The Midnights

by Sarah Nicole Smetana

  Dedication

  For my parents,

  and for Justin

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Sarah Nicole Smetana

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  One

  THE FIRST TIME I woke at midnight and stumbled out of bed, drawn into the yard as if by a magnetic force, I was eight years old. A warm breeze had blown down from the mountains that day and pushed all the clouds out of Los Angeles, revealing a fat full moon that drenched our lawn in a puddle of light. My feet itched against the dry grass as I moved forward, lured by the secret whisper of wind through our avocado tree. I knew my father spent his nights in the studio if he wasn’t down at Joe Thompson’s bar, but I’d never gone out there for any other reason than to call him back in. My mother always made me the messenger.

  “Oh good, you’re here,” my father said when I entered the garage, still drunk with sleep. “I need you to help me out with something.”

  As though he’d been expecting me, he sat me on a folding chair and placed an electric guitar across my lap. Its body was so much bigger than mine, the wood dense on my legs, the metallic scent of the strings both exotic and intoxicating. He maneuvered my clumsy fingers into a C and I held them there, or tried my hardest. I strummed. It sounded terrible.

  “Keep at it, Susie Q. Try to make it so your fingers only touch the string they’re holding. And strum along with this beat, okay?”

  He slapped his palm against his thigh, tapped his foot against the oil-stained cement. I struck the pick down the strings and cringed at how harsh it sounded—but I knew this was a test, a way into my father’s mysterious world, and I wanted to pass, so I kept going.

  I nodded my head each time I strummed and soon my whole body moved with the beat. After what seemed like an eternity, I managed to play the chord without muting any notes. I pushed the strings down harder, afraid of losing the sound, but it felt like I was holding down the freshly sharpened blade of a butcher knife and my wrist ached from the odd angle. Still, I continued, propelled by my father as he picked up another guitar from its stand and cried, “That’s my girl! Keep going! Keep going!” He ran around turning knobs, flipping switches, changing the sound of my strumming into something euphoric and haunting. Then he began picking a solo so hypnotic that I seemed to move out of my body, into the sound, disconnected from the pain in my fingers and the unexplored depth of night outside in the real world—a place that suddenly seemed so insignificant.

  And even as time passed, as my fingertips hardened into calluses, as I slipped into those awkward early teenage years and began to sense the scrim of my childhood lifting, my father’s studio remained the sole place where I felt most extraordinary, and most alive.

  Inevitably, I grew up, but I never grew out of that feeling. It was the reason I continued stealing away to the studio throughout high school. It was why I found myself there on that sweltering August midnight, less than a week before my senior year started.

  That summer, I had one goal: I wanted to write a great song. I’d filled an entire notebook in the pursuit, the pages brimming with perfect rhymes, chord progressions, and notes carefully plotted across the six lines of hand-drawn tablature charts. I’d made lists of harmonious chords, and scribbled potential lyrics in the margins. And yet, despite all the nights I spent in the studio with my father, despite the songs I had finished and the fragments that consumed my daytime mind, I hadn’t shown him any of my attempts. I’d written some good songs, surely. But not great ones. Not yet.

  So we spent that night working on one of his new pieces—a rock ballad built around heart-wrenching shifts in delay. And after what must have been a few hours, I began to feel the pull of the sun in the east, even though I couldn’t actually see the sky outside and had no exact idea of what time it was. Long before, after my father lost the practice space his band had rented in Silver Lake and decided to convert our small detached garage into a music studio, he’d soundproofed the walls with scraps of shipping foam and covered the windows with cardboard and old, heavy quilts. The only light came from a single bulb hanging directly above us; the other side of the room, where my mother insisted on storing opaque plastic bins full of unnecessary things like my baby clothes and her old college textbooks—that had always been cloaked in darkness.

  Without warning, my father switched off his delay pedal and leaned back in his chair. His fingers glided over the neck of his favorite guitar: a maple Fender Telecaster. It was one of the only things he brought with him when he first came to LA from some place he never talked about.

  “All right, Susie Q,” he said, examining me. “Your turn. Show me what you’ve got.”

  “Right now?” I asked.

  He nodded. “When else is there?”

  I pulled my flimsy composition notebook into my lap and flipped the pages, rejecting song after song. I wasn’t sure what to play for him, what would be good enough.

  My father muted his strings, plunging the room into static silence. “Whatever’s there, on that page. Play it for me.”

  “This one’s not ready,” I told him, a nervous crest of sweat gathering between my shoulder blades.

  “Fear’s not going to help you, Suz. Maybe the song’s shit, but maybe it’s not. You’ll never know unless you let it live.”

  My heart drummed against my rib cage. “But I haven’t even finished—”

  “Play it,” he said.

  I bit my lip, and brought my hands to the strings.

