I dial again. This time, she picks up. “Having a nice day?” she asks. Not a loaded question, so why does it feel like one?
“Peachy,” I say, my patience paper thin. Whatever’s eating her is nothing compared to what I’m trying to deal with. I swallow, trying to bury that thought. I feel selfish for thinking it. It isn’t Carly’s fault that I can’t tell her what’s going on with me, and if I don’t tell her, then she has no way to know. I keep my tone light, and ask, “What’s with you?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She falls silent, and I’m left wondering if anything is going to be simple today. Even putting groceries away felt like I was walking through a minefield.
After a few seconds, she says, “Anything you want to tell me about your day, Miki?”
It hits me then. She must think I had plans with Luka and didn’t tell her about it. Of course. If she had plans with a boy, she’d talk my ear off before, after, and possibly even during the event. She’s hurt that I didn’t share, and I feel lousy about that. But she has it all wrong.
“I didn’t have plans with Luka. I would have told you if I did,” I say, aiming for casual. “He dropped by unexpectedly while I was out running. He waited for me till I got back.”
“Uh-huh.” There’s still an off edge to her tone. “And?”
Okay. She must think I have more to tell her than I do.
“I introduced him to Dad, who wasn’t too embarrassing. He made himself scarce while we carried in the groceries and put them away.”
“And?” She keeps asking that like she’s waiting for me to say something specific. Something monumental.
“There is no
and
. That’s all, the whole story. Not very exciting, I know. We talked for a few minutes on the driveway. Then he took off.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Positive?” She sounds angry now.
“What’s with you?” I ask again, probably sounding a little angry myself.
“Luka deserves better than you sneaking around behind his back!”
“What? I’m not sneaking— I’m not— What?” If I didn’t know better, I’d say that Carly sounds jealous. Or delusional.
“I saw you,” she says, the words low and ugly and laced with accusation.
My first thought is that she saw me get pulled. Saw me fighting. Saw me on the mission. But that’s impossible. We weren’t here, and there’s no way she was there. So something else is giving her a wedgie. “Carly, what exactly do you think you saw?”
“I saw you holding hands with Luka. On the driveway, when Sarah and I drove up.”
She’s talking about the moments before we got pulled. I run through them in my thoughts, but don’t see what her problem is.
“I wasn’t holding hands with him. And I don’t get why you’re so pissed. Aren’t you the one who’s pushing me to call him? Now you’re mad that we were carrying groceries together?” In a snap, I get it. I remember all the things Carly’s said about Luka since the first day of school. She’s the one who freaked and couldn’t stop talking about how much he’d changed in the year he was away. How tall he is. How much he’s filled out. She’s always heading for our spot when he’s on the track. But I never really thought about it because we’ve been hanging out under the giant oak since freshman year.
Carly crushing on Luka? No, that can’t be right. She would have said. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. I am so not in the frame of mind for this right now. “We weren’t holding hands, Carly. We reached for the grocery bag at the same time. The story’s a lot less interesting when you don’t add anything that didn’t actually happen.”
“Yeah?” Carly snarls. “So let’s talk about what definitely
did
happen. You were with Luka right after you finished making out with Aviator Guy. Since when are you such a skank?”
“Aviator Guy?” And did my best friend just call me a skank?
“The park?” Carly’s practically yelling now. “Sarah lives at the corner? I saw you making out with him. I know it was him even though he was wearing different glasses. And I don’t know what hurts more, the fact that you lied to me about it, or the fact that I called first dibs on him and you didn’t even care.” Carly’s crying. I can hear it in her voice.
“Carly, no, you’ve got this wrong. I wasn’t— I didn’t—”
“What’s his name?” Carly clips out. “How do you know him? You never said you knew him when we were talking about him after school on Friday. What else are you lying to me about?”
“I don’t know him. I mean, I didn’t know him, not when you were talking about him on Friday.” I’m breathing too fast, and even though what I’m saying is the truth, I know it doesn’t sound like it. “I went running. He happened to be running the same way. We ran together.”
“You don’t run on Sundays!”
“Well, I ran this Sunday.” Today. A couple of hours ago. Was it really only a couple of hours ago? I feel like I’ve lived a lifetime since Jackson ran with me to the park.
