Push

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

WE DON’T GO TO THE DANCE. CARLY JUST WANTS TO COME TO my place and chill, so she heads into her room to change while Jackson and Luka and I sit on the front step, waiting for her. The screaming match between her and her mom carries to us through the walls and the glass of the closed windows, muffled but still audible.

None of us says a word. I can feel the tension radiating from Jackson like heat from a fire.

Luka glances over at me, lifts his brows. I lift mine back. I’m not sure what message he takes from that, but he says, “I can’t sit here.” He slaps his palms against his thighs and stands. “I’m just gonna walk to the end of the block.”

I watch him go.

“Thank you,” I say to Jackson, once Luka’s out of earshot.

“For what?” He doesn’t look at me, just hunches forward, his forearms on his thighs, his hands loose between his spread knees.

“For what you did for Carly,” I say.

“I didn’t do it for Carly,” he says.

I nod. He did it for me. And for Carly, though he’s not the type to admit the last part.

“Truth is, I don’t think I did anything at all,” he continues, straightening and tipping his head back, his face toward the night sky. “There wasn’t time for me to do any kind of energy exchange. And if I’d succeeded, the Committee would be having a field day with me right now.” He drops his chin and turns his head a little toward me. “I wouldn’t be sitting here with you.”

Everything he says is true, but hearing it out loud makes me afraid. Because if Jackson didn’t fix things . . . “You think they saved her?” The Committee.

“Something did.” He offers a hint of a smile. “I don’t get to take credit for this one.”

I take a deep breath, hating myself for what I’m about to ask, needing to ask it. “Do you get to take credit for lying to me again?”

The smile vanishes. He’s quiet for a bit; then he asks, “Which lie are we talking about here?”

“There’s more than one?” I shake my head. “No, don’t answer that. Of course there’s more than one.”

“I don’t consider them lies.”

“Because they’re omission rather than commission?”

“Something like that.” He rests his forearms on his thighs again and dangles his hands between his legs.

“You knew, didn’t you? You knew while we were in the lobby that we were going to respawn at Glenbrook.”

“We didn’t respawn at Glenbrook.”

“Not at first, no, but somehow that’s where we ended up. And you had forewarning. You knew.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you know the Drau would be able to hurt people?”

“The Drau always hurt people.”

I exhale in a rush. “That’s not what I mean. Did you know they would be at the dance, that they would be there, really be there, in the same reality or dimension or whatever? Did you know that they could hurt people at the dance? Answer me, Jackson. The truth, not one of your versions of the truth.”

“I knew when we were in the lobby that we were going to Glenbrook. I knew before Luka went into the dance that worlds were about to collide.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“I did what was best for the team. Kendra was already losing it. Lien’s focus was on her. You were freaked that we were at Glenbrook, never mind that the Drau were about to attend the Halloween dance with us.” He turns his head toward me and continues in a flat, even tone. “When we’re there, on a mission, I can’t be Jackson, the boy trying to work things out with Miki. I have to be Jackson who gets everyone in, then gets them out. It’s the only way I can do this, Miki.”

“When—” I begin, then pause, trying to figure out exactly what I want to say. “You said you had to do what’s best for the team. That’s the key word. Team, as in collaborative effort. You aren’t a lone gunman, Jackson. When we’re on a mission, I can’t be the girl who blindly follows orders, no questions asked. You should have told me.”

“And if you freaked out? Drew attention to us? Jeopardized the mission?”

“Because telling me would have been so much more likely to freak me out than letting things blindside me, letting me see it all happen right in front of me?”

“Miki, you’re a control freak. If I’d told you in advance, you would have second-guessed yourself, seen each scenario before it played out. Tried to twist it to conform to your mental plan. And that could have gotten you killed.” He pauses. “The way it panned out, you were confronted by a situation; you reacted without overthinking. You’re trained for battle, Miki. That’s what kendo did for you. So I let your training take over.”

Anger flickers and flares. I hate that he did this. That he high-handedly made decisions for me. But that’s his job—at least, it is when we’re in the game. He’s the leader. He’s supposed to make decisions.

I doubly hate it that I know he’s right about the control thing.

“So you did it because I’m not capable of knowing the truth and thinking it through?” I snap, not even meaning to. It just comes out. “Because I’m just a bundle of raw nerves? Is that what you think of me? Is that who you think I am?”

“No.”

I push to my feet, pace away, then back again. He’s not totally wrong. I do get panic attacks. I do have anxiety. But not when we’re on a mission. On every mission, I’ve done what I had to, done it with a cool head and a fair amount of logic.

Because I’ve been dumped right into the thick of things. No forewarning, no time to agonize and second-guess.

Which backs up Jackson’s claim that his way was the right way. I ball my fists, angry with him. Angry with myself.

He catches my hand and draws me back down next to him on the step.

