“I’m not familiar with any medical condition that requires sunglasses, Mr. Tate. Please remove them. Immediately.”
I shoot a glance at Jackson. What happens if he takes off those glasses? What happens if people look in his eyes? The same thing that happened to me when I looked in the Drau’s eyes? I shiver. Then I tell myself that Jackson won’t let it come to that. He’ll just leave. He’ll find another option. He won’t risk exposure.
Jackson rubs his palm against his jaw, then says, “Are you familiar with scotoma, sir? Macular degeneration? Congenital amaurosis? Glaucoma? Any and all of the above require sunglasses.”
The whole class gasps. No one challenges Mr. Shomper. But did Jackson really challenge him? There was nothing inflammatory in his tone. He sounded completely respectful.
Mr. Shomper stares at him, then does something I’ve never seen him do, not once, and this is my second year having him for English. He smiles. It’s a little scary to look at. His teeth are yellow with a few brown spots and his pale, papery skin crinkles so much it looks like it might crack.
“Point well made, Mr. Tate,” he says. “You appear to have some skill with argument. I look forward to reading your essay on Lord of the Flies.” The smile disappears. “How many times have you presented your case to a dubious teacher?”
“This is my eighteenth school.”
Eighteen schools? Even Mr. Shomper looks stunned.
“That includes elementary and middle schools,” Jackson clarifies, as if that makes the number any less shocking.
That night, teeth brushed, ready for bed, I go to my window and look out. My skin isn’t prickling, I don’t feel that electric certainty that Jackson’s out there, but I look for him anyway. Hoping. English was the only class we had together, and though I looked for him in the halls, I didn’t see him for the rest of the day. I’m honest enough to admit that I’m disappointed.
I’m about to turn away when I see it: a white package on the porch roof. I open the window and lean out far enough to grab it. It’s a book, wrapped in a white plastic bag that’s taped down like weatherproof gift wrap. I smile. I can’t help it. Whatever book it is, it’s from Jackson.
I run my finger under the tape, open the bag, and peer in, feeling like I’m about six years old and it’s Christmas morning.
The latest edition of Bleach looks back at me. I sink my teeth into my lower lip, smiling and trying not to.
There’s a sheet of white paper, folded in half, sticking out from inside the front cover. I pull it out.
Almost had to give you my copy. Sold out in two stores, but finally found this in the third. So it’s yours.
No signature. None needed. I know who it’s from, and my heart does a crazy little dance. I give up on trying not to smile and let my grin stretch.
With a laugh, I put the book on my bedside table, grab my copy of The Last Wish, tuck it in the bag, and tape it down. No note. None needed. I put the package on the roof, in a different spot than where he left the one for me, hoping that will be enough to tell him it isn’t his package just sitting there unnoticed.
Then I close the window, sit down on the floor, and settle in to wait. At some point, I nod off, and when I wake up, my hip sore from lying on the floor, my neck cricked at an odd angle, the book’s gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
IT’S FRIDAY. AGAIN. I SURVIVED ANOTHER WEEK, AND I DIDN’T get pulled. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t spend the week worrying about getting pulled even though I remember what Luka said about usually having some time in between missions. I’m glad he turned out to be right.
wht is green & leafy?
I roll my eyes as I read his text, careful not to let Ms. Devon see my phone. She’ll freak if she catches me using it in class.
We’ve started doing this a couple of times a day, sending each other the most ridiculous jokes. I text back:
Salad?
a green leaf
It takes a lot of self-control not to groan out loud and give myself away. Ms. Devon scans the room. I scribble numbers on the page, and once her eyes slide past me, I text:
What is sticky & brown?
gross. u wnt me 2 answr that?
I smile.
A brown stick.
I imagine I hear Luka groaning at the other end. Ms. Devon stands up and starts down the aisle. I shove my phone in my pocket and scribble yet more numbers on the page. She moves past me and I stare at my textbook, not really seeing it.
The week—which has actually been closer to two weeks if I count all the time I spent in the game last time—has been strange in a lot of ways. Carly and I are still awkward around each other. It feels sort of like that weird, post-breakup phase where you’re trying to be friends. Except, I didn’t break up with her and I don’t understand why she’s breaking up with me.
She came to my house yesterday for breakfast, just like she used to. Today she didn’t show. I feel like whenever I’m with her now, I’m walking on cracked ice, and one misstep will dunk me.