  The song, so far, was simple: just a few barre chords and a verse. I strummed slowly through the intro and took a deep breath, preparing to sing. Though my voice lacked the flexibility of drifting between octaves or into a smooth falsetto, often snapping like a power line during the Santa Anas when I tried to reach a high note, I’d written vocals just slightly out of my comfortable range because I knew they would suit the song better. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, hoping to propel the words from my chest:

  The longer I stand here waiting,

  the less I understand why.

  You’re only an illusion,

  a mirage on the horizon line,

  and I can never get any closer to you.

  When I finished, my father nodded to himself, thinking. My stomach tightened as I waited for his verdict.

  “About a boy?” he asked after a moment, reaching for the glass of whiskey sweating by his feet.

  My skin flushed. I’d always been inspired by that place of longing, of love, but had never actually been in it. Not reciprocally, anyway. “It just sort of came out.”

  “You’re holding back.”

  “Well, I might not rush to bring him home for dinner, but if I had a boyfriend I wouldn’t lie about it.”

  My father cleared his throat. “I was talking about the song.”

  Between us, the amps buzzed.

  “So you wouldn’t bring him home for dinner?” My father narrowed his focus on me.

  I shrugged. “We’re not exactly the family-dinner type.”
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  “See? This is what I’m talking about. Fear. You have to let go of that. You’ve got a lot of potential here, Susannah—I mean that. But when you’re afraid, you try too hard. And that stops the song from evolving organically, from being what it wants to be.”

  The tension in my stomach climbed toward my throat. My father continued: “Don’t get that look on your face. I’m talking about the universal ‘you,’ okay? No one can force a song to be great.”

  “I know,” I said, though having this knowledge didn’t actually help.

  “You have to shake your notions of good and bad, and create outside of judgment. Follow the instinct, not the convention. Listen only to here.” My father pounded his fist against his chest. “Because who’s to say that a song you think isn’t very good, or isn’t the right style, isn’t in fact the best fucking thing you’ll ever create? That’s what happened with ‘Love Honey.’ We had hits before, but nothing even close to that. And all because of your mom. Because I decided to say fuck it, and take a chance on something different.”

  I knew this story well. My father met my mother at a show his band, the Vital Spades, played at the Troubadour. He’d seen her from the stage, and only because one of the spotlights had been knocked loose during a punk concert the night before. Instead of swiveling forward, the light shone directly down into the crowd, illuminating the freckles on my mother’s cheeks, haloing her honey-colored hair. They’d been dating just a few weeks when she decided to call off the relationship. He wrote the song to win her back.

  Then, it became the Vital Spades’ biggest hit.

  A smile flashed across my father’s face as he summoned the memory, one hand glancing off the guitar’s strings, the other clanking ice around in his glass.

  “After ‘Love Honey,’” he said, gazing into the dark half of the room, “everything changed. There was always some suit-and-tie coming by to chat with me after shows. They never knew the first thing about music, only cared about what kind of money we could make them, like that was all I had done it for. And you know what I told them?”

  Sometimes, he told them to go fuck themselves. And sometimes, he spent hours discussing philosophical approaches to music, until he had the label guys practically converting to his pseudo-religion. There were a number of variations, any one of which he could have run with that night, but as I waited for the insurgent punch line, his expression shifted and became distant.

  “I said that all I wanted was to be able to do this for the rest of my life.” My father motioned to the guitars and the cords, the clutter, the storage bins. But I knew he saw something else. “To keep writing songs and playing shows,” he said slowly. “That’s all I wanted.”

  As the room filled up with the amps’ idle hum, I couldn’t stop the guilt from burning through me. I knew I was the reason why my father left the Vital Spades. No one had ever said so, but I’d long ago filled in the rest of the story on my own: when my parents married at the chapel in the Beverly Hills courthouse, she was already pregnant. The Spades’ final performance was six months later.

  These were the facts. I couldn’t change them, but I could do my best to sever my father’s regret before it festered.

  “Maybe we should pick this back up tomorrow,” I said, stretching my arms over my head. “I probably have to leave for work pretty soon.”

  My father glanced up at me, blinking, like he had just been shaken from a pleasant dream. His eyes looked bluer than they had in weeks, but his face was tired and slightly crinkled. I wondered if he’d been sleeping at all, and whether this particular wistfulness had anything to with Lance and Travis—two boys a few years older than me who had appeared at our house earlier that summer, obsessed with the old Vital Spades tapes they likely bought on a whim from the sale rack outside some used record store. They claimed to have tracked him down on the internet, and for a while, they’d shown up frequently, invigorating my father’s ego, shadowing him like a low-angled sun. Two weeks had passed since I’d last seen them. Truthfully, I hoped we’d never see them again.

  “We should both try to get some sleep,” I said as gently as possible.

  My father nodded. I rested the Stratocaster I’d been playing back in its stand.

  “You’re getting better,” he said then. “Every piece you write is better than the last.”

  I smiled and said, “Thanks, Dad.”

  As I eased the door shut behind me, I caught one final glimpse of him: swirling the last inch of whiskey around in his glass, staring into it the same way that fortune-tellers on the Venice boardwalk look into their murky crystal orbs. Then I waded back through the sultry night.

