Rush (12 page)

“She’s gone because of that? Like this really is a game? It isn’t. You’re the one who said that. It isn’t a game. And she’s dead. Forever dead.” Because if you die in the game, you die for real. Of course. I should have seen that right from the start. I should have seen all of it.

I surge off the swing and step closer, breathing hard, my face inches away from Jackson’s.

“In a game, you get to respawn. You get to go back to the spawn point.” A designated reentry point. That’s what Luka and I did. We went back to the moment it started, the instant before the truck hit us. “That’s what we did, isn’t it? We respawned. Why didn’t she?”

“I just told you why.”

Because her con turned red. I remember the battle in flashes and blurs. Richelle’s scream. Jackson kicking the weapon out of the alien’s hand. He protected me. Why didn’t he do the same for her?

“Why didn’t you help her? Keep her safe? Why did you let her die? Why?” I’m screaming, raising my fists without even realizing I’m doing it, pounding them against Jackson’s chest.

And then I’m not. He catches my wrists and holds them, just tight enough that I can’t hit him anymore, but not so tight it hurts. I freeze, heart slamming against my ribs, because I’m angry and afraid, and because he’s touching me, his hands on my wrists, our faces inches apart.

My pulse races; my cheeks feel hot. Lots of people touch me, and it never feels like this.

“So now you know,” he says. “Happy?”

I pull my wrists free. “No,” I say. “Not at all.”

“I know.” He lifts his hands and closes them on my upper arms. I stand there, too numb to jerk away. Slowly, he pulls me closer. I let him. I let him wrap his arms around me. I let myself rest my cheek against his chest. And for a few moments, I just breathe and listen to the steady beat of his heart.

“I’m still an asshole,” he whispers, his breath fanning my hair.

“I know,” I whisper back.

“Good.” Last word.

Luka is sitting on my front steps when I get home. He’s hunched over, head down, forearms on his knees. At the sight of him, warmth kindles in my chest. Not like the butterflies I felt with Jackson. Something else. A feeling of the familiar, the known and safe.

He lifts his head at my approach, his dark eyes wary and assessing. “I waited for you.”

I stop a few feet away. “So I see. Thanks.”

“For waiting?”

I nod. “For waiting. For coming at all. I know you’re breaking the rules.”

“Yeah.” He offers a lopsided grin, easy and open. “Seems like everywhere we turn, there are rules. I wonder if we’ll ever just get to make our own.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I’m not sure I want to be a rule maker, or even a rule breaker.

“He found me,” I say.

Luka lifts his brows. “Who?”

“J—” I press my lips together, not certain I’m supposed to say his name. Then I throw my hands in the air. “This is ridiculous.” It is. I’m supposed to censor every word I say because some invisible entity might be watching? I understand the need for a certain amount of discretion, but second-guessing my words is making me paranoid. “Jackson,” I say. “Jackson went running with me.” Only as I say it do I remember that it must be okay because Jackson said names out loud, too.

It’s confusing to try to play by rules when I don’t even know what they are.

Luka’s eyes widen. “Wow. Okay.” He doesn’t sound happy. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

“Neither was I.” I hold out my hand. Luka takes it, and I pull him to his feet. Once he’s standing, I have to tilt my head back and look up to meet his eyes. He definitely got taller during the year he was away. His shoulders are broader, his jaw leaner. “Why’d you call him?”

“Because I couldn’t stand letting you—” He holds his hands to the sides, elbows bent, palms up, obviously looking for the right word.

“Freak out,” I supply.

“I was going to say lose your shit, but that works. So where is he?”

“Jackson? I left him at the park.”

“Couldn’t stand another minute in his company?”

I press my lips together, remembering the way I felt with Jackson’s arms wrapped around me, the way I rested my cheek against his chest and listened to his heart beating slow and steady. I don’t know how long we stood like that. I think that given the choice, I might have stayed there forever, but at some point Jackson dropped his arms and stepped away from me, leaving me feeling awkward and weird.

