Push
Page 2
Red like Jackson’s con.
Can’t think about that yet.
“I’m okay,” I mumble to Carly. A lie I need her to believe. I don’t dare freak out right now. I don’t know who’s watching, listening. Judging.
One brow arches delicately in that special Carly way, the pink streak in her #11 Extra Light Blond hair falling forward over her cheek. She just put that streak in a few days ago, but it’s already fading. No big deal. Carly’ll probably change it to purple or blue before the week’s out.
“You’re okay? Really?” she asks, the words dripping attitude and snark. It’s a front. She’s worried, and I hate that I’m the cause. She’s been so angry with me lately, our friendship yet another victim of the game and the secrets I’m forced to keep, but right now the only emotion mirrored on her face is concern.
A face so familiar. So special to me. She’s not part of my other reality; I never want her to be part of it, to fight, to die. I want to grab her and crush her in the tightest hug, but that would just make her worry more.
“I’m fine,” I say, trying to force my brain back up to speed. Missions demand one kind of focus. Real life demands another. This is my real life, the one where I run five days a week at the crack of dawn, vacuum the carpet in tiny, neat sections, iron the bedsheets, and wipe the kitchen counter even when it isn’t dirty.
Because I can. My choice. Mine. No one else’s.
“Do you want to go outside? Get some air?” Carly asks, then glances over her shoulder at Luka, either looking for approval or making sure he heard her.
“You think fresh air’ll help?” he asks Carly, but he’s watching me, his fingers curled into tight fists, the muscles of his forearms corded and taut. “You’re fine, Miki. Everything’s fine.” He dips his chin to the table beside him. There’s a pizza there and four unused plates, a key ring, and some bills that Luka must have tossed down to cover the cost of the meal no one will eat.
Nothing important there to see, so why did he want me to look?
Luka scoops his keys from the table and walks toward us. His gaze holds mine, his expression intent, and he lowers his brows like he’s doing a Mind-Meld thing. Problem is, the connection’s down at my end.
“Earth to Miki.” Carly snaps her fingers near my face. The faint scent of cigarettes carries from her fingers, a reminder of the distance that’s been building between us. She knows my history and she’s been smoking anyway. A lot of people who get lung cancer aren’t smokers, but Mom was. A pack a day. And now she’s dead.
Like Gram and Sofu and Richelle. And Jackson.
Everyone leaves.
I swallow, but the lump in my throat stays exactly where it is.
“Miki.” Carly tightens her hold on my arm as Luka steps up on my other side. “Breathe. Just breathe. You know what to do. You’ve done this a million times,” she says.
I have. In the two years since Mom died I’ve had tons of panic attacks. I know the signs, and I’m experiencing a bunch of them right now: the feeling that a sword of doom’s about to cut me down, the urge to escape, get out, run. The trembling. The shaking. The vise squeezing my chest.
They’re known and familiar enemies, and that’s why I recognize the subtle differences. This is no simple panic attack. It has extra special layers: it’s me battling for control, trying to balance the game with my life, locking the door against the agony that’s scratching to get in.
Jackson.
I can’t think about him yet.
“Outside sounds like a plan,” I say.
Carly wraps her arm around my waist and I cling to her, aching to spill it all out. The lobby. The battles. The aliens. The scores.
Her pupils are dilated, huge and dark, leaving only a thin rim of hazel green. Because of me. I’m scaring her.
I’m scaring myself.
I feel like I’ve been through a wood chipper and the slightest puff of air will scatter all the bloody, raw bits of me across the floor. And there, at the edges of my mind, is the numbness that’s shrouded my every moment since Mom died. It’s crawling back like a swarm of maggots to rotting flesh. Part of me wants to let it, to say: Yes. Welcome. Wreathe my world in fog. Make me numb. Make me feel nothing, nothing at all.
But I don’t want to be that girl anymore. I’ve worked so hard to be normal.
You were never just a normal girl. I hear his voice in my head, but it’s just a memory.
Jackson’s gone. Forever.
I thought I could save him like he saved me.
I failed.
I can’t bear it. I can’t mourn again, can’t do it, not right now. Not anytime soon.
The guy in the back is singing off-key while he makes the pie. The woman behind the counter plants her fists on her hips. Her expression’s pretty clear. She’d like us to find the exit, like . . . now. Thanks for the concern, lady.
The few steps it’ll take me to get to the door stretch like an abyss before me. I’m not sure that my legs won’t buckle before I hit the sidewalk.
Carly shifts my arm from her waist and drapes it across her shoulders. Like she’s afraid I’ll crumble. I won’t. I refuse. I won’t let this break me.
“Miki, it’s okay,” Luka says, drawing out the last word like he’s trying to tell me something. I watch the key ring spin round and round and round his index finger.
“Slow breaths. You know the routine,” Carly says, and shuffles us both a couple of steps closer to the front door.
