Push (12 page)

This isn’t on me. I can only let him know how I feel about what he’s doing—which I have. But it isn’t my fault and I don’t have to enable him or feed the problem.

This is Dad’s problem. His choices. No matter how much I want to control this, I can’t.

He’s gone to get groceries. That means he’s driving. Did he drink all these this morning or are they left from last night? I touch the rims of each bottle on the counter. Dry.

I’m hoping that means they’re from last night. If they aren’t, it means he had six bottles before 10:00 a.m.

For the first time in recent memory, I don’t put the empties away under the sink. I don’t wipe the counter. I don’t even clear Dad’s dishes off the table. I put the bottle from the table back exactly where I found it, grab a Pop-Tart—it’s Saturday, the one day I stray from my healthy-eating rule—microwave the coffee Carly brought me, and head back to my room.

I wonder what Dad will make of that.

I don’t even know what
I
make of that.

All I know is that I can’t keep hiding empty beer bottles under the sink, can’t keep cleaning the kitchen till it sparkles, pretending that’ll make everything okay.

I’m halfway to my room when I pause, sigh, clomp back down the stairs. I rinse Dad’s bowl in the sink, dump his cold coffee, stack the washer, wipe the table without moving that lone empty bottle. And I leave the other empties where they are on the counter and call that a victory.

Baby steps.

Homework takes up a couple of hours. I check my phone every few minutes, wishing Jackson would call. I’m not trying to do the clingy, needy thing. I just want to hear his voice, know he’s okay, know he made it back.

Which is in direct opposition to the part of me that’s still angry with him for getting me dragged into the game in the first place. We never got to resolve the little issue of his betrayal, the way he tricked me and sold me into the game. Like I told him in Detroit, I don’t forgive him.

I’m not exactly proud of that. But it is what it is.

And it leaves me tied up in knots.

He doesn’t call. Which isn’t all that surprising since I don’t think he even has my number. I don’t have his, which is why I haven’t been the one to do the calling—something I plan to remedy as soon as I see him.

I help Dad unload the groceries when he gets back, organizing the tins, labels out, shifting the ones from the back of the cabinet to the front, according to expiration date.

Dad glances at the beer bottles, one on the table, the others still on the counter, and frowns.

“You didn’t clear up the kitchen,” he says.

“Yeah, I did.” I look him straight in the eye. “I cleared away your breakfast dishes and wiped the table.”

I wait to see if he’ll bring up the bottles. He doesn’t. We stare at each other, and for the first time in a long time, we communicate.

Silently.

Meaningfully.

I’m the one to break the stare.

As I head back upstairs, he steps out of the kitchen into the hall and watches me. I slow down, giving him the chance: if he says anything, anything at all, I’ll stop, go back down, talk to him. But nothing has changed. He doesn’t say anything and neither do I.

Once I get to my room I pick up where I left off with Mr. Shomper’s
Lord of the Flies
essay. My concentration isn’t exactly the best. I check my phone, then my page online to see if Jackson messaged me there. Nothing.

I’m anxious, edgy.

The urge to go for a run is nearly overwhelming. I get as far as laying out my running gear on the bed when Carly calls. We talk about how awesomely hawt Matt, her fellow lifeguard, is—well, she talks and I listen and make humming noises at appropriate times.

“So, you want to do Mark’s Texas Hots on Monroe for dinner? Or Nick Tahou’s?” I ask as she winds down.

“Can’t,” she says. “Like I told you, Kelley and Sarah are coming over to work on that group thing for Español. We haven’t even started yet.”

Did she tell me that? If she did, I don’t remember.

“But you could come, too,” she says. It comes out more as a question than a statement.

I hesitate, not sure what to say. Carly made plans on a Saturday night. Without me. The only other time she’s done that is when she’s had a date.

Finally, I ask, “And distract you from your work? What kind of a friend would I be?”

She laughs. It’s a strained, uncomfortable sound. Or maybe I’m projecting the way I feel onto her.

When I end the call, it’s almost three o’clock.

I close my laptop, put my running gear away. While a run might ease the tension, it won’t get me answers.

