your eyes to open.

  The second lucidity took hold, I sat bolt upright in bed and felt the panic flood my chest. I should have known better. Eighteen years of going through the Shift, I shouldn’t have been so frightened . . . but I was. Every. Single. Time. It petrified me.

  I concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths. My good hand slid out over warm silk sheets that exposed no signs I’d been somewhere else for the past twenty-four hours. Nothing about this world was aware I’d been cheating on it, living another life. Without looking, I knew it was the exact same time it had been when I left.

  My eternal enemy . . . midnight.

  I’d done all sorts of things to prove it, to document the truth. When I was fifteen, I filmed myself through the midnight minutes. Not so much as a Blair Witch moment. One second I was there, the next I had a confused look on my face. I could tell something about me was different in that blink of an eye, but there was nothing that would prove it to anyone else.

  Then there was the time I lit a match a couple of seconds before midnight to see what would happen. That was not a good idea. My bed—with me in it—almost went up in smoke. I just wasn’t quick enough to pull myself together after the Shift and blow it out before it touched my fingers. Hey, you live and learn.

  I slipped out of bed and made my way to the bathroom to wash my face. But with still-sleepy legs my judgment was off and klutz mode set in. I staggered into the door frame, my bad arm taking the brunt of the impact.

  I froze, dreading the shooting pain that would follow. But after a few stunned seconds I was still waiting for the agony to set in.

  “No way,” I gasped, slowly letting my not-so-broken—actually not-hurt-at-all—arm straighten and move about. I fisted my fingers over and over.

  “No. Way.”

  • • •

  I wanted to spiral.

  I wanted to press all internal panic buttons and scream for help.

  I wanted to understand for once.

  No, that wasn’t it. What I wanted . . . it was the same thing I’d always wanted, just in different packaging.

  I wanted this not to be my life.

  I wanted this—whatever it was that made me this two-lives person—not to be the definition of who I am.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “And you can’t do anything about that,” I scolded myself, letting out a resigned breath.

  I stumbled into my squash-court-sized bathroom, where I threw up again, then went straight back to bed and tried in vain to get a few hours’ sleep.

  It was useless.

  Thoughts raced through my mind. I had to force myself not to jump up and start pacing. This changed nothing, I reminded myself. This was just one more thing that fitted into the overflowing basket of weird that was my life.

  I focused on the upside; for once I had been given a get-out-of-jail-free card. It was a welcome relief that I wasn’t going to have to throw myself down the stairs in a few hours.

  Take it! Be happy. At least the dress will look pretty tonight.

  At 7:00 a.m., I gave up on sleep and had a long hot shower. By the time I emerged, I felt more like myself again. Well, this me anyway—the one I needed to be in this world. But just to be sure, I moved slowly. Allowed myself a little extra time. Normally I wouldn’t stand for it—pathetic lingering—but today I took in my surroundings. My huge four-poster bed, with its pink silk bedding and pillows piled high. I walked past it, my toes sinking into the plush cream carpet, letting my hand glide over the heavily lacquered walnut frame on my way to the large French doors. I pulled back the cream curtains, carefully tying them with the sash bow at the wall, and opened the doors to my small Georgian balcony.

  Home. Everything just as it should be.

  I took a deep breath, letting in the suburban Wellesley air. It was one of the best things about this place, the clean air. It was different in every way from Roxbury—thinner, sharper, and the smell: newly cut grass under the sun. I loved the smell. Today would be a typical June Massachusetts day—hot, and probably a thunderstorm in the afternoon.

  I’d just closed my eyes to soak it in, when a high-pitched car horn made me almost jump out of my skin.

  I looked down to the driveway. My oldest brother, Ryan, was standing by his retro convertible Porsche, one foot in, one foot out.

  “If you want a lift, hurry up. I’ve got to get back to school,” he said, looking up at me like he wished he could just get in the car and go. But at Thursday night dinner with Ryan and my other brother, Lucas, Dad had ordered Ryan to drive me to school this morning, since my little Audi was at the garage getting new tires. As far as Ryan was concerned, he paid his family dues by turning up at the house a few days a month. That, and that alone, apparently entitled him to the more-than-generous allowance he pissed away at Harvard while half-assing his way through business school.

  “Hello! Earth to Sabine! You’re not even dressed,” he said, exasperated.

  I gave him a delicate middle finger and a blatantly fake smile. “Guess you’ll just have to wait, Ry. I’ll be down as fast as I can manage.” As soon as I spun my back to him, my smile faded. I was being a bitch. I’m not sure exactly when it was that Ryan and I slipped into this type of role-play, but at some point it had become the norm. All part of living up to Wellesley expectations.