Can’t think about that yet.
“I’m okay,” I mumble to Carly. A lie I need her to believe. I don’t dare freak out right now. I don’t know who’s watching, listening. Judging.
One brow arches delicately in that special Carly way, the pink streak in her #11 Extra Light Blond hair falling forward over her cheek. She just put that streak in a few days ago, but it’s already fading. No big deal. Carly’ll probably change it to purple or blue before the week’s out.
“You’re okay? Really?” she asks, the words dripping attitude and snark. It’s a front. She’s worried, and I hate that I’m the cause. She’s been so angry with me lately, our friendship yet another victim of the game and the secrets I’m forced to keep, but right now the only emotion mirrored on her face is concern.
A face so familiar. So special to me. She’s not part of my other reality; I never want her to be part of it, to fight, to die. I want to grab her and crush her in the tightest hug, but that would just make her worry more.
“I’m fine,” I say, trying to force my brain back up to speed. Missions demand one kind of focus. Real life demands another. This is my real life, the one where I run five days a week at the crack of dawn, vacuum the carpet in tiny, neat sections, iron the bedsheets, and wipe the kitchen counter even when it isn’t dirty.
Because I can. My choice. Mine. No one else’s.
“Do you want to go outside? Get some air?” Carly asks, then glances over her shoulder at Luka, either looking for approval or making sure he heard her.
“You think fresh air’ll help?” he asks Carly, but he’s watching me, his fingers curled into tight fists, the muscles of his forearms corded and taut. “You’re fine, Miki. Everything’s fine.” He dips his chin to the table beside him. There’s a pizza there and four unused plates, a key ring, and some bills that Luka must have tossed down to cover the cost of the meal no one will eat.
Nothing important there to see, so why did he want me to look?
Luka scoops his keys from the table and walks toward us. His gaze holds mine, his expression intent, and he lowers his brows like he’s doing a Mind-Meld thing. Problem is, the connection’s down at my end.
“Earth to Miki.” Carly snaps her fingers near my face. The faint scent of cigarettes carries from her fingers, a reminder of the distance that’s been building between us. She knows my history and she’s been smoking anyway. A lot of people who get lung cancer aren’t smokers, but Mom was. A pack a day. And now she’s dead.
Like Gram and Sofu and Richelle. And Jackson.
Everyone leaves.
I swallow, but the lump in my throat stays exactly where it is.
“Miki.” Carly tightens her hold on my arm as Luka steps up on my other side. “Breathe. Just breathe. You know what to do. You’ve done this a million times,” she says.
I have. In the two years since Mom died I’ve had tons of panic attacks. I know the signs, and I’m experiencing a bunch of them right now: the feeling that a sword of doom’s about to cut me down, the urge to escape, get out, run. The trembling. The shaking. The vise squeezing my chest.
They’re known and familiar enemies, and that’s why I recognize the subtle differences. This is no simple panic attack. It has extra special layers: it’s me battling for control, trying to balance the game with my life, locking the door against the agony that’s scratching to get in.
Jackson.
I can’t think about him yet.
“Outside sounds like a plan,” I say.
Carly wraps her arm around my waist and I cling to her, aching to spill it all out. The lobby. The battles. The aliens. The scores.
Her pupils are dilated, huge and dark, leaving only a thin rim of hazel green. Because of me. I’m scaring her.
I’m scaring myself.
I feel like I’ve been through a wood chipper and the slightest puff of air will scatter all the bloody, raw bits of me across the floor. And there, at the edges of my mind, is the numbness that’s shrouded my every moment since Mom died. It’s crawling back like a swarm of maggots to rotting flesh. Part of me wants to let it, to say: Yes. Welcome. Wreathe my world in fog. Make me numb. Make me feel nothing, nothing at all.
But I don’t want to be that girl anymore. I’ve worked so hard to be normal.
You were never just a normal girl. I hear his voice in my head, but it’s just a memory.
Jackson’s gone. Forever.
I thought I could save him like he saved me.
I failed.
I can’t bear it. I can’t mourn again, can’t do it, not right now. Not anytime soon.
The guy in the back is singing off-key while he makes the pie. The woman behind the counter plants her fists on her hips. Her expression’s pretty clear. She’d like us to find the exit, like . . . now. Thanks for the concern, lady.
The few steps it’ll take me to get to the door stretch like an abyss before me. I’m not sure that my legs won’t buckle before I hit the sidewalk.
Carly shifts my arm from her waist and drapes it across her shoulders. Like she’s afraid I’ll crumble. I won’t. I refuse. I won’t let this break me.
“Miki, it’s okay,” Luka says, drawing out the last word like he’s trying to tell me something. I watch the key ring spin round and round and round his index finger.
“Slow breaths. You know the routine,” Carly says, and shuffles us both a couple of steps closer to the front door.
