Eve Silver - Push

“Drau eyes?” He frowns, shrugs. “I have no clue. But I still think that if you’re having nightmares about Marcy it’s because she’s trying to get into Jackson’s pants—” At my chilly look, he finishes, “Just saying.”

I uncross my legs and cross them in the opposite direction, so my right foot’s now on top of my left. “Let’s forget about Marcy for a second. There’s something else. Near the end of the nightmare, I got pulled, and it felt real. Not like the rest of the dream. Real and . . . important.” I try to line up the details in my thoughts. “Have you ever been pulled somewhere other than the lobby?”

“All the time. So have you.”

“No, I’m not asking this right. I don’t mean pulled on missions. I mean pulled somewhere like the lobby but totally different. White and cold and . . . cold,” I finish lamely.

He shakes his head.

“Have you ever . . . brought your injuries back with you?”

“What? No. If we come back, we come back healed. What’s going on with you, Miki? What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing. Seriously, nothing.” I rub my left shoulder even though it doesn’t hurt, even though the marks that were there are gone. “Nothing,” I say again and cover my unease by stacking our empty glasses and offering Luka the last piece of sliced apple on the plate.

A little while later, Carly calls from the airport to tell me they’ve landed.

The pet store will be open for another half hour. I could make it. I could buy Daimon 2.0.

In the end, I decide the hard truth’s better than the easy lie.

I get in the Explorer and drive Daimon’s corpse—which is no longer floating and has sunk to the gravel at the bottom and started to turn white at the edges—over to Carly’s.

“I’m sorry,” I say, holding the bowl out toward her, barely able to get the words out because I’m crying so hard. Over a fish.

Or maybe it isn’t over the fish at all.

And maybe she’s just so grateful that Grammy B’s going to be okay or maybe she’s the greatest friend ever, or maybe it’s a combination of the two. Whatever the reason, Carly wraps her arms around me and we cry together.

And then she forgives me.

THE NIGHT OF THE HALLOWEEN DANCE I PULL ON A PAIR OF black jeans and a black turtleneck. I add a black military-looking vest that I found online, and finish running a brush through my hair just as the doorbell rings.

Dad’s out again. He called a few minutes ago to check on me.

“Yes, my phone’s charged, Dad. Yes, I’ll be in by midnight.” I find it odd that he didn’t ask who I’m going to the dance with or how I’m getting there. It’s like he’s going through the motions of being the concerned parent without actually participating on anything but the most superficial level.

The hope that surged inside me the day I told him about the AA meetings has faded to a dull shade of pale. Last week, when I was vacuuming his office, I found an empty clear glass bottle with blue block letters on the floor under his desk. I picked it up and stood it beside the wastepaper bin. He never said a word about it. Neither did I.

But that night, when I tried to open a conversation with an oblique reference to AA, Dad shut me down like a steel trap. He’s graduated from beer to something stronger. Or maybe he’s been drinking both all along.

The doorbell chimes a second time.

I push aside the negative thoughts.

I choose to focus on the moment, this moment, the first time a boy’s taking me to a dance. And not just any boy. Jackson.

I tear down the stairs to pull open the door. He’s leaning against the porch rail, arms crossed over his chest. He’s dressed all in black, like me, but he’s wearing a V-neck, long-sleeved pullover, and his vest’s bigger and bulkier with these round things on it. Very Gears of War .

Two black paintball masks dangle from his fingers. We were going to wear paintball guns as accessories, but that didn’t quite pan out as hoped. Ms. Smith made an endless announcement that made it clear there were to be no weapons of any kind at the dance, not even cardboard cutouts. Definitely not unloaded paintball guns.

So we’re going as weaponless warriors. Which is fine with me. I have my fill of weapons in the game.

Jackson pushes off the rail and walks past me into the house, snagging my belt loop as he passes and dragging me inside. He drops the paintball masks, pushes the door shut, and backs me against it, his arms caging me, his thighs against mine.

“Trick or treat,” he says.

“Treat.” I give him a peck on the cheek, duck under his arm, and lift the nearly empty bowl of mini chocolate bars sitting on the kitchen chair I dragged to the front door. “Happy Halloween.” I hold the bowl out to him.

“I was hoping for something sweeter. Say . . . your lips on mine . . .”

“You’ll have to settle for chocolate. Luka’s waiting. Are we picking him up?”

“He’s meeting us there. He’s picking up Sarah and Amy on his way.” Jackson pokes through the bars and chooses one. “All the peanut-butter ones are gone?”

“I don’t do peanut butter. Too many kids have allergies.”

There’s a crinkle of paper and he downs the candy in a single bite. He tosses the wrapper back in the bowl. I hold out my hand, palm up. With a faint smile, he fishes out the wrapper, deposits it in my hand, and helps himself to another bar.

“Planning to hand out any more candy?”

“I think all the little kids came through earlier.” I reach across him to turn off the outside light. “It’s pretty late for them now.”

“Then I can eat the rest.” He takes another chocolate bar.

I surreptitiously check him out while I put the bowl back on the chair. “I’m a little surprised you’re so into this whole Halloween thing.”

He turns to me and tips his glasses up, his silvery eyes preternaturally bright against his dark, spiky lashes. “You’re into it, so I’m into it.” Leaning in, he whispers against my ear, “I want it to be good for you, Miki.”

I do a fair imitation of Carly’s arched-brow thing. “Behave.”

“Not gonna happen.”

I know. And I kind of like that. And I definitely like the fact that he never pushes too far.

“So what’s with you and the love of Halloween?” he asks.

“I loved dressing up as a kid. Mom used to make a big deal out of it every year. We’d carve pumpkins together and plan my costume for weeks and she’d buy tons of candy. Give it out by the handful instead of just one or two at a time.”

I remember the Halloween after Mom died. I didn’t dress up. I didn’t even give out candy. And just a few weeks ago, I was standing by the giant oak, listening to my friends talk about the dance. I felt flat and broken, wishing I could feel as excited as they did. But I didn’t.

And now I do.

I’m not sure what that means.

Jackson tugs at one of the buckles on my vest. “You okay with this now? Our costumes?”

When he and Luka first came up with the idea of the three of us dressing like characters in a game, I balked. Jackson pointed out that it was pretty much the only way he was going to wear anything close to a costume. I still wasn’t convinced. Then Amy and Sarah joined in, and it actually started to sound like it might be fun.

“Yeah. I’m okay with it. And it’d be kind of late to back out if I wasn’t.” I nudge him with my shoulder. “You look good.” Better than good. “Where did you get those boots?” They’re black, knee high, with a bunch of buckles and snaps.

“Made ’em.” He opens the front door, bends to grab something from the porch, and holds it—them—out to me. I gasp. He has another pair of boots just like his, and they appear suspiciously close to my size.