  A current of static electricity tingled through the air as I tiptoed across the living room, sliding my fingers over the spines of my father’s record collection before rounding the corner to my bedroom. Beneath the stillness, I sensed something stirring. In my chest, I felt a throb of hope.

  Two

  I’D BEEN WORKING at the Last Bean for a year and one month, since the day after my sixteenth birthday. My mother basically forced the application upon me, but for a part-time job it was pleasant enough. Unlike our house, the building had air-conditioning, and when shifts were slow my boss, Lou, even let me change the café’s standard jazz CD to something far more agreeable, like the Band, or Smokey Robinson and the Miracles. Otherwise, I worked to a score of steaming milk, the soft hiss and drip of espresso. And while I sometimes hated the slick smell of coffee that coated my hair and the way the grinds clung beneath my fingernails, worse fates were certainly imaginable.

  “Hey, girly,” Lou called that morning as I flew through the door, a plume of dust kicking in behind me. Sometime after leaving my father in the studio and waking twenty minutes earlier, the Santa Ana winds had started blowing.

  A grunt was my only response.

  Lou shook his head. “Is that any way to start a Wednesday? Let’s see some enthusiasm. Up top!”

  He reached for a high five, his smile too wide for the time of morning. Though Lou was in his late forties, he acted much younger; he still spent all of his off days surfing, and wore his beach-glazed hair long. Most of the time I admired him for this. I smacked his hand with what little strength my body could muster.

  “You’re especially chipper today,” I noted through a yawn.

  “What can I say? It’s a beautiful morning.”

  I turned back to the window. “I think this still counts as nighttime.”

  In the dark glass I saw the Bean’s interior reflection: the chalkboard menus where I had painstakingly written prices, the silver espresso machine gleaming against the dusky sky. And yet, I knew what he meant; everything seemed so calm and quiet from inside the empty café. In here, I could almost forget that California was crushed beneath another unrelenting heat wave, all the hillsides brown and brittle. I could almost forget that the winds had started blowing, so much earlier than usual—and what might happen if they didn’t stop.

  “It’s all about perspective, Susannah, about seeing the glass as half full.” Lou poured coffee beans into the grinder. “You’ve only got one life. And today, I see good things on the horizon.”

  I said, “You can’t see anything in the wind.”

  Over the next few hours, our morning rush came and went. Lou retreated to the storage room to check inventory, and between customers, I wrote down new ideas for my song on a strip of blank receipt tape that I kept tucked in the pocket of my apron. I tried to follow my father’s advice, listening only to instinct and my heart. I tried not to judge too quickly. None of it worked.

  I was scratching out a line so hard that the paper began ripping, when someone else’s voice penetrated my concentration: “Can’t a guy get some service around here?”

  I glanced up to find Nick Fletcher smiling at me. In the new-morning sun, his eyes looked the same bright aquamarine as a swimming pool.

  “We don’t serve the likes of you in here,” I said, waving him off with a flick of my wrist.


  He clasped his hands at his chest and bent over the counter toward me. Because of the way his blond hair swooped across his forehead and the faint scent of chlorine wafting from his skin, I knew he had just finished water polo practice. “Come on, Hayes, please. I’m dying for one of those blended mochaccino-whipped-cream concoctions. A tall is a large, right? And can you double the mocha but hold the whipped cream?”

  “You want what?” I asked, scrunching my nose. Nick usually kept his order simple: an iced coffee with a dash of cream.

  His cell phone buzzed then. He glanced at the screen before sliding it back in his pocket. “I’m only messing with you,” he said. “I just want an iced coffee. But I’m a little disappointed at how easily you cracked.”

  I laughed, allowing my gloom to peel away. “Thank God. I was beginning to question what all that sun is doing to your sanity.”

  “You just looked so painfully serious. What are you working on?”

  “A new song.”

  “Let me see.”

  “It’s not ready,” I said automatically.

  Nick snatched the receipt from my hand. “Who cares? It might never be by your standards, anyway.”

  As his eyes swung across the paper, I scrutinized his face for an honest reaction. His brow furrowed in concentration, and I noticed his lips moving, as though testing the weight of the words on his tongue. Nick was not a musician—he was a filmmaker, or hoped to be one day—but he knew how to navigate a piano, and had created surprisingly beautiful soundtracks for each one of his short films. When it came to music, I trusted him. Besides my father, he was the only one.

  He handed the paper back. “This is really good, Hayes.”

  “That’s what you always say,” I told him, but a warm rush of gratitude surged through me.

  “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. The end—” He reached out to reclaim the paper, but I shoved it back into my apron. “What was it again? ‘Expiration dates tease me, and other possibilities tempt only pain, but I can’t let go. I can’t let go.’ And then how it keeps repeating? I can feel the momentum building just from the words. That’s gold-record material right there. Have you written the music yet?”