While he was holding me, it felt right. But once it was over . . . well, that was another story. Suddenly, I’d wanted—
needed
—to be away from him, because standing so close, breathing in the scent of his skin and feeling his arms warm and strong around me, had pushed me into water far out of my depth.

Luka laughs, mistaking my silence. “He has that effect on people.”

“Actually, I couldn’t imagine running back here with him and having my dad pull in as we arrive,” I say. “That’d be great, trying to explain who he is and where I know him from.” Dad had been the perfect excuse, and Jackson hadn’t offered any argument. So either he’d been as anxious to ditch me as I was to ditch him or he’d sensed my discomfort and decided to be kind. If I were a betting sort of girl, I’d lay money on the former.

As if my mention of Dad summons him, the Explorer pulls into the drive.

“Perfect,” I say at the same time that Luka says, “Perfect.”

We look at each other and laugh. Which actually
is
perfect because Dad climbs out of the SUV to see two classmates laughing together instead of a boy and a girl standing tense and awkward and uncertain.

Dad walks over and I make the introductions. It’s easy. Painless. “Dad, this is Luka. He goes to school with me. He’s on the track team.” Dad grabs hold of that last bit of information and decides Luka’s trying to convince me to join. He grins and pumps Luka’s hand because he thinks an organized sport would be good for me. I don’t bother to correct him.

He glances at me and, taking in my running gear, frowns. “It’s Sunday,” he says. He thinks I run too much and eat too little, which is actually funny because I’m not the one who skips lunch half the time.

“Yup.” I offer no explanation. What am I supposed to say? That I changed my ironclad schedule because of aliens and a girl who died seven months before I met her? “Hey, it’s pretty hot out,” I say. “I’d better get the groceries in before the ice cream melts.” I unbuckle the belt that holds my now-empty water bottle and hand it to Dad. “Take this in for me?”

Dad heads inside, and Luka follows me to the car.

“I tried to talk to you,” he says. “Before my dad got transferred. After you lost your mom.”

Lost my mom. Stupidest euphemism ever. I didn’t misplace her; she died. I swallow a quick retort that I know I’ll regret. “I know. I remember. I wasn’t up for advice.”

“I get that.”

He does. Luka’s mom died when we were still at Oakview. Grade four. He got really quiet and withdrawn for a couple of years after that, and I’m not proud of the fact that I was just like most of the other kids and went on and lived my life and didn’t really make a huge effort to stay friends with him. By the time he wasn’t quiet anymore, we were at an age where, for the most part, the boys hung with the boys and the girls hung with the girls, and when the two mixed, there was a lot of giggling and punching in the shoulder. If I’d known then what I know now about the grinding pain of losing someone you love, I would have tried harder.

My expression must give away my thoughts because Luka says, “Hey, we were kids. What do kids know about dealing with death?” He juts his chin toward the Explorer. “Ice cream’s melting.”

We reach for the groceries at the same time. My hand’s already on the bag’s handle, and his hand closes on mine. I pull back. He leans forward. We end up with arms tangled, his chest against my back. He bends. I straighten. His chin bumps my cheek. We both laugh. An easy laugh. One I don’t have to force.

“Cozy.” I turn my head at the sound of Carly’s voice. She’s in the passenger seat of Sarah’s mom’s silver van, which is currently stopped at the end of my driveway with Sarah behind the wheel. Carly’s eyes skate over me to Luka and back.

“Wanna help?” I heft the bag at her as Luka straightens and steps away. I expect Carly and Sarah to hop out and grab a bag each.

Instead, Carly turns her head and says something to Sarah, then turns back to the open window. “Not today,” she says. “Have fun.” But she doesn’t sound like she means it. There’s an odd tightness to her voice that I recognize.

Carly’s pissed.

Sarah waves. Carly doesn’t. The van pulls away, and I watch it move down the street.

“You’re the one who said the ice cream’s gonna melt,” Dad calls through the open front door. He’s right. Whatever’s up with Carly, I’ll have to text her once the groceries are put away.

