Rush (26 page)

I’m stunned by how calm I sound. Her eyes widen.

“A ninja,” Carly says, ignoring my last comment completely, which tells me she’d rather be okay than not. “Black spandex. Nice. And you’re hair’s already dark, so you won’t need a wig.” She nods and turns back to Kelley and Dee, who are watching us with avid attention. They both look relieved to see that Carly and I are talking, and wary because they can sense something’s still off.

At that second, Mr. Shomper walks in pushing an old TV set on a metal rolling cart. Relief is sweet as syrup. The cart gets stuck in the doorway and Mr. Shomper struggles a little, wheezing. He’s seventy if he’s a day, rumpled and stooped. He’s organized and meticulous, always handing out a detailed description and rubric for every assignment. I like him even though pretty much no one else does. With a grinding rumble, the cart slides into the room. Mr. Shomper reaches back and closes the door behind him.

“Movie day. Nice,” Kelley says. “I didn’t read the chapter.”

“Me neither.” Dee rolls her eyes. “Actually, I haven’t read a word of it yet. I was planning to just watch the movie. Guess Mr. Shomper has that covered.”

“Good thing,” I say. “Because I didn’t read the chapter, either, and I was thinking it’d be just my luck if we had a pop quiz.”

Dee and Kelley stare at me.

“You didn’t read the chapter?”

“You always read the chapter.”

“I had stuff on my mind.”

They both look at Carly, who looks pensive, and it’s easy to guess that they all think I’m talking about her and the fact that we had a fight. Which is true, to an extent. But as I lay in the dark last night listening to the house shift and settle before I fell asleep, I wasn’t just thinking about how much I hate fighting with Carly. I was thinking about Luka and Tyrone. About Richelle. I was thinking about the aliens, the shells we shut down, the girl in the cold room.

But mostly, I was thinking about—

The door to the classroom opens. I look up and my chest locks down. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

Jackson Tate just walked into my English class.

He’s wearing jeans that have faded to the palest blue, holes at the knees, hems ragged. His dark gray T-shirt hugs his shoulders and chest and hangs loose at the waist, and the canvas backpack he has slung over one shoulder looks as well-worn as his jeans. His honey-blond hair is tousled and wild. And his eyes are hidden by a pair of bronze wraparound shades. On anyone else, sunglasses inside school would look ridiculous. On Jackson Tate they look . . . amazing.

His style is his own, and it works. And I’m not the only one who thinks so, because pretty much every girl in the room stares.

I’m not surprised to see him. Not exactly. There were enough warnings that on some level I knew he’d show up at Glenbrook eventually. My friends were talking about the hot new guy with the aviator shades right before I got pulled for the first time. Then Carly was all pissed at me because she saw me with the guy she’d called dibs on—with Jackson—when I was at the park. So it isn’t as though I didn’t know he was the new guy. But knowing it and actually seeing him standing here in my classroom, on my turf, are two totally different things.

I wonder why he wasn’t in class yesterday, then I remember what he said last night about being away.

Dee gasps, then whirls and starts whispering to Carly. Kelley has her palms pressed together, her fingertips against her lips, her eyes wide. I can hear the murmurs from some of the other girls in the class. I don’t turn my head. I don’t look at anyone, don’t talk to anyone. I just watch Jackson as he hands Mr. Shomper a couple of sheets of paper, then turns to survey the room.

Mr. Shomper says something to him. I don’t hear it over the thudding of my pulse, but as he heads down the center aisle, I figure Mr. Shomper told him to find a desk.

My heart’s pounding so hard, it’s a wonder it doesn’t jump right out of my chest. There’s an empty desk beside me, and another on Carly’s far side. I don’t know if I want Jackson here, or there. Doesn’t matter; I don’t get a say. He cuts between desks and takes the one on Carly’s far side, and as her smile widens into an all-out grin, I find myself glad he did. Carly’s just started talking to me again. If he’d chosen to sit next to me, that wouldn’t have been healthy for our reunion.