“It isn’t just about me. Or you,” he says. “It’s about the rest of them. Was I supposed to tell them, too? Drag you aside and whisper it in your ear?”

“However you want to spin this in your own mind, whatever justifications you have, you didn’t just omit information, Jackson. You lied. When we first respawned in the hallway, you said it was like Vegas. You said no one outside the game would get hurt.”

“Did I say that?”

I stare at him, thinking back, dissecting my memories. “No,” I say slowly. “You didn’t. You said one word. Vegas. You let me fill in the rest. And you didn’t correct me when I filled it in wrong.”

“I made a judgment call.”

“Do you understand how wrong that is? You making decisions like that for me?”

He shrugs. “Blame it on a heavy dose of caveman genes.”

Caveman genes that have kept us all alive. I’m torn. I see his side, but I also see mine. We’re both right. We’re both wrong. “You told me you wouldn’t lie to me anymore.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“If we don’t have honesty . . . if we don’t have trust . . . what do we have?” I whisper.

“I trust you, Miki. I trust you with my life.”

It’s my turn not to say anything. If I say I trust him, I negate all my arguments and this will never be resolved between us. If I say I don’t trust him, then I’m the one who’s lying. Rock and a hard place.

He sighs. “If you can’t forgive me”—he holds up a hand when I start to interrupt—“if you can’t forgive me, Miki, then what do we have?”

“I forgive you.”

“Do you? For what? For not telling you everything on this mission? For doling out details on a need-to-know basis? Or is it that you forgive me for tricking you in the first place? Dragging you into the game?”

I open my mouth. He shakes his head and keeps going. “What is it you forgive me for, Miki? For being the leader I’ve been forced to be for the past five years? For making the choice to risk my life so your friend could live, making that choice so you didn’t have to? For not being perfect? For not being the boy who tells you absolutely everything, and never will?”

I recoil from him, stinging like he struck me. “Is that how you see me? Is that what you think of me? That I’m so shallow, so weak . . . so foolish?”

His laugh is bitter and dark. “I see you as strength incarnate, a warrior forged of steel, the single bright light in my effed-up world. But it’s how you see us. It’s about what you can and can’t accept.”

He pushes to his feet, his back to me, and says, “Some buildings sway when an earthquake hits, and they’re the ones that are still standing when it’s over. Some buildings don’t. They’re too rigid. They snap. You’re lucky, Miki. You get to choose what sort of building you want to be.”

I stare at his back, feeling sick, wondering how we got to this place when we ought to be hugging and jumping for joy because he just got our whole team out alive, got me out alive, got Carly out. Sent the Drau back to the hole they crawled out of. Saved the team. The school. And for the moment, the world.

“Jackson.” I jump to my feet, lay my hand on his shoulder, feeling sick and hurt and confused, not wanting to let this conversation end like this.

“I’ll drop you and Carly at your place,” he says. “I just need some time on my own.”

“He says he’ll never be the boy who tells me absolutely everything,” I say to Carly. She’s lying on my bed. I’m lying on my back on my floor.

I didn’t tell her what my fight with Jackson was about. How could I? When she asked why he and Luka weren’t coming in, I just told her Jackson and I had a disagreement, that he isn’t always completely truthful with me.

“That is completely unacceptable,” she says in her best imitation of Mr. Shomper. “I mean, how can he not tell you what toothpaste he uses? Or what he ate for breakfast? Or . . . wait, no,” she says in a horrified tone, “if he forgot to do laundry and didn’t have any clean socks so he’s wearing the same ones as yesterday.” She tips her head to look at me. “Does he do his own laundry? Did he tell you?”

“Not funny.” But I smile anyway because she’s here, lying on my bed, eyes still puffy from her crying jag, but other than that looking healthy as can be.

Puffy eyes is a vast improvement over bone-white and bloody and dead.

“Do you tell him absolutely everything?” she asks. “Like, did you tell him about the time you pooped in the bathtub and it floated and you called it a boat?”

“I was three!”

“But did you tell him?”

“No.”

“What about the time you barfed all over Allen’s lap on the bus on the class trip to the zoo? Did you tell him that?”

“Those are disgusting and ridiculous examples. Is there a particular reason you’re choosing to be as gross as possible?”

“I guess I just feel like it.”

“Well, unfeel.”

“Unfeel? Is that a word?” She laughs at the look I shoot her and says, “Okay. Answer this. Did you tell him all about the nightmares and the panic attacks?” Her voice gentles. “Did you tell him about your mom? Or about how worried you’ve been about your dad and his drinking?”

I take in a breath, ready to answer, and then I stop. Carly knows all that. Some, because she lived through it with me. Some, because she knows me so well I don’t need to tell her. The stuff about Dad’s drinking, because I confided in her. In the beginning, she even helped me count the bottles on the counter and the ones in the fridge.