I can’t help feeling angry with her. There’s a lot more at stake here, a lot more going on, than whatever wasp stung her on the ass. A girl’s dead. My world’s upside down. Maybe everybody’s world is upside down if Jackson’s right and we’re really fighting to save mankind. But Carly doesn’t know any of that, and I can’t tell her. So do I have a right to be angry when she’s completely in the dark?

With a frustrated hiss, I grab a bag and hand it off to Luka, then grab another as he heads for the door.

“Just put the bags inside the door,” I say, following at his heels. “Once we’ve got them all out of the car, we can get them to the kitchen.” Mom had this thing about shoes. We always take them off at the door and switch to slippers; we never tramp through the house in shoes. It was important to her, so it’s important to me. One small way I can keep her here with me rather than letting her go completely.

Luka sets down his bag and I’m just behind him when he freezes, then spins, his eyes wide and . . . blue.

That’s all the warning I get.

Color and sound explode, too bright, too loud. Even the air on my skin feels like it’s too much. My fingers go lax. The bag’s handle slides down my palm, then along my fingers to the tips, impossibly slow. The world tips and tilts and I flail for balance.

Luka grabs my hand and holds tight.

I blink. My house, my open front door, my dad, they’re all gone. My breath comes in short gasps and every muscle in my body feels like it’s knotted up tight.

I’m standing in a grassy clearing bounded by trees.

The lobby.

We’ve been pulled.

“IT’S TOO SOON,” LUKA SNARLS, HIS FINGERS TIGHTENING ON mine as I bend forward to rest my free hand on my thigh. I take a couple of deep breaths to steady myself. I feel a bit woozy, but no headache. I guess I’m getting better at this. Practice makes perfect and all that. Soon I’ll be a pro. The thought isn’t exactly comforting.

As I straighten up, I see Jackson striding toward us, still dressed in his running gear and wraparound shades. Of course, I can’t see his eyes, but I sense him looking at me. At my hand. Clasped in Luka’s. His mouth tightens.

I take my time letting go of Luka’s hand, pretending Jackson’s expression has nothing to do with my actions. I notice that my con is back; the feel of it on my wrist makes terror gnaw at me with sharp little rat teeth. I want to tear it off and fling it into the trees. I force myself to do the breathing thing and get my heart rate under control. The screen’s green. I intend to do everything possible to keep it that way.

I look around for Tyrone. He’s there, by the boulders, his jaw clenched tight. I want to go to him, to comfort him, to say—

What? Anything I offer will be empty and shallow, and won’t bring Richelle back.

“Gear up,” Jackson says.

“There are only four of us,” Luka points out.

He’s wrong. There are hundreds of us. I can see them in clearings that mirror our own, some of them small teams like ours, some of them teams of more than a dozen. If I try and look at them, they disappear and all I see are the trees bordering our own clearing. If I don’t look at them, I see flashes of movement and the never-ending reflections of team after team, just like Gram’s powder-room mirrors.

“Four’s all there are going to be this time,” Jackson says.

How does he know these things? He knows when we’ll get pulled. He knows things about the mission—I remember that from the last time we were in the lobby.

“Miki.”

I turn just in time to catch the harness Jackson tosses in my direction. I slide it on the way he taught me and then jog over to the open metal box on the ground where there are four weapon cylinders nestled in dense black foam.

I glance up and ask, “Does it matter which one I take?”

“Hold your hand over the box, fingers straight, palm down,” Jackson says. “The weapon you used last time will come to you.”

I do as he said, and a cylinder shoots up and slams against my palm, making me gasp. I slide it into my holster and look at Jackson. He has the knife strapped to his thigh again.

“What about one of those?” I ask.

“A weapon’s no good unless it’s more of a threat to your opponent than it is to you.”

“But everyone knows you run faster with a knife,” Luka says.

Jackson’s brows rise above the frame of his shades. I whirl to face Luka, uncertain what he means.