As Jackson drops into the seat, Mr. Shomper looks at the paper in his hand, looks at Jackson, looks back down, and says, “Mr. Tate, I don’t know about the rules in your previous school, but at Glenbrook High there are no hats or sunglasses permitted in the classroom.”

“Understood, sir. I’m not wearing a hat.”

The room’s dead silent, everyone waiting for the explosion.

Mr. Shomper blinks. “The sunglasses, Mr. Tate.”

“Medical necessity, sir. It’s there in the papers I brought you. There’s a doctor’s note and a memo from Guidance.” Jackson’s tone is calm and even, completely respectful, and completely inflexible.

“I’m not familiar with any medical condition that requires sunglasses, Mr. Tate. Please remove them. Immediately.”

I shoot a glance at Jackson. What happens if he takes off those glasses? What happens if people look in his eyes? The same thing that happened to me when I looked in the Drau’s eyes? I shiver. Then I tell myself that Jackson won’t let it come to that. He’ll just leave. He’ll find another option. He won’t risk exposure.

Jackson rubs his palm against his jaw, then says, “Are you familiar with scotoma, sir? Macular degeneration? Congenital amaurosis? Glaucoma? Any and all of the above require sunglasses.”

The whole class gasps. No one challenges Mr. Shomper. But did Jackson really challenge him? There was nothing inflammatory in his tone. He sounded completely respectful.

Mr. Shomper stares at him, then does something I’ve never seen him do, not once, and this is my second year having him for English. He smiles. It’s a little scary to look at. His teeth are yellow with a few brown spots and his pale, papery skin crinkles so much it looks like it might crack.

“Point well made, Mr. Tate,” he says. “You appear to have some skill with argument. I look forward to reading your essay on
Lord of the Flies
.” The smile disappears. “How many times have you presented your case to a dubious teacher?”

“This is my eighteenth school.”

Eighteen schools? Even Mr. Shomper looks stunned.

“That includes elementary and middle schools,” Jackson clarifies, as if that makes the number any less shocking.

That night, teeth brushed, ready for bed, I go to my window and look out. My skin isn’t prickling, I don’t feel that electric certainty that Jackson’s out there, but I look for him anyway. Hoping. English was the only class we had together, and though I looked for him in the halls, I didn’t see him for the rest of the day. I’m honest enough to admit that I’m disappointed.

I’m about to turn away when I see it: a white package on the porch roof. I open the window and lean out far enough to grab it. It’s a book, wrapped in a white plastic bag that’s taped down like weatherproof gift wrap. I smile. I can’t help it. Whatever book it is, it’s from Jackson.

I run my finger under the tape, open the bag, and peer in, feeling like I’m about six years old and it’s Christmas morning.

The latest edition of
Bleach
looks back at me. I sink my teeth into my lower lip, smiling and trying not to.

There’s a sheet of white paper, folded in half, sticking out from inside the front cover. I pull it out.

Almost had to give you my copy. Sold out in two stores, but finally found this in the third. So it’s yours
.

No signature. None needed. I know who it’s from, and my heart does a crazy little dance. I give up on trying not to smile and let my grin stretch.

With a laugh, I put the book on my bedside table, grab my copy of
The Last Wish
, tuck it in the bag, and tape it down. No note. None needed. I put the package on the roof, in a different spot than where he left the one for me, hoping that will be enough to tell him it isn’t his package just sitting there unnoticed.

Then I close the window, sit down on the floor, and settle in to wait. At some point, I nod off, and when I wake up, my hip sore from lying on the floor, my neck cricked at an odd angle, the book’s gone.

IT’S FRIDAY. AGAIN. I SURVIVED ANOTHER WEEK, AND I DIDN’T get pulled. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t spend the week worrying about getting pulled even though I remember what Luka said about usually having some time in between missions. I’m glad he turned out to be right.

wht is green & leafy?