I’m done waiting to hear from Jackson. I need to see him. I want to touch him and know he’s real. I want to feel his arms around me. I want to see his trademark Jackson smile, white teeth, and that killer dimple in his cheek.

And then I want to give him a piece of my mind for what he did to me in the first place.

I press my lips together and stare out my window. I’m so tired of being angry with the people I love.

I unplug my phone from the charger and shove it, along with my textbooks, into my bag. I might not have Jackson’s number, but I have his address. Nothing like showing up unexpectedly at someone’s door to catch them at their best. But it isn’t like he hasn’t done the same to me the night he climbed through my bedroom window. I guess turnaround’s fair play.

I pull my hair into a ponytail, change out my sweats for jeans and a cute top that’s a silvery gray. It reminds me of Jackson’s eyes. I don’t usually wear much makeup, but I add a little mascara and lip gloss, then grab my jacket and my backpack and call
bye
to Dad as I head for the door.

“Wait.” He comes out of his office, frowning. “Where are you going?”

“Heading over to a friend’s. Then maybe the library.” Truth—
maybe
isn’t the same as
definitely
. There’s always a chance I could go to the library.

That’s how Dad and I get by: mostly honest but sometimes not.

“Which friend?”

Precisely the question I was hoping to avoid.

“A guy from my English class. We have an essay.” Again, truth. Jackson is in my class and we do have an essay, just not one we need to work on together.

“That boy Luka?”

“No.” I take a deep breath, remembering how Jackson told his mom all about me. “His name’s Jackson,” I say. “Jackson Tate.”

Dad frowns even harder. “Why can’t he come here?”

“Do you want to call his mom and ask?”

Dad rears back in surprise.

“Sorry,” I say, meaning it. “Dad, seriously, I’m not doing anything sketchy. Have a little faith.”

He mulls that over for a few seconds, then asks, “What about Carly?”

“Group project.”

His expression lightens. “Oh, okay.”

Uh-oh. I think he took that to mean we’ll all be working together. I choose not to disabuse him of that idea.

“Keep your phone on. And call me to let me know if you’ll be home for dinner.”

“’Kay.” I give him a quick kiss on the cheek. His arms close around me and he hugs me a little tighter and a little longer than usual. He smells like fabric softener and spicy shaving cream, just like he did when I was little. He doesn’t smell like beer. I close my eyes and hug him tighter, too.

Then he lets me go.

I swallow, hesitate. After my pep talk to myself about letting Dad take ownership of the drinking thing, I know I ought to leave it alone, let him make his own choices. I shouldn’t push. But there’s this part of me that needs to be in control, and that’s the part that says in a rush, “There’s this meeting. Actually, meeting
s
. Plural. They have them on the weekends and during the week after work. We could go tomorrow. I think there’s one on Elmwood in the morning. And one at the church on Park in the afternoon. I’ll go with you, if it’s allowed. We could check online.”

Does he know that I mean AA meetings? Will he take the hand I’m offering?

He stares at me for so long I think maybe he doesn’t have a clue what I’m talking about. Then he scrapes his palm along his Saturday-stubbled cheek and says, “Not yet, Miki. I’m not ready yet.”

Disappointment settles on my shoulders like a cloak. Then it kindles and flares to full-on anger. I fight the urge to snap at him, to ask if something terrible has to happen before he
is
ready. But then I remember what the website said:
If you want to drink, that’s your business. If you want to stop, that’s our business.

I cool down a little, enough to recognize that he didn’t shoot me down. He didn’t admit that he has a problem, but he didn’t pretend that he doesn’t. This is progress.

He says he’s not ready yet? Maybe tomorrow or the next day he will be. Dad has to want to make this someone’s business other than his own or it won’t work.

I have to keep the door open.

I want to say something else, but I have no idea what. So I just do this awkward smile-with-my-mouth-closed-and-nod thing as I heft my backpack and head out.

WHEN I GET TO JACKSON’S HOUSE, THE GARAGE DOOR’S OPEN and the garage is empty. Jackson’s black Jeep sits on the drive exactly where Luka and I left it. Was that only yesterday?

I take a deep breath, fortifying my resolve, and stride up the walk to the front door. No one answers my knock. I ring the bell and wait. Ring it again.

