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He’s quiet for so long that I think I’ve seriously offended him. Then he grins and asks, “So . . . what you’re saying is that you want people to call us Mikison instead of Jamiki?”

I bury my face in my hands.

“I can’t believe I said all that. I’m so embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. I know who and what I am, Miki.”

“Overbearing?”

“Putting it politely? Yeah. Besides, I like knowing what you think.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Even if what you think is really weird.” He peels one of my hands away from my face and ducks his head to look at me. “Still embarrassed? Okay, let’s pretend I just asked the question and you haven’t answered yet. Give me an answer that you’re comfortable with.”

I hesitate, then play along. “Fine. I’m not going with you to Luka’s because I don’t get how you can go there and spend the evening shooting things when we already do so much of that.”

“Zombies aren’t aliens.” When I don’t answer he says, “Maybe I like FPS games
because
we do so much of that. Playing one in real life sort of lessens the importance of . . . the game we play in our other life.”

Strangely, I understand what he means. But I’m not sure I feel the same way. I don’t want to lessen the impact of the game. It’s life or death. I’m not sure I ought to forget that, even for a minute.

He leans in for another kiss, his lips lingering on mine, his tongue teasing the corners of my mouth.

“Stop,” I say with a laugh. “I am getting out. Now.” I nudge the door wider with my foot.

“One thing,” he says, taking the cardboard box off my lap. “We need to discuss costumes.”

“Costumes?”

“For the Halloween dance.”

My heart does a little dance of its own. Is he asking me to the dance? Or just asking
about
the dance. Flustered, I stammer, “Carly, Kelley, and Dee are going as condiments.”

His brows shoot up. “I don’t even want to know.” He pauses. “In case I wasn’t clear, we’re going together.”

“
We
being you and Carly and Kelley and Dee?”

“Funny.” He pauses. “You and me.”

“That’s how you ask me out?” I ask, breathless.

“I wasn’t asking.”

Typical Jackson. “Last word?”

He gives me that dark, sexy smile, the one that carves the dimple in his cheek and carves a doorway into my soul. “Last word.”

My insides melt, but I try not to show it. “Not this time. You have to ask. And that smile doesn’t win you any points.”

He slides a finger under the taped edge of the box in his hand.

“What are you doing?” I lunge for it, but he moves it out of my reach. Then he slides his finger under the tape holding down the opposite side. “Those are not for you, Jackson.”

“I love it when you’re bossy. And I’m holding these hostage. Answer, or I eat them all.”

I drop my backpack out the open door onto the ground and crawl across the seat, which leaves me half-sprawled across Jackson’s chest as I reach for the box.

“Go to the dance with me,” he whispers, nuzzling my neck.

“Fine. Now give me the box.”

“Fine? That’s how you answer?”

I close my eyes as he traces his nose along my jaw and inhales against my skin. “I’d love to go to the Halloween dance with you. Better?”

“Much.”

I open my eyes. “Good. Now give me the box.”

“If I can’t have a taste of these, I get to take a taste of you.” He sinks his teeth gently into the spot where my neck and shoulder meet.

I elbow him in the stomach. And hit rock-hard muscle.

“You tightened up,” I accuse.

“Gotta protect myself. You’re a force to be reckoned with.” He kisses me one last time and says, “Go, while I can still make myself let you.” Last word. Typical Jackson.

He calls after me through the window as I head up the walk, “Hey, Miki . . .”

I stop and turn.

“You’ll never be that girl. And I’ll never try to turn you into her.”

He presses two fingers to his lips, and then holds them out toward me. Then he puts the Jeep in gear and pulls away.

I stand there watching until his taillights disappear, then I head up the walk and ring the doorbell, my homework-laden backpack slung over my shoulder, the white cardboard box held in front like an offering. The two curved pieces on the sides flap up and down because Jackson slit open the tape and left it that way. There’s a cry of, “I’ll get it,” from beyond the door and then the click of the lock being turned.

The door swings open and Carly stands there, her hair in a high ponytail, her brother’s sweats swallowing her, loose and comfy. For a second, her expression’s completely unguarded, and there’s no mistaking her unbridled happiness when she sees me.

I grin back at her, feeling like we’re just Carly and Miki, exactly as we’ve always been.