I roll my eyes as I read his text, careful not to let Ms. Devon see my phone. She’ll freak if she catches me using it in class.

We’ve started doing this a couple of times a day, sending each other the most ridiculous jokes. I text back:

Salad?

a green leaf

It takes a lot of self-control not to groan out loud and give myself away. Ms. Devon scans the room. I scribble numbers on the page, and once her eyes slide past me, I text:

What is sticky & brown?

gross. u wnt me 2 answr that?

I smile.

A brown stick
.

I imagine I hear Luka groaning at the other end. Ms. Devon stands up and starts down the aisle. I shove my phone in my pocket and scribble yet more numbers on the page. She moves past me and I stare at my textbook, not really seeing it.

The week—which has actually been closer to two weeks if I count all the time I spent in the game last time—has been strange in a lot of ways. Carly and I are still awkward around each other. It feels sort of like that weird, post-breakup phase where you’re trying to be friends. Except, I didn’t break up with her and I don’t understand why she’s breaking up with me.

She came to my house yesterday for breakfast, just like she used to. Today she didn’t show. I feel like whenever I’m with her now, I’m walking on cracked ice, and one misstep will dunk me.

As if he’s tuned to the direction of my thoughts, Luka sends another text.

stay happy. sometimes ppl just need some space

Ms. Devon looks around the room again. I duck my head, pretending I’m working on my math questions. Instead, I reread Luka’s text. I understand the needing-space thing, but I still feel deserted. Dee’s still talking to me same as usual, and Kelley’s sort of okay. Emily and Sarah smile at me but don’t say much.

Jackson’s avoiding me altogether. Well, not exactly avoiding, just not going out of his way to hang with me. Of course, if I’m completely honest, I’m not going out of my way to hang with him, either. Too complicated. There are always so many people around him, and I already feel like everyone’s staring at me all the time because of my awkwardness with Carly. We’ve been joined at the hip pretty much forever, and now we’re not.

I’ve seen Jackson in English every morning, and sometimes I catch him with his face turned my way, like he’s watching me. But it’s impossible to know for sure with his eyes always hidden.

I know I’ve been watching him. We spent so many hours together in the game—literally days, side by side—that I feel like I’ve known him a lot longer than I have. Funny, but I’ve spent more significant time with him than some people I’ve gone to school with for years.

But not once all week did we end up alone together, not even for a second. People gravitate to him, so he’s always surrounded by a crowd. He spends a ton of time with Luka, but no one else in particular. In the caf every day, he stops at different tables and talks with different groups. He’s everyone’s—and no one’s—friend. He’s a novelty and he’s gorgeous and he’s the same in school as he is in the game: competent, confident, arrogant, cocky. That’s pretty much a magnet for a lot of people, guys and girls alike. Charisma. Yeah, he has that in spades, but I guess anyone who moves around as much as he does—being the new guy again and again—would have to develop some special skills. Kind of like being a chameleon.

I wonder who he really is under all that camouflage.

I want him to be the boy who held me in the park, the one who cradled me while I slept in the caves.

Every night this week, I checked the porch roof outside my window, but he didn’t come to my house again. I want to talk to him. I want to ask him so many things. He doesn’t give me the chance, and while part of me is glad that he’s staying away, part of me is hurt in a way I didn’t expect.

I keep thinking of the way he kissed my palm, my wrist, and I wonder if he regrets it. If that’s why he’s staying away.

If we cross paths in the halls, he’s perfectly polite, and perfectly distant. He treats me the way he treats everyone else—like an acquaintance. As if he never held me while I freaked out, or watched my back against an alien threat, or bought me a copy of my favorite manga. I feel like he’s purposely building a wall between us, brick by brick.

Then I force myself to be honest and admit that I’m doing the same. I don’t seek him out. I don’t give him an opening. It’s safer that way.

But sometimes, when I turn and think he’s looking my way, I see that small, wistful, sort of sad smile and I can’t help but think that smile is for me.