Eve Silver - Push

We respawn in the Jeep in my driveway. I’m disoriented, sick at heart.

I feel like the car’s spinning round and round, skidding out of control. Except, it isn’t moving.

I pick a spot out the side window—a light post halfway up the street—and stare at it, waiting for the spinning to stop. Two older kids pass my house, looking to trick-or-treat at houses that haven’t turned out the lights yet. They’re moving impossibly slow, each step exaggerated, like they’re wading through Jell-O. This is what happens when we respawn back to real life. A momentary disorientation. A lack of synchronization between worlds.

In the seat next to me, Jackson reaches for the ignition. He and I are the only things moving at normal speed.

A dull throb builds behind my eyes. My jaw aches. Then my ears pop and— snap —everything speeds up. A car drives past going exactly the speed it should be. The kids speed up and walk at a normal pace.

“Call Carly,” Jackson says, his wrists resting on the top of the steering wheel, shoulders relaxed.

How can he be so calm? How can he even think? My brain feels like it’s growing green fuzz like three-week-old bread.

I yank out my phone. Dial.

No answer.

“Carly, call me.” I barely manage to choke the words out.

My heart feels like it’s been skewered.

Hands shaking, I try Dee’s number and Kelley’s.

“They’re not answering.” My thoughts are sluggish. All I can focus on is the memory of Carly, covered in blood. “I’ll try Amy. Shareese. Maylene. Sarah—”

Jackson reaches over and closes his hand on mine, stilling my frantic movements.

“If they’re at the dance, they won’t hear the phone, and if they do, they might not answer,” he points out.

“They could have their phones on vibrate. They could—” I press my lips together and turn my head to stare out the window, unseeing.

He backs out of the drive.

After a few minutes I ask, “Where are we going?”

“The dance.” He sounds so cold. So remote. His walls—his shields—are firmly in place. I think that if I reach over to try to touch him, I’ll slam against an invisible barrier, just like I did when we were in the amphitheater in front of the Committee.

I’m hurting, but he’s hurting, too. I’m not the only one who’s been ripped open and flayed tonight.

“Do you want to talk about Lizzie?”

He turns his head toward me, his face expressionless, his eyes hidden behind opaque shades. “No.”

“Do you want to talk about how much you knew?” When he doesn’t say anything, I clarify, “Before we got to the dance? Before the rest of us knew the Drau pushed through into our world?”

“No.”

Part of me is relieved by that. I don’t know if I’m up for a heavy conversation when the most important thing to me right now is finding out if Carly’s okay. And it will be a heavy conversation, because I’m pretty sure Jackson knew a lot more than he let on and I don’t like the idea that he purposely kept me in the dark.

We drive the rest of the way in silence.

He’s barely parked when I tear out of the Jeep and run for the school doors. He catches up, catches me around the waist, holds me back. I slap at his hands, and struggle to get free. “Carly. I need to—”

“I know,” he says. “Stay calm. Don’t draw attention. Hopefully, we’ll walk in and she’ll be on the dance floor in all her blinding yellow glory.”

He’s right.

I don’t want to ask. But I have to. “And if she isn’t?”

“We’ll figure it out, Miki.”

I don’t know how he can sound so sure. How will we figure it out if she’s dead?

We walk toward the front doors of the school, Jackson looping his arm over my shoulder and setting the pace.

“Have you ever heard of something like this?” I ask. “Of a civilian being pulled into a mission? Getting hurt? Dying on a mission?”

A muscle in Jackson’s jaw tightens. “No.”

I think back to the first time I was pulled, to Janice Harper’s little sister almost getting hit by the truck. She could have been killed. And Jackson . . . he was twelve when he and Lizzie were in that car accident . . .

“You were hurt in the car accident. You almost died,” I say.

“That wasn’t on a mission.”

“No, but you were a civilian when it happened and you ended up in the game. They made an exception for you. They could make an exception for Carly. Maybe she can be part of it. Part of the game. We could train her. Watch out for her. We could—”

Jackson squeezes my shoulder. “Yeah, they made an exception, but they had something to gain by keeping me alive, putting me in to fight. I offered a specific genetic blueprint they happen to be fond of.” With his index finger, he pushes his shades up the bridge of his nose, a subtle reminder of exactly what he brought to the table when the Committee decided to conscript him. “Carly’s human.”

“So are we,” I snarl.

“For the most part. But we’re also part something else.”

For a second, I’m blindingly furious with him. But he’s right. And it isn’t his fault that he’s right.

“Would I even want this for her, if I had a choice?” I ask.

Would I? Would I want her to be part of the game, to face what I face every time I’m pulled?

“Better than dead,” Jackson says softly. “And it isn’t your choice to make, Miki. If it’s even possible, it’ll be Carly’s call.”

Just like it was Jackson’s call to do what he did, to risk everything to try to save her.

He broke every rule for her. Risked his life and the Committee’s wrath for her.

No, not for her. For me.

“Let’s hope there’s no call to make,” he says. “Let’s hope she’s already respawned fully healed.”

Together we walk to the auditorium doors. Everything is tinged with a strong sense of déjà vu. Marcy eyes Jackson. Maylene chats with him and smiles. Jackson does the cash-for-tickets exchange. Kathy stares at her hands while she counts the bills.

Then we’re inside. The dance floor’s packed, music pumping, lights flashing. It looks exactly as it did when we arrived before. I turn to where I saw Carly last time I got here. There’s Kelley and . . . there’s Dee. Jackson and I push our way through the crowd to them.

Before I have a chance to ask, Dee yells in my ear, “Have you seen Carly? She’s late and I can’t reach her!”

“She’s not here?” A band of steel crushes my ribs, stealing my breath.

Dee shakes her head.

“When was the last time you spoke to her?” Jackson asks.

She glances at him, frowning. “I don’t know. About an hour ago?”

I round on Kelley, trying not to show how frantic I feel. “What about you?”

We’re all yelling to be heard over the music.

“Haven’t spoken to her since I got here. What’s wrong, Miki?”

Before I can figure out what I’m supposed to say, Jackson grabs my arm and, using his body as a wedge, gets us back through the crowd to the doors. We practically slam into Luka coming in as we’re going out.

There’s a split second of sheer joy at seeing him whole, unhurt, his massive injuries left behind in the game.

Then he asks, “Carly?” His expression is haunted, and I’m hurtled back into a reality where my best friend may be dead because she came after me. To warn me. To keep me safe.

My fault.

“She’s not here,” Jackson says. “And no one’s heard from her since the dance started.”

Luka looks at me and asks, “Ideas?”

My brain feels like a lead brick.

“We check her house,” Jackson says.

There’s an idea.

Luka nods. “You drive,” he says, his tone grim, and we head for the Jeep.