  I got dressed and did my hair. When I was finished I surveyed myself in the full-length mirror approvingly. Simple yet chic. A high-waisted plaid skirt in shades of blue, finishing just above the knee, paired with a cap-sleeved white silk top and gray wedges. After a quick brush and a touch of lip gloss, I grabbed my Balenciaga bag and headed down the marble stairs to the foyer where my mother was waiting.

  She watched me take the last few steps, and then waited while
I finished reading a text from Miriam that had me smirking. When I gave her my full attention, she smiled. “Make sure you remind your friends that there will be no drinking tonight at the party.” She was in a cream suit and caramel flats, every detail purposely chosen: the natural, flattering makeup, the hair in a casual updo, and the delicate showering of accessories.

  “Yes, Mom. Everyone knows how you feel about underage drinking.” Which is why everyone who is drinking will be hanging out at the pool house just in case someone comes snooping.

  She smiled and took a step forward, eyeing my outfit. “That’s a pretty skirt, darling. Plaid really has made a comeback this season.” She brushed away nonexistent lint from my shoulder and looked me up and down again thoughtfully.

  “But . . . ?”

  “Oh, nothing, darling. It’s very sweet. You know me, I just love you in green—it brings out your eyes.”

  “Mom, I’m wearing green tonight. I don’t want to overdo it.” I smiled to reassure her and didn’t take it to heart. Mom was the most insecure person I knew. It wasn’t just me; she was toughest on herself. I was sure she changed at least a dozen times each morning before she settled on an outfit, and she was rarely in the same one by the time I arrived home from school. She’s always been like that, but it’s been even worse since Dad left.

  She nodded, looking contrite. “You’re right. You look beautiful. Like always. I’ll see you tonight. Everything will be ready and perfect.”

  I fiddled with my bag strap. “Ah . . . Mom, you know how we discussed . . .”

  She looked at me for a moment, not getting it, but then she blinked, catching on. “Oh, darling. I know, I know . . . you’re eighteen now and I promised I’d give you some privacy. I’ll be going out with your aunt Lyndal. She’s sworn to keep me away from the house. I just want to be here to see you in your dress and make sure everything is—”

  “Perfect,” I finished for her.

  “Yes.”

  I reached over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “See you after school. I better get going.”

  Mom watched me walk out the door. I closed it behind me so she wouldn’t see the next scene unfold. Just as I walked down the steps and Ryan sneered at me for having been made to wait so long, a white SUV came screaming up the gravel drive. Miriam, my best friend in this world, was behind the wheel. Perfect timing.

  Ryan watched the SUV until it pulled to a halt and then looked back at me, eyes narrowed.

  I smiled the special smile I reserved for him. “Oh.” I batted my eyelashes. “Sorry, Ry, did I forget to tell you that Miriam was giving me a lift to school?”

  He returned the finger I’d delivered to him earlier and took off in his car, leaving a spray of gravel in his wake.

  For a moment I felt bad. But then I reminded myself—this is me. This is who I am here. I’d tried other ways, but I’d soon learned that if I wanted to function in each of my worlds, then I had to really embrace them and accept my place. The Sabine in this world had to deal with a twenty-two-year-old jerk of a brother called Ryan—a guy who, when I was eleven, once locked me in the garage for five hours while he had a bunch of friends over—and that was the only way to do it.

  I slid into the passenger seat beside Miriam.

  “Your brother is hot,” Miriam said, her eyes fixed on the dust storm Ryan’s car had left behind.

  “Yeah, well you see hot, I see pain in my ass. He’s just—” A frustrated noise escaped my lips. “He’s so selfish. He never helps Mom out, never . . . anything. All he has to do is turn up at the house for a few days each month. Get this, he can’t stand to be without his drinking buddies for more than a day, so next month he’s bringing one of them with him.”

  “Ooh, is he cute?” Miriam asked, her face lighting up at the thought of more potential eye candy.

  I shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care. All I know is that next month I’ll have to deal with two of them.”

  As we drove through the village center, my mind suddenly flashed back to yesterday—well, my version of yesterday. “Hey, can you stop? I . . . I want to grab some fruit.”

  Miriam didn’t slow down. “You can get fruit at school.”

  Already my subconscious was niggling uncomfortably, but before I’d thought it through, my mouth was open again.

  “Yeah, but I want this fruit. Just stop. There. Just outside the fruit stand.”

  Miriam looked at me like I was crazy. I gave myself a mental check and yep . . . it was crazy. This was exactly the type of thing I worked obsessively every day to avoid, and here I was slipping right into the kind of behavior that earned me crazy stares.

  Shit.

  I was about to tell Miriam to forget it when she swerved into a parking spot in front of the stand.

  “If you’re going on a fruit diet, there’s no way you’re doing it without me.”