Then the balloon pops. Used to be I could head over to Carly’s anytime and it would be like she was expecting me, even if she wasn’t. Now, as Kelley and Sarah step up behind her, I feel like an outsider. It only gets worse when Dee wanders up the hall. She’s not in their Spanish class, so she’s just here to hang with them, not to work on their project. I take a deep breath. The only way to fix this is to stop acting like I’m separate and apart.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” Carly says. Her gaze dips to the box and the distinctive Sugar Hill logo. “You’re kidding,” she breathes. “You are kidding.”

“Not kidding.” I ease the box toward her, the smell of cupcakes wafting up. “You gonna let me in? Cuz that’s the only way these cupcakes are crossing the threshold.”

“A bribe?”

“Totally.”

“Depends on the flavors,” Carly says with a grin and a wink.

“S’mores, banana cream pie, chocolate raspberry, vanilla éclair, Roc City crunch, and lemon cheesecake. Two of each.”

“A dozen cupcakes?” Kelley moans. She presses her palms together and holds her fingers to her lips.

“That’s three for each of us,” Dee says. “Because twelve divided by four is three. I mean, there’s five of us, I guess, but Miki doesn’t count.” Everyone turns to look at her.

“Foot in mouth, much?” Sarah asks.

Dee narrows her eyes at her. “I mean, Miki never eats cupcakes, so I’m not counting her among the cupcake eaters.”

She’s right. I never join them for treats. My one exception is a single weekly Pop-Tart. I control every bite that goes into my mouth, making sure it’s healthy, a holdover from when Mom was sick. She tried every medical option the doctors offered, and every alternative option she could find. That included healthy eating to up her antioxidants and bioflavonoids and stuff.

The healthy eating stuck with me. Which isn’t a bad thing. But what Dee just said about me not being a cupcake eater
is
a bad thing, not because she said it, but because it’s how she sees me. How they all see me. How, maybe, I need to start seeing myself. I’m so rigid that I snap at my friends if they even offer me a cookie. And that definitely isn’t a good thing.

I’m starting to think that maybe trying so hard to always be in control is making me feel out of control.

So tonight I’m going to eat a cupcake and laugh with my friends and let the evening turn into whatever it is. Tonight, I loosen the reins enough to just
be.

I take a deep breath and a leap of faith. “Actually,” I say, “there are five of us. I’m planning on scarfing down one of these puppies.” They all stare at me. “Just one. The rest of you get to split the other nine.”

Carly steps outside and hugs me. She knows me better than anyone. She knows what this is costing me.

“Wait . . . nine? How does a dozen minus one equal nine?” Sarah asks.

“Oh, um, there are only ten cupcakes in the box. I bought a dozen, but Jackson ate one of the banana ones and one of the vanilla ones . . . payment for driving me to pick them up.”

“Oh. My. Gawd.” Dee’s eyes widen, and she claps her palms together. “Jackson drove you? As in, you were with Jackson Tate? The two of you? Alone? Like a date? With Jackson?” She rushes the door and scoots around me, then spins back when she finds the street empty, looking disappointed. “You could have brought him in.”

“No, she could not,” Kelley says. “Because then she couldn’t spill deets.” Carly takes the box. Kelley grabs my arm. “Talk. Now.”

And just like that, I’m one of them again. Maybe I always was.

“Can I come inside first?”

“Always,” Carly says, her smile so bright I think I need to borrow a pair of Jackson’s shades. Her eyes meet mine. “And while I won’t complain about the cupcakes, you will never, ever need a bribe to come inside.”

THINGS ARE PRETTY CALM OVER THE NEXT COUPLE OF WEEKS. Jackson and I hang out. Carly and I hang out. Sometimes the extended group hangs out after school under the giant oak at the end of the field, but usually it’s just me and Carly and Kelley and Dee meeting there for our after-school recap.

Despite the sun and clear, blue sky, the air’s cold. I zip my hoodie, then my jacket, but the chill remains. I shiver and glance around, waiting for Kelley and Dee to catch up, trying to convince myself that the goose bumps on my skin are just from the cold and not from the feeling that . . . something’s out there.

Which is kind of silly because something
is
out there: the Drau.

But this feeling is more immediate, more personal.

