Eve Silver - Push

“Sometimes everything feels too big,” I say. “The Drau. The threat. Knowing that they’ve already destroyed at least one entire species and now they’re after us. The future of the whole world weighing on our shoulders.” Carly shrieks as Luka catches her, then breaks away and darts off. I gesture at them. “Regular high-school life just doesn’t seem important.”

“It’s the most important,” Jackson says. He shifts us both around so we’re straddling the metal bench, my back against his chest, his arms wrapped around me from behind. He rests his chin on my shoulder. “When we beat the Drau, this is the life we’ll still have, Miki. This is what matters most. Our families. Our friends. This is exactly what we’re fighting for. This moment, and a thousand others just like it.”

I twist my head to look back at him over my shoulder. “ When we beat the Drau? You say that like you have insider knowledge of the exact day and time. You know something I don’t?”

Jackson looks away, like he’s avoiding an answer, and for a second a chill grabs hold of me, turning my blood to ice. What isn’t he telling me?

Then I look where he’s looking to see Dee sprint past Luka and tackle Carly to the ground. Luka trips over them and all three land in a heap, laughing, caught up in their game. Luka lifts his head, catches my eye, and for a second he looks almost guilty. For what? For having fun?

His gaze shifts to Jackson and it’s like the three of us are connected, thinking about another game where it isn’t about fun.

“Two against one. Unfair advantage. Take ’em down,” Jackson yells, and Luka grabs Dee’s ankle just as she gets to her feet. She’s back on the ground, laughing.

Her joy is infectious, pushing past my barriers and doubts and fear, trickling through me like sunshine.

“You’re right,” I say. “This is what we’re fighting for. This moment. That’s what matters.”

I jump to my feet and toss Jackson’s jacket in his lap.

“Race you!”

And then I leap from bench to bench, tearing down toward the field with Jackson hot on my heels.

The ringing of the phone wakes me. I roll over, the last vestiges of a great dream about me and Jackson and a dog and a beach still clinging to my thoughts. I check the time—1:00 a.m.—then check the number. Carly.

Worry uncoils, rattling and baring venomous fangs.

“Hey,” I say.

She doesn’t answer right away.

I sit bolt upright, tightening my grip on my phone as I flick on my bedside lamp. “Carly?”

A gasp followed by a shaky exhalation.

Images flash through my thoughts of blood and death and the Drau darting through Carly’s house like bright reapers.

“Carly, what’s wrong?” I throw back the covers and jump to my feet, ready to wake Dad, to head over there. I reach for my jeans, dragging them on one-handed. I’m struggling to get my second leg all the way in when she lets out a gasping sob.

“Miki.”

“I’m here, Carly. What’s wrong?” I demand, my voice hard and tight with fear. I get my jeans the rest of the way on and pace the length of my room, waiting for her answer.

“Grammy B,” she whispers.

Grammy B is Carly’s mom’s mom. She’s funny and fun, and I have great memories of her from before she moved to Florida to help Carly’s aunt Melanie through her divorce. That was three years ago. She stayed on to help watch Carly’s little cousins while Mel works. She says she likes feeling needed and she was here to help Carly’s mom with her brood when they were small, so it’s Mel’s turn now.

I know Carly misses Grammy B even though they talk on the phone all the time. On the phone isn’t the same as in person, and Christmas visits and a week in the summer just aren’t enough.

“Is she okay?” I whisper back, a reflex even though it isn’t the brightest question. If she were okay, Carly wouldn’t be calling me.

Everyone leaves.

I press the back of my hand to my mouth. Carly stood beside me at Mom’s funeral—Dad on one side of me, Carly on the other. She held my hand. She held me up when my knees went weak. She slept in a sleeping bag on my floor beside my bed for a week afterward, waking up with me every time the nightmares ripped me open, sitting on one side of my bed while Dad sat on the other.

I’ll do the same for her. I’ll go to Florida, go to the funeral, unless they’re bringing Grammy B’s body back here—

“She’s in the hospital,” Carly chokes out. “CICU. They said it’s acute myocardial infarction.”

Hospital. Not dead.

Myocardial infarction is a heart attack. That’s bad.

But people can recover from that. I know they can. Mr. Shomper had a mild heart attack a couple of years ago and he’s still here—still teaching, even.

“That’s good,” I say, fighting my own tears. “That’s great.”

“What?” Carly chokes out.

I shake my head, then realize she can’t see me and my words aren’t making much sense to her.

“It’s great that she’s alive,” I say, all the hope in my heart coming through in my tone. “She’s alive, Carly.”

“You’re right,” Carly says after a few seconds. “She’s alive. She has a chance.”

“A good chance, right?” Please let her have a good chance.

She sniffles. “They say that if she makes it through the night, that it’s a good sign.”

I close my eyes and silently hope that she makes it through the night. That she doesn’t pass in her sleep without ever waking up like Sofu did.

“They’ll take care of her. They’ll make her better,” I say even though I’m not convinced of the last part. I don’t exactly have the best track record with hospital outcomes. But I want Carly to have hope. And I desperately want my words to prove true.

“What do you need?” I ask. “What can I do to help?”

“We’re heading to the airport in a couple of hours. We’re all going. The whole family. Just in case.” She pauses. I can hear her crying—big, snuffling sobs. Tears prick my lids and I blink against them. “I don’t know how long we’ll be there.”

You’ll be there till she’s well enough to go home. Or until she can never go home . . . The thought rips me up inside.

“I’ll get your homework,” I say, needing to be able to do something . “And I’ll tell your teachers.”

“And Kelley and Dee. Sarah. Amy. I didn’t call anyone. Just you.”

“I’ll tell them.” I feel so sad for her.

“And can you watch my Daimon?”

Daimon. Her fish. It’s a betta—a Siamese fighting fish.

She swears he’s brilliant. That he does tricks. Personally, I think that he comes to the surface when she dips her finger because he’s genetically programmed to attack.

“You know where Mom hides the spare key. Can you come get his bowl and keep him till I get back?”

“I’ll get him first thing in the morning.”

“You need to feed him once a day. I do it right before I leave for school. Don’t overfeed him,” she says, her words rushing together. “Just give him what he can eat in two minutes. No more. Or bacteria will get in the water and that’s not good.”

“Got it. His food’s in the freezer on the door, right?”

“Yes. Take care of him. Promise.”

“I promise.”

A promise I’m destined to break.

Four days later, Carly calls with the awesome news that Grammy B’s going to be okay.

“She has to take aspirin every day and beta-blockers and something else that’s a blood thinner . . . it starts with a P . She was only in CICU one night; then they moved her to a regular room, and then they let her out of the hospital today. We’re flying home tonight,” she says, sounding happy and relieved. “Can you bring Daimon by? I miss his wavy blue fins.”