Rush (28 page)

Not going there. Instead, I say, “Why didn’t your dad just leave you guys at home and travel as he needed? Kelley’s dad does a lot of traveling, and he leaves her and her mom and her sister here.”

Click
. His expression shuts down like I’ve flipped a switch. I’ve stumbled on another topic that’s off-limits. But again, he surprises me with an answer, albeit one he’s clearly edited.

“In the beginning, it was because my parents thought it would be great for our family to experience different places and cultures.” His chest expands on a deep breath, then he blows it out. “Eventually it was just because Dad wanted us close.”

That isn’t the whole story. He’s left out a huge chunk. And whatever he’s left out is horrifically painful for him. I know enough about suffering to recognize it. I feel sad that he can’t share it with me, and hopeful that one day soon, he’ll trust me enough to tell me.

I feel around for an innocuous question. “So . . . any siblings?”

He just stares at me, like I’ve hit him or something. I feel cold, then hot. My instincts scream for me to touch him, to take his hand, to hold it. I ignore that and just sit there waiting.

“No,” he finally says, very soft.

“I’m an only, too. I used to wish for a sister. But I always had Carly. Besides, there are some benefits to being an only, right?”

He doesn’t say anything. I think again of his eighteen schools and figure he never had the chance to forge close friendships. So maybe being an only child was tougher on him.

The silence stretches, and I feel the need to fill it. “It’s weird . . . I had this nightmare a few nights ago and in it, I had a sister. She had green eyes. Her name was Lizzie. But we were in a car accident and she— What?” He’s staring at me so intently, I think I must have avocado smeared on my nose or something. I do a quick swipe with the back of my hand.

He’s still staring. I stare back. “Your eyes,” I murmur, “were you born like that?”

“I was born with an opaque layer over my corneas. My parents took me to a bunch of specialists. No one could figure it out. They weren’t cataracts. They weren’t anything that anyone had seen before. And because I was able to see as well as anyone else, they decided against surgery. They just left well enough alone. Things didn’t change overnight. It was slow and subtle, but by the time I was six, my eyes looked like this. By the time I was seven, my parents figured it was easier for me to wear sunglasses and get a medical note than to try and explain my eyes. Kids can be nasty.”

“Adults, too.”

“True enough.”

“So those diseases you rhymed off for Mr. Shomper. You don’t actually have any of them.”

“No. I don’t have any disease at all.”

“Why don’t you wear colored contacts to hide the color?”

“I do when I absolutely have to. Like when I got my pic for my driver’s license.”

“But you don’t want to wear them all the time?”

“Can’t. They disintegrate within an hour.”

I don’t know how to word the next question, so I just come out and say it before I chicken out. “So your eyes are Drau, which means somewhere back in your line, you had an ancestor who was one of them.”

“Most likely. Does it matter?”

I think about it, then say, “It matters in the scheme of the game. Are there some Drau who are good?” Is that why one of them is part of Jackson’s genetic pool, or is that because of a darker reason?

But in the scheme of how I feel about Jackson, no, it doesn’t matter at all.

“Never met a Drau I liked . . . ,” Jackson says. “Maybe if they weren’t trying to kill me, it’d be different.” He takes my partly eaten half a sandwich from me, takes a bite, then hands it back. “Next question.”

Which one to ask? I have so many. “If I have alien DNA, why hasn’t anyone ever noticed anything weird in my blood work? Or my mom’s blood work? I mean, she had a million tests because of her cancer. No one ever said a word. Or is the alien DNA from my dad’s side? His mom had eyes like mine.”

Jackson holds up his index finger. “You probably get the DNA from both sides. Your strain’s pretty strong for it to have come from just one.” He holds up a second finger and I realize he’s counting off answers to my questions. “Blood tests look at standard stuff. Iron. Red blood cells. White blood cells. Enzymes. Stuff like that. If you go for the average blood tests, they aren’t looking for genetic stuff most of the time. The doc has to special order genetic tests. And even then, they don’t have tests for every genetic variant.”

“So basically you’re saying no one will see it because they aren’t looking for it.”

