Chasing Midnight by Courtney King Walker Page A

have no idea how I’m going to top it next year,” she adds, pouting.
    “You’ll figure it out,” I say, wishing I had some kind of memory of the Pumpkin Ball as this girl in this life, not last night’s embarrassing episode of serving up cocktails and caviar, being scolded for fraternizing with the customers. What doesit feel like to be the envy of the party? To dance in these feet, I wonder, peering down at my green-painted toenails. For a second, the sound of an orchestra blasts through my ears at the same time a room full of faces, all eyes on me, smiling, raising champagne glasses in a toast, floods my mind so I can almost taste it . . .
    And then the image is gone, whatever it was, and we turn the corner into Senior Hallway.
    Always packed with jocks, cheerleaders, and pretty much any senior who matters, it’s the shortest route from our lockers to the other end of the school. I always avoid it because you’re asking to get trampled if you take that route, especially if you aren’t a senior. Sometimes you even catch an armpit in your mouth or an elbow in your rib along the way too.
    But not this time.
    Most of the seniors look up and say hi to us as we pass through, like we belong. Which, apparently we do. All at once I feel extremely impressed with myself for finally being a lucky one for the first time in my life. I even lift my chin, smiling a little bigger.
    Attention does that to you.
    We stop at our lockers, though it feels strange to be standing here next to Brecke so casually like this. I’m used to her and the rest of the lucky ones ignoring me and everyone else while they block all access to my own loser locker that I got stuck with freshman year. I always tried to maneuver my way through them without being noticed, figuring it was better being invisible than being annoying.
    Usually it worked—being invisible, that is.
    “Crap, I’m out again,” Brecke says, shaking an empty pill bottle upside down, her eyes darting up and down and all over the place as she digs through her purse.
    “Out of what?”
    “Nothing.”
    She turns her back to me and opens her locker.
    I turn, tackling my own locker combination, but can’t help making eye contact with three . . . no, four senior boys. Cute ones too. This feeling expanding inside me is like a drug. Please give me more . . .
    “Are you even listening?” Brecke punches my arm.
    “Yeah, what?” I snap. Woops. Hello, Rude Mackenzie. “Sorry,” I say right away, hoping she didn’t pick up on it.
    But she did. Her smile fades and she turns away, looking hurt. I’m about to apologize again when we’re ambushed by more of the lucky ones—Liv Sandstrom, Morgan Moeaki, Tanner Slade, and, of course, James Odera.
    My heart spins in circles, my palms sweating.
    I am so out of place here, so out of my league. Everyone is all smiles and jokes, animated with excitement about last night. My arms explode in chills, and my cheeks feel red when James puts his arm around me and tugs me close to him. I feel his hand barely grazing mine as he whispers in my ear, “I missed you, K.”
    James Odera gave me a nickname, and I sorta love it. I want to scream. Here I am—finally part of the group I always only watched from afar. It’s amazing what upping your tax bracket can do for you.
    I scan the faces around me, enamored by their attention. Even their body language differs from before, when I was an outsider. Two girls watch us from across the hallway. Morgan spins her head around and gives them the “what?” look.
    I know that look.
    “Are you sure we can get in?” asks Liv, wearing a wicked smile on her perfect, pouty lips.
    “I told you, it’s not patrolled,” says Morgan.
    I wonder what they’re talking about but am afraid of looking clueless by asking. In this group that’s the last thing you want.
    Brecke and Tanner have slipped away and are quietly laughing about something between them. I can’t tell if they are anitem or still working on it. In