My gaze lifts to his face. Whatever I mean to say shrivels on my lips and all I can do is stare.
Of all the things I ought to notice at this precise moment, his appearance should be the last on my list. But I notice anyway. Not because he’s beautiful, though he definitely is that. He’s about my age, with the sort of wide-shouldered, lean build that makes girls look. His hair is light brown, shot with gold and honey, worn in long, messy layers that fall to frame high, chiseled cheekbones. But the part I most want to see—his eyes—are hidden by mirrored, old-school aviator sunglasses.
That’s why I stare. Because of those glasses. I’m afraid they aren’t real, that none of this is real.
I remember Carly’s description of the hot new guy and his aviator shades, just like the ones this boy is wearing. I shiver. What if I’m not here, lying on the ground under a too-blue sky? What if I’m unconscious in a hospital bed attached to tubes and wires and all of this is conjured by my imagination and wispy memories of Carly’s words?
“It’s real,” he says, his tone flat. I watch his mouth shape the words. He has beautiful lips, the lower slightly fuller than the upper.
“What—” The word comes out as a croak. I roll my lips inward and swipe them with my tongue, then try again. “You can read my mind?” Not a possibility I’d normally even consider, but today’s shaping up to be a day that’s anything but normal.
He smiles, a faint curve of his lips that reveals the barest hint of a long dimple carved in his right cheek. “No, but I can read your expression. And I’ve been doing this long enough that I know what most people tend to think when they first open their eyes.”
“Doing what long enough?”
“This,” he says, and nothing more.
A second of silence stretches into two. Though I can’t see behind his glasses, I have the feeling he’s not looking at me anymore, that he’s scanning the area, looking for . . . something. But as I stare at him, I see me—tiny distorted reflections of me in the shiny, convex lenses. He leans a little closer and my image sharpens, my skin too pale, my hair too dark. The contrast makes me look like a goth.
This time he smiles with a flash of white teeth, and the dimple carves a little deeper. “A goth,” he echoes.
“I said that out loud.”
“Yeah. Happens to all the new arrivals. Hard to separate thought from speech at first.” He tips his head a bit to the side, studying me. “It’ll pass.”
“I heard you,” I whisper.
“That’s a good thing. Your hearing’s fine.”
“No, I mean I heard you earlier, inside my head.”
“Did you now?” He doesn’t sound surprised, or even curious.
I wait, and when he doesn’t say anything more, I sift through the bunch of questions that are clamoring for release and pick the simplest one. “Where am I?”
“The lobby.”
I glance around at the wide patch of long grass bounded by trees. “Lobbies have marble tiles.”
“Not this one.”
So maybe that wasn’t the simplest question. Or was it just the answer that was complicated? “Who are you?”
“Jackson Tate.” He says only his name, with no elaboration and no follow-up question of his own.
I jump in and offer, “I’m Miki. Miki Jones.”
“I know.”
Right. He knows my name. He’s been calling it all afternoon. In my head.
I’m about to ask how he did that when I register what he said earlier about all the new arrivals. Put that together with his assertion that this is a lobby, and I’m forced to revisit the impression I had when I first woke up. I blurt out, “Am I—”
I can’t finish the question. Not out loud. It’s like if I say it out loud, it’ll make it true. I struggle to sit up.
“No,” he says, but I’m not sure if he’s answering my unspoken question—telling me I’m not dead—or telling me not to move.
With a bit of effort I manage to sit up. He doesn’t help, but he doesn’t stop me, either. Then he touches my wrist. I glance down to see that I’m wearing a bracelet with a black strap and a rectangular screen that’s filled by a shimmering, swirling pattern.
I frown. “That’s not mine.”
“It is now.” His fingertips play across the screen.
“What are you doing?” A sensation of warmth flows from my wrist to my elbow. It isn’t unpleasant, just unexpected.
“Activating it.”
“Uh . . . no you’re not.” I jerk my hand away. “You’re not activating anything until I get some answers.”
“Yeah, I am. If I don’t activate it, it explodes.” He sounds dead serious.
“For real?”
He doesn’t answer, and that pisses me off. But I can’t be certain it isn’t for real, and since I’m fond of having a hand at the end of my arm, I offer my wrist. He finishes running his fingers over the screen. I notice that he’s wearing a bracelet, too. The pattern on mine is silver; the one on his is forest green.