“And because no one knows what to look for.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I’ve had a while to read up on it. Some of this stuff I don’t know for certain. I’m winging it, but it seems to make sense.” He shrugs. “Not like I can go to my doctor and ask her to see if there’s anything weird about my blood.”

I finish the last bite of my sandwich while he speaks. “Good point.”

He taps his index finger on the empty plastic container in my lap. “You got anything else to eat?”

I put the tub back in my knapsack and pull out an apple. “I only have one.”

“We’ll share.” He takes the apple from my hand and holds it to my lips. “Bite,” he orders softly.

I close my hands around his wrist, holding his hand steady, and I take a bite. He turns the apple and takes a bite from the same spot, his eyes never leaving mine. I look away, flustered.

“You’re awfully chatty, Jackson. What happened to the rules?”

He holds the apple out to me. I steady his wrist again and take another bite. His skin is warm under my fingers, and I can feel the tendons of his muscles.

“The rules are in place to keep the soldiers safe. To keep them from being overheard by other people in the real world and sent for a psych eval. To keep them from being overheard by the Drau and killed for a single slipup.”

“Yeah. I get that. So why are you breaking them?”

He holds the apple out to me again, but I shake my head. He keeps eating until there’s only the core left. And still he doesn’t answer. I pull out the plastic tub, open it, and hold it out so he can drop the core inside. I figure he isn’t going to answer, so I’m surprised when he says, “They’re not written in stone, even though we want the soldiers to think they are.”

“You keep saying
soldiers
like we’re in a war.”

“We are.”

I wet my suddenly dry lips. “And you keep saying
we
like you’re part of a group separate from the soldiers. . . .”

“I am. And so are you. You’re not a soldier, Miki.”

There’s something in his tone, something dark and frightening.

“What do you mean? Why do you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like I should be afraid?”

“You should be. I keep telling you that.”

“Of what? You? Why?”

His mouth tightens in an expression I’m coming to know. It’s his stubborn look. He won’t answer.

“What else do you have in that bag of tricks?” he asks, looking at my backpack hopefully.

I want to push and poke and drag the answers out of him. Instead, I ask, “Why didn’t you get lunch in the caf? I feel kind of bad that you ditched Luka.”

“I didn’t. He ditched me. He had plans to work on chem with your friend.”

“My—” I shake my head. “Carly?” And she never said a word about it to me. I guess she figures it’s payback for me failing to share with her.

Jackson reaches for my bag. I let him take it and watch, half amused, half offended, as he unzips the pouch, rummages through, and pulls out a small container. He lifts it to eye level and shakes it.

“Almonds and dried cranberries,” I say.

Jackson dips his head and angles a glance at me through his lashes, sending my heart tripping. “I like this,” he murmurs.

“What do you like?” I’m breathless, just from the way he’s looking at me. “My lunch?”

“
Our
lunch,” he corrects with a grin, and I can breathe again. I can even smile. He’s so relaxed. So . . . normal. He shakes some cranberries and nuts into his hand, tips his head back, and tosses them in his mouth. Then he holds the container out toward me and asks, “You want some?”

“Sure. Thanks for offering me some of the lunch I packed.” My sarcasm seems to go right over his head.

“Miki,” he says after a couple of minutes, his expression suddenly serious, his voice very soft. “There are things I put in motion, things I did before—”

I wait, but he just stops and doesn’t pick up his train of thought. “Before what?”

Deliberately, he lowers his glasses. “I remember the first time I saw you,” he says.

“Lying flat on my back in the lobby, out cold?” But even as I say it, I remember his voice in my head all that afternoon. So he must have seen me before that . . . here at school?

I stare at him, the sun touching his hair, painting it bright and fair, the dark glasses hiding his eyes, his shadow stretching down the rows of seats, and suddenly I can smell the ocean, hear the waves. . . .

“You remember,” he says softly.

“No, I—” But I do. I remember something. I just can’t place—

“Last summer. You were up to your waist in the water, wearing a dark blue bathing suit. I could see the edge of your tattoo. . . .”

He reaches out and lays the tips of his fingers lightly on my chest, over my heart, over my eagle. I swallow and stare at him, waiting. . . .