  “Oh.” I opened my mouth to explain that wasn’t what I was doing and then realized I’d been thrown a safety net. I stopped fidgeting and raised an eyebrow. “Party season is upon us, Miriam,” I said, with a tone that told her she should have already been prepared.

  She nodded solemnly. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  I took my chance and jumped out of her SUV.

  Inside the stand, everything was demoralizingly normal. No sign that anything was any different from how it had always been. Then, through the multicolored plastic strips hanging from the internal doorway, came fruit-stand guy. Chubby, balding, wearing oversize jeans, and flashing an unwelcome glimpse of his butt crack when he bent over a stack of apples. The same guy who’d owned the stand for as long as I could remember.

  “Can I get you something, missy?” he asked, casting me a quick glance before returning to his apple pyramid.

  “Oh, um, yeah. Just, um, just some apples and strawber-ries, please.”

  He grabbed a paper bag. “How many of each?”

  I felt sick. “Two apples and two pints of strawberries. Thanks.”

  He had them bagged within a few seconds and was at the register.

  As I paid him, I cleared my throat. “I’m . . . I think I saw you yesterday. Coming out of the subway . . . in Boston.”

  He glanced at me briefly. A crazy stare. “Not me, missy.”

  “Um, oh, well, it looked like you and I was just wondering if you saw me too. You were, um, you were in a light-brown suit coming up the stairs. You, um, you walked right by me.”

  Fruit-stand guy passed me the bag and gave me another crazy stare on the house. “Not me. I don’t even own a suit and I haven’t been in the city for, oh . . .” He thought about it. “At least a month since my last visit. Must’ve been someone else.”

  I nodded vigorously. “Yeah, yeah. I was probably . . . It was getting dark and I couldn’t see clearly.”

  “Young girl like you shouldn’t be in the city late like that. You should be careful.”

  I nodded again, backing away from the stand.

  Shit.

  I never should’ve gone there.

  “Yeah.” I held up the brown bag. “Thanks, I better get to school.”

  My heart pounded in my ears; the dry bitter taste in my mouth was the familiar flavor of disappointment.

  Whomever I’d seen, whether it had been him or not, he had no idea. He wasn’t like me.

  No one was.

  One more week and freedom is ours!” Miriam proclaimed as we walked down the hall. We’d been counting down for the past twelve weeks. For me, it had been twice as long, so there were smiles all around.

  “I, for one, intend to make the most of the break,” I said with a sly bite of my lip.

  “You and Dex?” Miriam asked, raising a well-manicured eyebrow. Miriam had long blond hair, which she’d worked into a stylishly messy updo. She had a thing for clips and today she was sporting at least a dozen embedded in her hair, all varying pastel shades. Combined with her pale complexion, ice-blue eyes, and today’s outfit of a soft-pink pencil skirt and a cream off-the-s
houlder T-shirt, she looked like a fashion goddess.

  I shrugged. Miriam had already traveled the “first-time” road with her boyfriend, Brett, and I’d been trying to pull her out of the backseat of his BMW at every party since.

  “I think he’s waited long enough. It would be an appro-priate graduation marker,” I bluffed, holding my smirk and not letting my dry mouth give me away. It’s not that Dex wasn’t perfect on paper. And it’s not as if perfect on paper wasn’t exactly what I wanted in this life. It worked for me, made it easier to be who I was. It was just . . . when he kissed me I could feel . . . everything. And not in a good way. The shape of his lips, which didn’t quite melt into mine the way I’d dreamed about, the rough grating of his stubble against my skin, the way he leaned in so close I couldn’t breathe, and held me behind my head so there was no escape. It wasn’t that he was a bad kisser technique-wise, it just wasn’t the way I’d imagined it would be with someone I really . . . We were just a beat off. And then there was the way his hands . . .

  I closed my eyes and shrunk away from the thought. Dex was gorgeous, and we fitted in the ways that mattered. No couple was perfect.

  Okay, so Dex wasn’t going to rock my world. But I’d been waiting to make this decision for twice as long as every other eighteen-year-old, and had already held off a lot longer than most people with one life. I refused to keep going on as a twice-lived virgin. And if something better were available to me, something earth-rockingly good, surely I would’ve spotted it by now.

  In either world.

  “So . . . ,” Miriam started, her sly tone cutting into my thoughts. “Tonight?”

  “No,” I said, casually flicking my hair while my mind screamed—NO! I was not going to be sex ready by tonight. “I’m thinking graduation night. We’ll go to the dinner and I’ll have everything arranged. It’ll be perfect. And besides, tonight is about a different kind of fun. How are preparations?” I asked, redirecting her focus just as the third of our powerhouse trio joined us.