Worry uncoils in my gut. Could the Committee have lied to me? Could this be another crazy test? Yes on both counts. My trust in them isn’t exactly intact.

I frown. Wait . . . did they even promise they would send him back? Or did they just imply it?

What if he’s still trapped there? Still being hurt—?

I need to know.

I jog around the side of the house. A quick check up and down the street ensures that there’s no one in sight. I glance at the neighbor’s house. The blinds are closed. No one’s watching me. I don’t even know why I’m worried that someone is. It’s not like I’m going to break in or anything. I’m just going to scout things out.

The hairs at my nape prickle and I spin around, checking behind me. Nothing there. I’m freaking myself out.

I turn back around, unlatch the gate, and duck into the backyard.

I need to see Jackson. I need to know the Committee sent him back. Not just because I need Jackson to be okay, though that’s the biggest part of it. I also need to know that despite the weird shit they did yesterday, the Committee’s still the good guys.

Someone needs to be the good guys.

The backyard is bordered by flower beds, pink and purple impatiens giving their last gasp as the weather gets colder. There’s an apple tree tall enough to get me to the second-story window on the left. Jackson’s room? I have no clue.

Refusing to give what I’m about to do too much thought, I drop my backpack on the ground, leap for the lowest branch, and climb.

Disappointment punches me as I settle on a branch that’s level with the window, and see that it’s not Jackson’s bedroom. It’s a sewing room with a long table pushed against one wall and a smaller table with a sewing machine set at right angles to it. The door to the room’s open and I can see the hallway beyond with its cappuccino walls and hardwood floor. I sit on the branch, deflated. What now? The tree isn’t positioned in a way that I can get at either of the other two windows, and I think that sitting here yelling Jackson’s name isn’t the plan of the century.

Then it hits me. Jackson might not even be here. He’s probably out somewhere with his parents. Would have been nice if I’d thought of that before I climbed the tree.

I’m about to climb down again when a boy walks along the hall, past the open sewing-room door. My heart stops, then hammers into double time. Jackson.

He’s wearing black, wraparound sunglasses, a pair of dark blue plaid, flannel pajama bottoms that ride low on his hips, and nothing else. His skin is smooth over taut muscle, his abdomen ridged, his arms defined. I give myself a second to just appreciate the view.

He has a towel in one hand and he pauses in the hallway as he roughs his damp hair with it. Muscles shift beneath smooth skin. He turns, and I catch sight of the scars on his left upper arm and shoulder, a physical reminder of the Drau that somehow managed to escape the game and follow Jackson to the real world the day Lizzie died.

That’s why I need the Committee to be the good guys.

Because the Drau are bad. Really, really bad. And if one of them escaped the confines of the game, circumvented the parameters the Committee has somehow created, then there’s a chance all of them could get through.

That’s the whole point of the game. To keep them from getting through.

Jackson rolls his shoulders and drops his arms so the end of the towel trails on the floor. He stands with head bowed, like the weight of the universe bears down on him.

I want to lay my hand between his shoulder blades, sooth him with a touch, remind him he isn’t in this alone. I want to wrap my arms around him and hold him the way he held me when I needed it most.

I will him to turn. Maybe I make a sound.

Slowly, slowly, he pivots to face the window.

For endless seconds, he does nothing. Nothing at all. No expression. No movement. It’s like the instant is frozen in time.

My breath rushes out. There’s a ringing in my ears. My entire focus is on Jackson.

His lips shape my name.

My pulse trips and starts.

How many times have I dreamed that Mom isn’t dead, that she’s back, alive, here? How many times have I dreamed about Sofu and Gram?

This isn’t just a dream. Jackson’s here.

He came back.

He’s alive.

It isn’t until my lungs start screaming that I realize I’m holding my breath. I exhale in a rush.

In a second he’s at the window, yanking it open, standing there with his fists curled so tight over the windowsill, his knuckles are white. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak. His überdark shades hide his eyes, hide his thoughts. Nervousness writhes in my chest like a downed electrical wire.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” The words are a low rasp.

Not what I expected him to say. I can’t read his tone. There
is
no tone. No inflection. I shake my head, icy doubt freezing my organs, stealing my words.