“And ended up making out by the swings? With a guy you just met?”
“We weren’t making out. He hugged me. I had a—” A what? A
moment
, and I let a stranger hug me? No wonder Carly thinks I’m lying. “I had a rough minute where I was upset and he just hugged me. That’s all.”
Carly makes a strangled sound. “Save it for someone who wants to hear it,” she says, and the line cuts off.
I stare at the phone. She hung up on me. Carly. The one person in my life who I could count on not to leave. She just left. Hung up and left. I feel sick.
Then I feel angry. She’s my friend. My best friend. Carly’s the peacemaker. She gives everyone the benefit of the doubt. Shouldn’t she at least hear my side before putting me in front of the firing squad?
But that’s just it. I can’t tell her my side. I can’t tell her anything. My secrets are driving a wedge between us.
All she knows is what she thinks she saw—an eyewitness account tainted by both insider knowledge and lack thereof. Anxiety sits like a lead bar on my chest, buzzing through my limbs and crushing me at the same time. I need to do something. I need to—
“Miki!” Dad yells up from downstairs. “I threw in a couple of loads. Can you fold the one in the dryer and transfer what’s in the washer?”
Normally I’d groan, but right now I’m happy to do it. Anything to distract myself. Once I’m in the basement, I see that it’s sheets and towels in the dryer. Folding them won’t take long, and I need something that’ll take forever. So I grab the first sheet and start ironing. Good busywork for my hands; I just wish it could keep my brain busy, too.
A while later, Dad comes down and stands there, watching me. “I was wondering what was taking you so long down here. What are you doing?”
“Ironing.”
“The bedsheets? Who irons bedsheets?”
“Me.”
“You’ve never ironed them before.”
“I’m ironing them now,” I say.
He stares at me for a long time, his expression bewildered, and then he leaves. I slam the iron down hard and rub it back and forth on the sheet, which is a soft, pearly gray, just a little lighter than Jackson’s eyes.
That night, I do something I haven’t done in years. I climb out my window and sit on the flat roof of the overhang that covers the front porch, my back against the bricks below my window. Mom and I used to do this when I was little, sit out here on warm, clear nights. Mom always kept a solid grip on the back of my shirt even though there really was no chance that I’d fall.
We’d stare out at the stars and she’d try and pick out the constellations.
I think that one’s Ursa Major
, she’d say. Or,
I think that one’s Cassiopeia
. Sometimes she’d be right. Sometimes she’d be wrong. It didn’t really matter. I just liked looking at the stars with her.
There isn’t much of a moon tonight, just a thin crescent hanging on a velvet night sky. Compared to the tunnels I spent the last two days in, I wouldn’t call it dark. There’s too much ambient light from the neighbors’ houses and the streetlamps and the glow from downtown that bounces up and back down, leaving everything tinged a little bright.
I stare at the stars, but the truth is, I’m not really looking at them. I’m waiting for the prickle that will tell me he’s there, standing on my street, watching me.
It doesn’t come.
He
doesn’t come.
My disappointment is bitter and chalky, like I chewed an aspirin.
It’s past midnight when I climb back inside and pull my window shut. The glass reflects my own face back at me.
I stare, something gnawing at the edges of my thoughts, and in my mind’s eye, I see a different face. A face that repeats over and over again. Smooth expression. Light brown hair. High cheekbones. Familiar, but not.
I feel like someone’s punched me in the gut.
The girls lying on the gurneys, the shells, I know why their faces seemed familiar.
They looked like feminine versions of Jackson Tate.
Monday morning my run is rough. My head’s not in it and my body can’t seem to find its rhythm. I aim for the rush, but it never comes. I had a lousy night’s sleep, and it doesn’t help that the last time I ran, it was with Jackson. As my feet hit the pavement, chasing the dawn, a million thoughts buzz around in my brain like wasps: Jackson’s eyes; the shells who looked like him; the people in the other lobbies that only he and I can see. The fact that he’s a telepath who spoke to me inside my head and, according to Luka, so are the Drau.
Lots of questions, no answers.
The day doesn’t get better from there. In English, Carly doesn’t speak to me, but sends me the most heartfelt accusatory looks. It’s the first time that I’m actually glad we only have one class together because her you-have-mortally-injured-me glances are more than I could bear for an entire day. I didn’t do anything wrong. So why do I feel like I did?
