Rush (9 page)

That look makes everything feel like it always does, like nothing’s different. I stare at her for a second, wishing that it were all a dream. A nightmare. A psychotic break. No such luck. Everything’s different.

I force myself to shrug and take a bite. “Saturday morning breakfast of champions.”

“Oh, right,” she says. “It’s Saturday.”

Saturday’s the one day I allow myself to break my healthy-eating rule—a habit that started when Mom was sick. She tried every treatment the doctors suggested, and some they didn’t. Naturopath. Homeopath. Vitamins. Yoga. Dad and I tried a lot of stuff right along with her. For me, the healthy eating stuck. I like being in control of what goes into my body. What I eat, how often I run, how high my grades are, how neat I keep the house—all of that’s my purview, and mine alone.

That’s one of the things that made the dreams—nightmares—so terrible last night. I couldn’t control what I saw in my sleep and, worse, I couldn’t control what happened in my life yesterday. Thinking about it makes my skin prickle.

Carly licks foam from her upper lip. “Soooo . . . did you talk to him yet?”

“Him?” My heart stutters. How does she know about Jackson?

“Him,” Carly repeats. “Luka.” There’s something weird about the way she says his name, kind of slow and soft.

“Luka.” I press my lips together. “Right.”

“He’s got that whole dark-eyed, I’m-a-loner-even-in-a-crowd, just-try-and-get-my-attention thing going on,” she says with a sigh. “It’s hot.”

“So maybe
you
should call him.”

She taps her finger against her chin, genuinely considering it. An expression I can’t read flits across her features, sort of regretful, sort of sad. Then she shakes her head. “No, you should. I saw the way he looked at you yesterday, right after he
almost got killed
running in front of that truck to save you. And you’re obviously losing sleep over him. You should call. Just to see if he’s feeling okay after yesterday, you know?” She grins. “It’s the perfect excuse.”

I stare at her. I don’t remember Luka looking at me with any emotion other than panic when he was trying to tell me not to talk about the game. And I didn’t lose sleep over him. The only person dancing through my nightmares along with me was Jackson.

Nightmares
, not dreams. I’ve never dreamed about a guy, not the way Carly means. But if I were going to, I suppose it would be someone more like Luka than Jackson, someone who didn’t boss me around and answer in riddles. Someone who didn’t make every cell in my body edgy and nervous.

“I don’t have Luka’s cell number,” I mumble around a mouthful of Pop-Tart.

“What about his landline? That ought to be listed.”

I shake my head. “I checked last night—”

“Oh-ho! So you
did
try to call him.”

I ignore her blatant glee, refusing to feed the beast. “I didn’t try to call him. I tried to find his number. There’s a difference. Anyway, I couldn’t find it. He and his dad just moved back recently. So maybe it isn’t listed yet, or maybe they didn’t bother with a landline.”

“And he’s not online?”

“Not that I could find. Maybe social media isn’t his thing.”

“Then you two definitely ought to be dating.” Carly smirks at me. I have a page. Doesn’t everyone? The difference is, I’ve updated mine maybe three times in the past three weeks while everyone else updates theirs at least three times an hour.

I ignore the bait and keep my tone casual. “Who’s talking about dating? All I did was try to find his number.”

“You should have called the specialist.” Carly whips out her phone. “Give me a few seconds.”

It doesn’t actually take seconds, but close enough. Ten texts, three calls, and five minutes later, Carly has Luka’s cell number. Between her and Dee and Sarah, they can pretty much ferret out anything.

“Thanks.” I stare at the number Carly jotted down. She stares at me expectantly.

“I, um, have to think about what I want to say.” I hedge. I don’t want to call Luka right now, not with Carly here listening to every word. The things I want to ask him demand privacy.

“You are not getting off that easy.” Carly waggles her index finger at me.

“Fine, I’ll send a text.” I keep it innocuous—just asking if he’s okay—because Carly insists on checking it over. Once it’s sent, she breaks into a grin, throws her arms around me, and holds on tight.