“You weren’t wearing sunglasses,” he continues, letting his hand fall away. “You turned and looked at me. I saw your eyes. I knew you were like me. And then I looked for you until I found you.”

“What?”

Then a memory hits me. Mine? His? Both? I’m running on the sand toward the long pier, small in the distance. I veer toward the water, the waves lapping at my feet . . . my ankles . . . my knees. I throw myself in, swallowed by the surf, going under, coming up. I blink the salty sting from my eyes, and there’s a boy on the beach, his hair glinting gold, the sun casting his shadow long and lean. I think the corners of his mouth twitch in the hint of a smile. His eyes are shaded by dark glasses. But I know he’s looking at me.

And I look straight at him.

A wave takes me and when I come back up, he has his back to me and he’s walking away. He stops by my dad’s beach umbrella, his back still toward me, and I see my dad sit forward and tip his head back to look up at the boy, his mouth moving. I lose interest and turn away, diving into the next wave.

“Have you ever been to Atlantic Beach?” I ask. Silly to ask. I know the answer. That hint of a smile . . . I remember the first time I saw him in the lobby, the sense of déjà vu I felt when I saw that smile.

“Once,” he says.

“Last summer,” I whisper.

“Last summer,” he confirms, tipping his glasses back up.

“Why? I mean, why there? Why Atlantic Beach?” During the same week I was there. On the same stretch of beach where I was swimming.

“Why were
you
there?” he asks.

“We always go. We’ve been going to North Carolina since I was a baby. We rent a cottage every summer for a week.” I pause. “Your turn.”

He stares out at the empty baseball diamond and takes his time answering. “I’m not sure. I’d say that my parents suggested it, but I’m not certain they did.” He turns his face back toward me, his eyes shadowed, his expression troubled. But in usual Jackson fashion, he keeps whatever it is that’s bothering him to himself.

“So once you saw me, how did you find me again?”

“Your dad’s hat made it easy.”

Confused, I just stare at him. Then I remember Dad’s ball cap with the Rochester Bass Anglers logo on the front and his name stitched on the back.

“Wait . . . you looked for me . . . you came to Rochester because of me?” The possibility is overwhelming. “I don’t understand. I thought your dad was transferred here. I—” Nothing makes sense.

“The Committee has ways of working things out.”

Does he mean that the Committee was responsible for his dad’s transfer, or that they were responsible for his being in Atlantic Beach?

“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say? You tell me that you saw me last summer, that you searched until you found me, and I’m supposed to just nod and—” And what? I don’t even know what to say.

“Don’t ask. Not right now.” His voice is low, almost a whisper. “Just let me . . .” He leans in, the wonderful scent of him—citrus shaving cream and warm male skin—luring me closer. I freeze, every cell in my body straining toward him. My lips part. My pulse hammers. I want him to kiss me. I want Jackson Tate to put his strong arms around me and hold me close and put his lips on mine.

He strokes my hair back from my cheek. “Miki . . .”

His eyes fix on me, his pupils dark and dilated, surrounded by swirling silver irises. But something’s holding him back. Something is etching regret in his features and making him pull away.

Something he almost told me, and then didn’t.

“Jackson,” I whisper, not even knowing what I mean to say.

The moment is lost. Maybe I broke it when I spoke his name, or maybe it was gone before that.

He tucks the empty container in my bag, zips it up, and leans away. Then he settles his sunglasses down on the bridge of his nose, hiding his eyes once more. “Bell’s gonna go in a second. We’d better head back.”

“I can carry my bag,” I say as he takes it from me and stands.

“I know.” But he makes no move to let me do exactly that.

I clamber down the bleachers after him, and then double my speed to keep up with him as he strides across the field. Easy’s gone. Normal’s gone. He seems tense and distant, the way he is on a mission, not the way he was sitting beside me on the top level of the bleachers under the midday sun.

“You have a personality disorder,” I mutter as we reach the back doors.

He turns, his expression serious, and says, “You. Just being here with you. I need you to know that.”

I stare up at him, lost.

“You asked me what I like. I’m answering your question,” he clarifies, and the smile he offers is truly savage, dark and edgy and full of promise. “You, Miki. I like you.”