All my other friends shoot furtive looks my way, trying not to take sides and blatantly dying to ask what’s going on.
“See you at lunch, Miki,” Kelley says after the bell goes. Her expression is both hopeful and wary, like she thinks lunch in the caf will either cause a massive implosion or fix the mess.
I shake my head. “I promised Maylene that I’d tutor her at lunch for the Spanish quiz. I’m meeting her in the library.”
“Oh, okay. See you later, then.” I think she sounds relieved. Maybe she figured the implosion was the more likely of the two options.
Dee offers a wave, and Carly leaves with a last soulful glance.
After school, I wait at Luka’s locker. He never shows, but it isn’t until I’ve wasted almost half an hour that I remember he has track. I head for our spot under the giant oak, thinking maybe I’ll corner Carly and just try to talk to her, but no one’s there. I’m batting a big, fat zero.
Then I head to the bookstore. Usually Carly and I go together so I can pick up the latest manga and she can grab a few fashion and scrapbooking magazines. We used to scrapbook together, but ever since Mom died, I can’t bear to put those memories on pages with pretty decorations. I walk in feeling melancholy. It’s not like I’ve never been to a bookstore alone, but with the huge wall between Carly and me right now, I feel like I’m missing a piece of myself as I walk through the front door. Disappointment surges when I check the shelf and find only older editions of my favorite manga.
“Excuse me,” I say to the girl at the counter. “Do you have the latest edition of
Bleach
?”
“Sold out,” she says after she checks the computer. “I can order it for you.”
“Thanks,” I say, disappointment tugging at me. I was hoping the new book would be the highlight of my not-so-great day.
I get home to realize it was garbage day, my week to carry out the bag, and I forgot. Dad will not be pleased. I’m not pleased. I never forget things, and the fact that I did leaves me feeling morose and edgy. I try to tell myself it’s only garbage, that it isn’t the end of the world, that I didn’t fail at something monumental.
I freeze, thinking about the way I feel at the moment. It’s like the gray fog is hanging on my limbs, dragging them down, and at the edge of my thoughts is the worry that I’m failing, that I’m not good enough, that I’m not in control. This is the worst it’s been in a long time, bad enough that I revert to some positive self-talk, a staple in the arsenal Dr. Andrews helped me build. This day just keeps getting better.
With a sigh, I trudge up the driveway. Mrs. Gertner steps out of the house next door. “Miki,” she says, beaming at me.
“Hi, Mrs. Gertner. How are you?” Mistake. Big mistake. I know it the second the open-ended question leaves my mouth. But it’s too late. It’s out there now.
“Not so good,” she says. “I haven’t been able to sit properly for a week. That doctor said I’d be fine right away. But he’s wrong. I did everything he said. I sat in an Epsom salts bath and I put my medicine on like he told me. But it’s terrible. Just terrible.”
I’m not sure what she’s talking about, but I know I don’t want to ask. Then my attention falters. There it is, that weird prickling sensation that tells me I’m being watched. I try to look sympathetic as I nod at Mrs. Gertner while surreptitiously scanning the street.
Mrs. Gertner asks me a question, but I don’t hear the words. I just nod at her and make an agreeable noise and she’s off and running again.
I’m dying to turn and check behind me, almost certain he’s standing there watching me. But Mrs. Gertner just keeps on going. For the next half an hour, she gives me minute details of her hemorrhoid surgery, putting the rotting cherry on top of my rancid ice-cream sundae of a day.
I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin. But I still remember when I was little and Mrs. Gertner used to come out with cookies for Carly and me when we were playing out front. Every time I lost a tooth, she gave me a dollar. Every birthday until I was twelve, she gave me a little present wrapped in pretty paper with a big bow. So I don’t have the heart to make some excuse and duck away. Instead, I listen to every gory detail. The only thing that saves me is when her watch beeps, telling her it’s time for her medication.
Grabbing my one shining chance, I mumble, “Hope you feel better soon,” and bolt. On my front porch, I pull back in the shadows and take my time looking up and down the street. The certainty that I’m being watched sinks its tiny hooks into me, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t see who’s doing the watching.