“I’m so glad you’re finally feeling better,” she whispers.

Her words stop me cold. She thinks I’m crushing on Luka. She thinks I’m going to be able to laugh without trying again. She thinks I’ll be back to the way I was before. I feel sick because she couldn’t be further from the truth and because I can’t tell her that. I can’t tell her anything. If Luka’s right, her life might depend on my silence. All I can do is hug her back.

Carly fishes the remote from between the couch cushions and we sprawl out under the ancient afghan my mom knit when she was pregnant with me. While we watch TV, I text people back, directing them to Carly’s page, where she’s posted her eyewitness account of what went down.

An hour and a couple of cartoons later, I head to the bathroom to text Luka again. This time my message is a bit more insistent. An hour later, I do it again. Rinse and repeat as the day wears on. He doesn’t reply.

Carly snorts as I head to the bathroom for the fifth time. “Bladder infection?” she asks, all sweetly innocent.

“Yup. Caught it from
your
toilet seat.”

She throws a pillow at my head.

When my phone rings at five-thirty, I nearly jump out of my skin. But it’s only Kelley, telling us to meet her at Mark’s Texas Hots on Monroe for dinner.

It isn’t until after midnight—once Dad’s gone to bed and the house is quiet—that I build up the nerve to actually phone Luka. He doesn’t answer, and I don’t leave a message.

I’m drifting off when I get a text:

dont ask any Qs. cant ansr. told u that. trying 2 protect u.

Frustration surges and I text back:

Not buying that. Will u call me?

“PANCAKES?” I ASK DAD THE FOLLOWING MORNING, AIMING for bright and cheery even though last night’s dreams were again populated by aliens and cries of pain.

And Jackson. I kept seeing him. The way he jumped in front of me and took the alien’s shot. The sound of his voice when he said, “You’re doing great, Miki.”

Luka still hasn’t answered my last text. I’m so frustrated and anxious that I actually called again this morning, and this time, I left a message. Then another. And another. Stalker much?

“Real pancakes?” Dad asks suspiciously.

Whole grains are real; they just aren’t what he’s hoping for. “With real maple syrup and sliced bananas,” I say, knowing that once they’re made and in front of him, he’ll polish off the plate, whole grain or not.

I set out the ingredients, pausing for a second to stare at the empty bottles lined up on the counter yet again. Only five of them this time. I want to ignore them almost as much as I want to turn around and ask Dad why he leaves them out like that. Because he wants me to see them? Because he doesn’t care if I see them? There’s a world of difference between the two. Sort of like the difference between suicide and murder.

In the end, I keep my back to him as I put them in the box under the sink, then wipe the counter even though it isn’t dirty.

We both ignore the elephant in the room and get on with breakfast.

“How was fishing?” I ask.

Dad lights up like a kid. “Caught a ten-pound steelhead. Look!” He pulls out his phone and shows me the picture—he’s a catch-and-release kind of guy so I never actually get to see his catch, just pictures of them. It’s at an awkward angle and I can only see about two-thirds of the fish, but Dad’s thrilled. He launches into the details of the catch. I chew and listen, not that I’m really into fishing but because I like seeing him like this: happy. He hasn’t been fishing much in the past few months, and I’m glad he decided to go yesterday. It seems like the more often he drinks, the less interested he is in doing all the stuff he used to like to do.

Or maybe it’s because he’s less interested in life that he drinks so much.

He flips to the next fish picture—a blurry shot of a swishing tail—and launches into more details of his day.

It isn’t until later when we’re standing side by side at the sink—me washing pans, Dad drying—that he asks, “You okay?”

No. I can’t sleep. I’m having nightmares. And I spend every waking second wondering if—when—I’m going to get pulled again. “Of course I’m okay.”

Mostly honest, but sometimes not.

He nods. “Thought I heard you walking around last night.”

“Upset stomach,” I lie. “Probably the garbage plate I had at Mark’s.”