I push the thought aside and watch as Kelley pulls a checkered blanket from her backpack, snaps it open, and spreads it on the ground. She catches me watching her and says, “The ground’s too cold. It makes my butt ache.”

Carly flops down and gets comfortable. “If you’d put on a couple of pounds, it wouldn’t be so much of a problem,” she teases. “Or maybe start running, like Miki. She has a little muscle padding.” She reaches up to slap my butt. I dance out of her reach just in time.

“Jealous?”

“Insanely. I could bounce a quarter off your butt.” She grins slyly. “Or Jackson could.”

“So start running with me.”

She does the Carly eyebrow thing. “Not that jealous. I value the extra hours in bed.” Her gaze slides past me to where a group of girls clusters around one of the picnic tables near the side door of the school. “Queen Bee and her drones,” she says. “Again.”

The Queen Bee being Marcy Kern with her head lady-in-waiting, Kathy Wynn, by her side.

“Weird,” Dee says. “I wonder why they started hanging out after school. Seems like lately they’re here every time we are.”

“Weird,” Carly agrees, then glances over at the track, where Jackson, Luka, and Aaron are doing laps. “Maybe they like the scenery.”

Dee laughs.

I study Marcy’s group a moment longer, trying to shake off the impression that they aren’t watching the guys, they’re watching us.

“So did you hear about Aaron and Shareese?” Kelley asks. “They broke up.”

“What?” I ask, my attention snared by the news.

“Oh my gawd.” Dee’s eyes widen. “They’ve been together forever. They
can’t
break up. They’re, like, the perfect couple.”

“Are they?” Kelley asks. “They’ve been together for, what, two years? And Aaron’s parents still didn’t know they were dating. He snuck around behind their backs because he knew they wouldn’t approve. Supposedly, he even went on a date with some girl who’s the daughter of his father’s friend just to placate them.”

“Seriously?” Dee asks. “That’s horrible. Poor Shareese.”

“I know, right?” Kelley shakes her head. “Perfect couples are also perfect friends, and perfect friends don’t lie and hide things.”

“In a perfect world, no they don’t,” Carly says, shooting me an unreadable look. Guilt scampers onto my shoulders. I’m still lying to her about the game, or if not exactly lying, evading. Then she surprises me by continuing, “But sometimes people can’t share everything. They just . . . can’t.”

And if the guilt doesn’t exactly go away, it shrinks to a more manageable weight.

My shoes are pink with green laces. They look nothing like my sneakers, nothing like any shoes I would ever own, but I know they’re mine. Just like I know they have to be tied exactly right before I can take a single step. I stare at the shoes and tip my head. It’s the pink-and-green combo that makes me think I’m dreaming, one of those dreams where you know it’s a dream but don’t try to wake up, just go along for the ride to see where it leads.

I do up the laces, undo them, try again and again and again until finally the bows are perfectly even, the knot dead center, the feel just right. It matters that everything be just right, lined up and perfect and . . . just right.

I straighten and bounce on the balls of my feet. The ground feels spongy, like I’m standing on memory foam. Each bounce pushes me deeper, until I can’t see my feet anymore. I’m sinking, the ground swallowing me, confining me. I shift and sway, certain that if I move just right, I’ll get myself free.

But I only make it worse. I lose my ankles, my shins, my knees, parts of me disappearing. How long until there’s nothing left?

My grandfather reaches down and takes my hand. That’s another clue that this is a dream, because Sofu’s dead. Gone. He can’t be here.

“Do you miss them?” I ask, touching the yellowed picture of my grandfather’s parents in its simple wooden frame. My fingers are small, my hand plump, my voice that of a little girl.

Sofu smiles down at me, his hair more black than gray, his face less lined than I remember. “I miss them, but their spirit is never far from me. They watch over me.” He touches the tip of my nose. “And you.”

His hand grows cold in mine. His features fade and begin to disappear.

“Sofu!”

“I am here, Miki. Right here. Always here.”

Icy fingers touch my skin. Gray. Gray. Gray. Then Sofu’s hand is back in mine, warm and comforting and familiar, like he never left at all.

“Hey,” Jackson says.

I look up to see him standing at the edge of my driveway wearing black-on-black shades and black running gear that hugs the long lines of his muscles. I don’t know why, but I toss my head back and twirl in circles, laughing and laughing until I collapse on the ground.