Eve Silver - Push

The second Jackson rolls up in front of Carly’s house, I don’t wait for the boys. I leap out of the car while it’s still slowing, tear up the front walk, and ring the bell. I hear someone walking around inside; then the door opens.

My words catch in my throat, clogging my windpipe, stopping my breath.

Carly’s mom stands there, her shoulders sagging, her expression grim.

THE EXPRESSION ON MRS. CONNER’S FACE SENDS DARTS OF terror straight to my heart. If it wasn’t for Jackson coming up behind me and grabbing my elbows to hold me up, I might collapse.

“Miki,” Carly’s mom says. “Did she call you?”

I can’t talk. I can only shake my head.

“I thought we were done with this.” She sighs. “It’s been years since she had one of these fits. Maybe you can get through to her.” She throws her hands up. “I’m all out of ideas.”

I try to align my thoughts and expectations with Mrs. Conner’s attitude. She isn’t grief stricken. She isn’t in a panic. She’s upset, yeah, but she seems more . . . annoyed than anything else. Then her words filter through my fear.

“Carly’s . . . okay?” I ask.

She shrugs. “As okay as she ever is when she locks herself in the bathroom for an hour, sobbing her guts out, refusing to talk to me or unlock the door.”

My relief is so acute that my knees give out completely. Jackson presses against my back, keeping me upright.

“She’s not—” Dead.

Carly’s not dead. She’s locked in the bathroom. Whatever’s wrong with her, we can fix this.

Mrs. Connor narrows her eyes at Jackson and Luka, who stand behind me. “Is this because of one of you? Did you break her heart?”

Embarrassing mom question. I feel an acute pang of longing, a wish my mom were here to ask every embarrassing question under the sun.

“No,” I say. “This has nothing to do with either of them. Maybe she’s upset about her costume. Did she say anything? Anything at all?”

Mrs. Connor shakes her head. “Other than ‘go away’? No. She’s been in there for over an hour. She won’t come out. Won’t talk to me. I could hear her crying. I threatened to get one of her brothers to break down the door, but she just told me not to come in, no matter what. And now they’ve all gone out and it’s just her and me, and she hasn’t made a peep in about twenty minutes.” She sighs. “Not that I’ve been standing outside the door listening. Just checking on her here and then.”

“I—” The word comes out as a croak. I wet my lips and try again. “Let me talk to her,” I say.

Pulling the door wide, Mrs. Conner motions us inside. “Give it your best shot, Miki.”

I toe off my boots. Jackson and Luka do the same and the three of us head up to the bathroom, Mrs. Conner watching us warily. Okay, this is weird. Me and Jackson and Luka hunting Carly down in the toilet.

I knock on the door. “Carly?”

No answer.

“Carly? Open up. I’m here with Jackson and Luka. We’re worried about you.” I just need to see her. I need to know she’s okay. “And Kelley and Dee want you at the dance. Ketchup and relish aren’t quite the same without mustard.”

No answer.

Luka reaches over and rattles the doorknob. Locked.

We exchange so-what-do-we-do-now looks. I glance over my shoulder at Jackson to see if he has any ideas, but he’s not there. He’s standing at the top of the stairs, talking quietly to Carly’s mom.

I turn back to the door and tap on it. “Carly? Listen, you don’t need to open the door if you don’t want. Just answer me. Tell me you’re okay. Otherwise . . .” I try to think of a threat. Again, I glance at Jackson. He’s standing there, watching me, arms crossed over his chest. Mrs. Conner has left us alone, so no help there. I sigh and turn back to the locked door. “Otherwise, your mom said she’s going to call 911. She’s really worried. We all are.”

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 . . .