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?
CHAPTER EIGHT
“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.