Carrie Jones - Need

"Yeah."

"That sucks," I say. "And you saidif she's all human? What else could she be?"

Devyn shrugs. "She could already have pixie blood. According to this book there are a lot of people who are descended from the Pixies. Or…," he looks up at Nick and then says it, "she could be were."

"Weres again? Werewolves?" I shake my head and stand up. My bracelet slides down my arm. "This is crazy."

"Zara?" Nick stands up too. He grabs my hand. "You already believe half of it."

"I know! But kisses that take away your soul? Pixie blood? Weres? It's crazy." I grab the book off Devyn's lap and walk away. "It's way too crazy for me."

Malaxophobia fear of love play Nick and I leave practice early because my head is still spinning from clanking it and maybe, just a little, from the pow-wow with Devyn by the electrical closet.

"I can bring her home," Ian says when he sees Nick leading me off the trail.

Nick raises his arm. "Nope. I got this one."

Coach Walsh meets us in the parking lot where the trail ends. He leans on his old maroon pickup truck, holding his clipboard. He takes one look at me and his whole PE coach posture changes. It goes from straight to slumped.

Shaking his head at me, he says, "Don't push yourself so hard, Zara."

"I'm not."

He stares hard at me. I stare back. He has crud in the corner of his eye, just a little bit. I don't know whether or not I should tell him or pretend I don't notice.

"Yes, you are. No practice tomorrow either," he orders. "My fault for believing that you could run today.

Betty's going to kill me."

"But-" "No buts." Pointing at Mick he says, "Take her home."

Nick fake salutes. "Sir, yes sir."

"Sarcasm doesn't become you, Colt," Coach Walsh says, but he smiles when he says it, so obviously he is only mad at me, not superboy Nick Colt, beloved of coaches everywhere. If I were a guy he would let me run tomorrow.

"I want to go to practice, Coach," I say. "I'll be fine tomorrow."

"We aren't practicing tomorrow," he says.

That makes no sense. "It's on the schedule."

Mr. Walsh exhales and rubs the top of his head. "I might as well tell you two now. We've just gotten word. Jay Dahlberg's missing."

"Missing?" The world spins. Nick grabs my hand.

"He never came home last night after practice. His parents haven't heard from him." The coach starts rubbing his neck. "He's not the kind of kid to run off."

"Maybe he'll show up." I reach out my free hand and touch the coach's shoulder.

"The other ones didn't," he says, slouching even more. He starts rubbing his eyes now. "God, I never thought this would happen again."

I swallow and look at him, look at Mick. Beneath my feet is an old Cheetos wrapper, and the little orange cat mascot's smile is smashed from feet and dirt and ice. He is discarded, forgotten. I drop my hands, bend, scoop up the wrapper, and stand back up, a bit woozy. I stash the wrapper in my pocket.

Nick opens the door of his MINI to let me in and Coach Walsh eyes his clipboard. Then the coach yells after me, "Don't do anything stupid, Zara."

I slam into Nick's car. What does that mean? Don't do anything stupid? I bet he wouldn't tell Mick not to do anything stupid. But because I am a pacifist I say nothing.

I pull on my seat belt as Mick says something to the coach. God, someone else is missing.

Jay Dahlberg. He's tall with blond hair and a goofy laugh. He seems like a good guy. He hangs out with Ian sometimes.

Swallowing, I check out the MINI. I hadn't paid attention to it the night before. The dark maroon seats are sort of the color of blood. It smells like Mick, woodsy, manly. I shift my feet around a bunch of school books scattered on the floor. My foot tip touches a small clump of brown fur.

Nick must have a dog. It smells faintly of dog, but mostly of the Christmas tree air freshener. I pick up a book, Edward Abbey'sGood News. A little postapocalyptic ditty. Interesting.

What if Nick is a pixie? He had dust on his coat. He's never kissed a girl, supposedly. Although he's not the guy who points, but he could be one of his minions. Is that the right word? Minions?

I put the book back down on the floor.

Nick and Coach Walsh seem to be arguing a little. I turn the key dangling from Nick's ignition and put down the window to hear, but I can't get any of the words.

Cold air rushes in. The air chills against me so I zip up the window and turn on the heat. The warmth blasts out of the heaters, rolling the tuft of fur underneath my seat.

Nick jumps in. He looks human. He is so human.

"Took you long enough," I tease, brushing all my doubts out of my head.

He glowers and puts the car in reverse to get it out of the parking spot. "Coach and I were having a little talk."

"It looked like you were arguing."

"It was just a talk," he says slowly, shifting again so he can speed out of the parking lot like a tornado is chasing us or something.

"Whatever."

"I didn't think we should practice anymore. He, of course, disagrees because he wants to win state." His mouth steadies into a line and then he speaks again. "I'm freaking sick over the Jay Dahlberg thing, Zara.

I haven't slept since Devyn was attacked last month. I've been trying to figure out what's going on and I haven't been able to piece it together. Pixies! I mean, who would have thought there were actually pixies?"

"It's okay, Nick." I grab his hand and squeeze it. "It's not your job to save the world."

"But I have to." He lets out this man growl that sounds like a professional wrestler gone bad. All the veins in his neck bulge and pop. "I'm trying, okay. I am really trying."

"Why? Why are you trying so hard?"

He keeps holding my hand. His eyes meet my eyes. "Why are you?"

Anger rushes out of me from somewhere inside. And I'm surprised, because I had no idea it was there.

"Because I couldn't save my dad. There. I said it. Okay? You happy?"

I try to pull my hand away but he won't let me. He pulls over and stops the car.

"No. Not happy. I'm honored that you told me, though." His jaw is so straight and his eyes are so deep, like a tree where the bark is all textured.

"I'm sorry. I don't know why I was so mad."

"It's okay." His thumb drags across the skin of my hand, the one that's not scraped up.

He unbuckles his seat belt and turns his body so he faces me, blocking out the entire window of the driver's side door. God, he's huge. He rests one arm on the steering wheel. The other lays across the back of the seats. His solid fingers thrum against the upholstery. I turn to face him.

"How's your hand?" he asks, like everything is all normal.

"Fine."

"And your head?"

"Fine," I say. I want answers. "You're changing the subject."

He smiles. "I know. Most girls around here would take the opportunity to tell me all about their injury, then they'd tell me about their clothes and shopping, and the way their parents mistreat them."

"I'm not most girls."

"That's true."

"I'm not into pity parties."

He raises his eyebrows and I turn my hand up so I can see my scrape from last night. It isn't too bad at all, just a bunch of lines.

Nick grabs my wrist. I shiver. Nick gentles his hold.

"Do you know what these lines look like?" he asks.

I shake my head.

"The rune for protection," he says, not touching the lines, but tracing the air above them.

"You know about runes?" I'm ridiculously shocked. He looks like all he knows about is working out and sports. But he does have Edward Abbey in his car. Who exactly is this guy?

"Do you?"

Sorrow hits me hard. I remember my mom trying to read my fortune, tossing the bone-colored rune stones on our coffee table, teasing me about all the boyfriends I would have someday. Then my dad trying to read the future of the world.