But Jackson doesn’t know—at least, not everything. Parts of it we’ve talked about. And parts of it, like the anxiety stuff, I think he pretty much figured out. But some of it, I just didn’t talk about because . . . I just didn’t. “Not all of it, no.”

“Why not?” Carly asks. “Shouldn’t you tell him everything?”

“I . . .”

“Double standard much? He’s supposed to bare all for you”—she pauses and looks at me and grins—“which I’d like to be present for if it’s all the same to you. Anyway, he’s supposed to bare his soul for you, but you get to keep secrets?”

“They’re not secrets. It’s just, I can’t tell him everything. I don’t always think about explaining stuff like that. It’s just part of . . . I don’t know . . . part of me. And other stuff, I guess I don’t think he really needs to know. Or maybe I don’t think he’d want to know.”

“And you don’t think maybe it’s the same for him?”

“No, it isn’t the same. The stuff he doesn’t tell me is different. It’s important. It’s—” About the game.

And I can’t tell Carly that.

So I’m doing exactly what Jackson does. Keeping secrets. Or, at least, avoiding certain topics. Because sometimes that’s just the way it is.

I sigh, thinking about our argument and about Jackson, the way he was there for me, the way he came to me when I needed him, when Carly needed him, instead of going after the girl with the green eyes.

“I made it all about me,” I say, covering my face with my hands. “I knew he had a rough evening, too, and I just focused on my stuff.”

Rough doesn’t begin to describe it. On top of everything we all went through on that mission, Jackson had to deal with being responsible for all our lives and facing down a shell wearing his dead sister’s face.

I could have cut him some slack.

I could have started the argument another day.

I just didn’t think. No wonder he said he wanted some time to himself. Why did I do that?

“What’s wrong with me?” I ask.

Carly rolls facedown and slides off the bed headfirst so she ends up half-on, half-off, supporting her torso on her straight arms, her face above mine.

“Nothing’s wrong with you. Actually, you’re the least wrong that you’ve been in two years. Couples argue sometimes. No biggie.” She slides the rest of the way off the bed, so we’re lying side by side. “It’s not like he broke up with you. I mean, he didn’t, did he?”

“No.”

She rolls on her side and stares at me. “Do you love him?”

I study the ceiling, trying to decide how to answer. Do I want to say it out loud? I’ve told Jackson that I love him, but that was under duress while he was dying in a deserted building in Detroit after he took a Drau hit meant for me. And I qualified that declaration by telling him I didn’t forgive him, that he had to live so he could beg forgiveness. On the romance scale, that’d have to score a negative ten.

And maybe I’ve said it once or twice since then in a joking way—I can’t even remember if I have or not. But I haven’t actually said it said it. Maybe I’m afraid to love him. Or maybe I’m just afraid to admit it out loud.

Bad things seem to happen to people I love.

I haven’t told anyone else how I feel about him. Not even Carly.

“It’s okay,” she says. “You don’t have to answer. Not out loud. But you have to answer it in your own head. In your heart.” She pauses, then says in a slow, sonorous tone, dragging out each word, forcing a huffing exhalation into each vowel, “Love . . . means never . . . having . . . to say . . . you’re sorry.”

“Did you seriously just say that to me?” I surge up and grab a pillow off my bed and whack her with it. She grabs another and whacks me. “Did you really just tell me that love means never having to say you’re sorry?”

She’s laughing so hard, she’s gasping for air as her pillow smacks me upside the head. I get her on the arm. She gets me flat across the back.

In the end, we’re both gasping and snorting as we let the pillows drop.

“I love you,” she says. “There, I said it.”

Everyone leaves.

She almost left me tonight, almost died. I never would have had these moments with her, never would have had the chance to tell her. Just like I’ll never again have the chance to tell Mom. But I have the memories of a thousand times I did tell her, and the thousand times she told me. Those memories matter. “I love you, too, Carly,” I say.

She puckers up and makes kissy-face noises. “I really do forgive you for killing my fish,” she says.

“I really do forgive you for bringing that up yet again,” I say.

She shrugs. “You deserve it.”

“You plan to milk it for eternity.”

“Pretty much.”

“Okay.”

She grabs me and hugs me, and I hug her back, holding tighter than I probably should, the memory of her lying on the floor covered in blood too fresh, too raw.

There’s a tapping at my door. “Miki? Carly?”

We both flop on the bed. “Come on in, Dad.”

He looks at the pillows on the floor, then at us. If I look anywhere near as bad as Carly, whose hair is standing out in all directions from static electricity, then Dad’ll have no trouble figuring out what we’ve been doing.

“I’m heading out to get milk,” Dad says. “Do you want a ride home, Carly?”

“Yeah, thanks, Mr. Jones. My mom’s not speaking to me. Again. So calling her for a ride probably isn’t my best plan.”

“Right. Okay.” Dad holds up his index finger, punctuating each word. “Ready to go when you are.”