Push
Page 67
I press my ear to the door. Not a sound. I try to decide what to say next, minutes crawling past, my exhausted brain coming up blank.
“Let me,” Jackson says.
I turn to see that Mrs. Conner is back. She hands something to Jackson. I can’t imagine that Carly will be any more responsive to him than she was to her mom or me. But I step aside, hoping I’m wrong.
Of course, Jackson takes a completely different tack. He uncoils the paper clip he must have gotten from Mrs. Conner, squats down to eye level with the doorknob, and slips the end of the paper clip into the hole at the bottom. He wiggles it for about three seconds, and then turns the knob. The door opens a crack.
Jackson gets to his feet and steps back. As Luka reaches for the doorknob, Jackson catches his wrist. “Maybe let Miki,” he says.
I glance at Mrs. Conner, who’s standing by the top of the stairs again. Her arms are folded over her chest, her brows drawn in a frown. For all that she was trying to come off as annoyed, she really is worried.
I offer what I hope is a reassuring smile, slip into the bathroom, and close the door behind me. It’s dark, just a sliver of ambient light leaking through the edge of the blind that’s pulled down over the window.
“Carly?” I say as I flip on the light, which also happens to turn on the overhead fan. They’re wired together to a single switch. Carly and I have a running joke that the fan’s louder than a jet, so we can always tell if one of her brothers is in the can.
As it roars to life and the sudden light hits her, Carly lets out a squeak and throws her forearm across her eyes. She’s curled up on the floor in a corner of the bathroom, dressed in her yellow bodysuit. The yellow wig’s nowhere in sight and her mustard label isn’t tacked on.
I hunker down beside her and lean over, trying to give her a hug. In this position, it’s more like a pro-wrestling cross-body block.
She squirms and says, “What are you doing?” The words are muffled in my shoulder.
“Me? What are you doing? You scared the shit out of us.”
“What?” She sort of curls to a sitting position and pushes away from me, then scuttles back until her back’s pressed to the wall, her legs straight out in front of her. Her eyes are puffy and red, swollen almost completely shut, her cheeks tear stained.
She looks around, then drops her face into her hands. “Oh my God. Did I cry myself to sleep on the bathroom floor? Could I be any more pathetic?”
I settle on the floor next to her, remembering times when she was twelve and going through major mood swings and she’d lock herself in the bathroom for hours on end and just cry. Sometimes she’d let me in. Sometimes she wouldn’t. But she’s not twelve anymore and this is something else entirely.
“Did you . . . um . . . drink something?” I ask.
“No.”
“Smoke something?”
“No!”
“Get your period?”
She shoves my shoulder. “Shut up.”
We sit like that, shoulder-to-shoulder, my back to the wall, my legs stretched out next to hers. Mine in black. Hers in yellow. Like a bumblebee. Finally, she says, “I had the worst nightmare. It was so real.”
“Do you . . . want to tell me about it?”
“I died.”
My stomach knots and I wait for her to continue, a million questions on the tip of my tongue. I don’t want to push her, but I need to know. The game is spilling into real life and now that I know Carly’s okay, that she made it through, I need to think strategically. Any info she can give me might help us against the Drau.
My head’s clearer now, and the implications sparkle deadly bright. The Drau were at the dance at my high school. They almost killed Carly. Next time, there might not be any almost in that sentence. And the number of victims might not be in the single digits. The number of dead could number in the hundreds . . . thousands . . .
“I thought you’re not supposed to die on your dreams,” Carly says just as I’m about to fire off a question or two, “cuz if you die in a dream you die for real.”
“I think that’s a myth. Tell me about the dream.”
She takes her hands from her face and stares at the floor, pulling on alternating strands of the fluffy blue bath mat. “I was at the dance. We were doing ‘The Time Warp.’ There were these lights flashing, really bright, right in the middle of everything. Lights in the shape of people. I thought someone came up with a really cool costume. Then there were a bunch of little lights, like falling stars, and when they landed, they burned holes through people’s skin. Everyone started screaming. Running. It was crazy.”
She pulls at a strand of carpet, lets it go, pulls at another. “You were there. You and Luka and Jackson. Someone pulled the fire alarm. You ran down toward the gym instead of running out. I was scared you’d get hurt. Get killed.”
She shrugs, still staring at the carpet, pulling and pulling at the threads. “I knew I had to follow you, save you. It was like there was something driving me to follow. You went to the basement and I knew that if I didn’t go down after you, something terrible was going to happen to you.” She pauses. “It was so real. Not like any dream I’ve had before.”
I put my hand over hers and squeeze. She stops pulling at the rug, just sits there, tense and rigid.
“I found you,” she says. “I was telling you to get out. And then I died.”
My fingers tighten on hers.
She looks down and spreads her free hand over her abdomen. “It didn’t hurt. It was just sort of dull. Numb. But there was a lot of blood.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Like, a lot of blood.”