“You? A garbage plate? Burger, hash browns, grilled cheese, gravy? If that’s true, then you really aren’t okay.” He lays the back of his hand against my forehead as though to check my temperature.

I smile and slap his hand away. “I shared one and a big salad with Carly and Kelley.”

“Meaning you ate the salad and they ate the rest.”

Pretty much, but I don’t bother to admit it. “The salad had grilled chicken. And cheese.”

“Dressing?”

“Actually, yes.” Low-fat raspberry vinaigrette.

He stares at me, saying nothing, his expression solemn. “I love you. You know that.” Not a question.

My breath catches. I know he loves me; it just isn’t something he actually says all that often. “I know, Dad.”
You just don’t love yourself, at least not enough to stop drinking before something terrible happens
. But there’s no point in saying that because if I do, he’ll just turn around and walk away. No deep convos for Dad, at least not if the deep end is on his side. I smile a little sadly. “I love you more.”

At my reference to our childhood game, he smiles back and I have to look away before I throw my arms around him and babble out all my fears like I used to do when I was five, worried about the monster under the bed.

With a shudder, I remember the way the Drau was sucked in by my weapon: legs, then torso, and finally head. It knew what was happening the whole time it was dying. Its end wasn’t fast and easy.

So who’s the monster now?

A couple of hours later, I give up on homework. I can’t concentrate. My mind keeps going back to the aliens, the lobby, the weapons. Tyrone. Richelle.

Jackson.

I’m so mad at Luka for being stubborn. He doesn’t have to betray any secrets. I could stick to general questions and he could stick to one-word answers. I grab my phone, ready to tell him exactly that, when it hits me.

I don’t need Luka.

He won’t talk to me? Fine.

Richelle Kirkman from Philadelphia just might.

I log on and enter her name in the search engine. Richelle will talk to me. I know she will. Even if there’s some sort of edict against talking to anyone outside what Luka refers to as the game, Richelle isn’t an outsider. She’s as much part of it as I am. And if even the insiders aren’t supposed to discuss it, I’ll keep my questions generic. There must be something she’ll be willing to divulge.

My connection is slow, the little circle spinning and spinning. Come on.
Come on
.

Nothing. Three minutes’ worth of nothing.

“Dad,” I yell. “Dad, can you reset the modem? The connection’s slow.”

No answer. I run downstairs to Dad’s home office. He’s not there. I can hear him outside, running the mower over our too-long grass. Good, the neighbors were starting to give me pointed looks every time I left the house. I reset the modem. The row of lights flickers back on one by one.

Success. I do a little victory dance and pump my fist in the air.

I tear back up the stairs. I have a plan. A solution. I’ll get the answers I need. I am in control.

In that second it dawns on me that this is the most excited I’ve been about anything in ages. Gingerly, I feel around for the gray fog, sort of like a tongue poking at a sore tooth. It’s there, at the edge of my thoughts, but it’s hazy and weak rather than thick as pea soup.

A search for Richelle’s name pops up a bunch of results. A real estate agent. A funeral home. The third is a link to the census bureau. Strike one. Strike two. Strike three. But I’m not out because the fourth is a social network site. I click it and grin when her picture pops up. I did it. I found her. I’m back in control. I jump up and do another victory dance as I study the page—

I stop mid-dance and sink into the chair.

The page that popped up is wrong. My breath rushes out and I can’t get it back. I’m gasping, dizzy, my hand flying up, my fingers splaying over the screen.

I shake my head, but it doesn’t change anything.

On the left, there’s a picture of Richelle looking pretty much the way I saw her on Friday, wearing her cheer uniform, a smile on her face. Her hair’s different, tied back in a ponytail. But the sparkle in her eyes is the same.

Across the top of the page is a series of smaller pictures: one of Richelle with the squad, one in street clothes with friends, one with a couple that I assume are her parents, one with a small white dog. There’s no doubt I found the right person, but the words above the pictures are wrong:
Richelle Kirkman’s Memorial Page
.