I take a deep breath. I’m angry with her. She’s angry with me. And it’s all just stupid. What are we fighting over? Aliens could decimate our world today, or tomorrow, or the next day. I could die in the game like Richelle.
I could die outside the game, like Mom.
The only thing that’s really certain is this moment. The only thing I can control a hundred percent are the choices I make right now.
“Fine,” I say, and climb in, making my choice.
Carly reaches into her backpack and pulls out her cigarettes. So much for being conciliatory. Puffing smoke in my face isn’t the best way to start this conversation, and she knows it.
“Not in my car,” Jackson says, his voice like steel.
Carly looks at him. I don’t turn my head to see his expression, but I can imagine it: hard, implacable. Whatever Carly sees in his face, she tucks the pack of cigarettes away.
Jackson’s a careful driver. No rolling stops. The music set to a reasonable volume. Hands in the perfect safe-driving position on the wheel. I’m a little surprised. I would have expected him to be way more cocky. When I mention it, Luka laughs and says, “Insurance is a killer. Even one ticket would bump it into astronomical.”
“And I have no intention of losing my wheels because I got cocky.” The line sounds practiced, like Jackson’s saying what’s expected rather than what’s true.
“But cocky is your middle name,” I say sweetly.
Beside me, Carly snorts.
I take that as an opportunity. I already told her I meant to send the text, but I think that showing her again—now that she actually might be willing to look—will cement her belief. I pull out my phone, tilt it so she can see, and say, “I really did think I hit Send. My bad.”
She stares at the phone for a long time. Her lips pinch, then relax, and she says, “Your bad.”
At least she’s talking to me.
We go to a place on Mt. Hope. It’s not very busy. Probably because we’re past the lunch rush and too early for the dinner rush. Maybe because it’s pretty new—slate tiles, bright yellow walls, shiny counters. We head for a booth. Jackson gestures for Carly to slide in. She does and he sits beside her. Luka slides in across from her, which leaves me across from Jackson.
I expect small talk. Sports talk. Something. But Jackson goes in a different direction. He turns his head toward Carly and says, “If the world ended right now, name one thing you’d be proud of and one thing you’d regret.”
“What?” She looks as startled as I feel.
“Seriously,” he says. “Name one of each. Fast. Before you have too much time to think about it.”
“I don’t know.” She cuts me a glance, clearly confused. “Someone else go first.”
Jackson says, “Luka?”
“I’d regret betrayal and be proud of friendship,” he says, not losing a beat. “And having some sort of ethics. I’d be proud of that.”
“Carly?” Jackson says.
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know. I’d regret not having legs like Stephanie Ling. You know who I mean. She sits in front of you in Spanish. The one who always wears the really short skirts? Which she should, with legs like that.”
“Never noticed,” Jackson says with a small smile. Chivalry at its best. He’s noticed, all right.
“That’s the best you can come up with?” Luka asks Carly, and reaches over to tug gently at the pink streak in her hair.
She presses her lips together and ducks her head so she’s looking at him through her lashes.
“Seriously, Carly?” Luka laughs.
“Carly has tons to be proud of,” I jump in. “Loyalty. Brains.”
“Beauty,” she interjects.
“Miki?” Jackson says. “Your turn.”
Carly smiles at me, bigger and brighter than she’s smiled at me in a while.
I try to smile back. I mean to smile back. But suddenly, the smells of melting cheese and tomato sauce and grease wash over me, not appetizing . . . nauseating. The room spins. My focus fades, then snaps back, too sharp.
Luka’s talking, then Jackson, but I can’t make out the words. I think they’re asking questions. Asking me? Asking Carly? I don’t know.
I press the tip of my tongue against the backs of my top teeth, breathing through my mouth, trying to ignore the smells. I can’t. My stomach churns. My chest rises and falls, too fast. My head spins. There’s something wrong. Really wrong.
The world feels too slow. Sounds are too loud, smells too strong, colors too bright.
Then I recognize the sensation and fear uncurls inside me. We’re being pulled. I turn my head, expecting Luka’s eyes to be blue. He’s looking at me questioningly, his brow furrowed. But his eyes are brown.
Not blue.
It takes me a second to process that because my brain feels like its gears are grinding and going nowhere.
If we’re not getting pulled, then what’s wrong with me?