“Let me,” Jackson says.
I turn to see that Mrs. Conner is back. She hands something to Jackson. I can’t imagine that Carly will be any more responsive to him than she was to her mom or me. But I step aside, hoping I’m wrong.
Of course, Jackson takes a completely different tack. He uncoils the paper clip he must have gotten from Mrs. Conner, squats down to eye level with the doorknob, and slips the end of the paper clip into the hole at the bottom. He wiggles it for about three seconds, and then turns the knob. The door opens a crack.
Jackson gets to his feet and steps back. As Luka reaches for the doorknob, Jackson catches his wrist. “Maybe let Miki,” he says.
I glance at Mrs. Conner, who’s standing by the top of the stairs again. Her arms are folded over her chest, her brows drawn in a frown. For all that she was trying to come off as annoyed, she really is worried.
I offer what I hope is a reassuring smile, slip into the bathroom, and close the door behind me. It’s dark, just a sliver of ambient light leaking through the edge of the blind that’s pulled down over the window.
“Carly?” I say as I flip on the light, which also happens to turn on the overhead fan. They’re wired together to a single switch. Carly and I have a running joke that the fan’s louder than a jet, so we can always tell if one of her brothers is in the can.
As it roars to life and the sudden light hits her, Carly lets out a squeak and throws her forearm across her eyes. She’s curled up on the floor in a corner of the bathroom, dressed in her yellow bodysuit. The yellow wig’s nowhere in sight and her mustard label isn’t tacked on.
I hunker down beside her and lean over, trying to give her a hug. In this position, it’s more like a pro-wrestling cross-body block.
She squirms and says, “What are you doing?” The words are muffled in my shoulder.
“Me? What are you doing? You scared the shit out of us.”
“What?” She sort of curls to a sitting position and pushes away from me, then scuttles back until her back’s pressed to the wall, her legs straight out in front of her. Her eyes are puffy and red, swollen almost completely shut, her cheeks tear stained.
She looks around, then drops her face into her hands. “Oh my God. Did I cry myself to sleep on the bathroom floor? Could I be any more pathetic?”
I settle on the floor next to her, remembering times when she was twelve and going through major mood swings and she’d lock herself in the bathroom for hours on end and just cry. Sometimes she’d let me in. Sometimes she wouldn’t. But she’s not twelve anymore and this is something else entirely.
“Did you . . . um . . . drink something?” I ask.
“No.”
“Smoke something?”
“No!”
“Get your period?”
She shoves my shoulder. “Shut up.”
We sit like that, shoulder-to-shoulder, my back to the wall, my legs stretched out next to hers. Mine in black. Hers in yellow. Like a bumblebee. Finally, she says, “I had the worst nightmare. It was so real.”
“Do you . . . want to tell me about it?”
“I died.”
My stomach knots and I wait for her to continue, a million questions on the tip of my tongue. I don’t want to push her, but I need to know. The game is spilling into real life and now that I know Carly’s okay, that she made it through, I need to think strategically. Any info she can give me might help us against the Drau.
My head’s clearer now, and the implications sparkle deadly bright. The Drau were at the dance at my high school. They almost killed Carly. Next time, there might not be any almost in that sentence. And the number of victims might not be in the single digits. The number of dead could number in the hundreds . . . thousands . . .
“I thought you’re not supposed to die on your dreams,” Carly says just as I’m about to fire off a question or two, “cuz if you die in a dream you die for real.”
“I think that’s a myth. Tell me about the dream.”
She takes her hands from her face and stares at the floor, pulling on alternating strands of the fluffy blue bath mat. “I was at the dance. We were doing ‘The Time Warp.’ There were these lights flashing, really bright, right in the middle of everything. Lights in the shape of people. I thought someone came up with a really cool costume. Then there were a bunch of little lights, like falling stars, and when they landed, they burned holes through people’s skin. Everyone started screaming. Running. It was crazy.”
She pulls at a strand of carpet, lets it go, pulls at another. “You were there. You and Luka and Jackson. Someone pulled the fire alarm. You ran down toward the gym instead of running out. I was scared you’d get hurt. Get killed.”
She shrugs, still staring at the carpet, pulling and pulling at the threads. “I knew I had to follow you, save you. It was like there was something driving me to follow. You went to the basement and I knew that if I didn’t go down after you, something terrible was going to happen to you.” She pauses. “It was so real. Not like any dream I’ve had before.”
I put my hand over hers and squeeze. She stops pulling at the rug, just sits there, tense and rigid.
“I found you,” she says. “I was telling you to get out. And then I died.”
My fingers tighten on hers.
She looks down and spreads her free hand over her abdomen. “It didn’t hurt. It was just sort of dull. Numb. But there was a lot of blood.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Like, a lot of blood.”
