I drag on an old T-shirt and flannels and haul out my math homework. I wish I could talk to Jackson. I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose, avoiding me so he doesn’t have to answer questions.
I laugh out loud. Of course he’s doing it on purpose. He knows where I live. He knows when I run. All he’d have had to do was show up and run with me this morning. We could have talked. He could have explained. The fact that he hasn’t done that tells me all I need to know.
Turning my attention to my math homework, I try to get it done. It takes forever because my concentration isn’t the best. I’m tired. No surprise there. I didn’t sleep well last night. I dreamed of Jackson’s eyes and the shells and the dead girl that Jackson killed, even though she was already dead. Just trying to get my head around that makes me dizzy. I’m exhausted, and by ten o’clock, I’m fighting to keep my eyes open. I’m in the place between awake and asleep when I hear a weird tapping. A couple of minutes later, there it is again, a light tapping from . . . there. The window.
A shiver chases up my spine.
And the sound comes again.
Wary, I cross to the window and peer out. My heart slams hard against my ribs.
Dark clothes, dark shades, pale hair gleaming in the moonlight, Jackson Tate’s outside my window, sitting cross-legged on the porch roof.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I SHOVE THE WINDOW OPEN. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I WHISPER the words too fast, stunned and alarmed and secretly thrilled that he’s here.
“Visiting.”
“Now?” I shake my head. “How did you get up here?”
“Climbed.”
I stare at him, at a loss. Should I go out to him? Ask him to come in to me? I look frantically up and down the street to make certain no neighbors are out there watching. I don’t see anyone, not right now, but that doesn’t mean someone won’t come out any second.
“Get in here,” I order in a whisper as I step back from the window. “Take off your shoes. And be quiet.”
The next thing I know, Jackson’s inside my bedroom, less than a foot away from me. I leave the window open just in case he needs to make a quick exit, but pull the curtain halfway to shield him from street view.
“My shoes?” He looks baffled.
“No shoes in the house. My mom had this thing about that.”
“How about we pretend this is the front hall and I just stay in this spot and not move? Okay if I keep my shoes on then? I don’t love the idea of having to dive out your window barefoot if your dad comes in.”
The image of that makes me feel ill. I can just picture Jackson diving out the window, his shoes staying behind like beacons of my transgression. “Fine. Keep them on. But don’t move.”
“You sure? I’ll take them off if it’s a big deal.” He sounds both amused and sincere.
I strain my ears, trying to hear if the TV’s still on downstairs. If not, it means Dad’s already gone to bed. I can’t hear anything, but what if he’s up here and not yet asleep?
“Keep them on,” I whisper. “I’m sure.”
True to his word, Jackson stays rooted to the spot as he looks around, taking his time. My bookshelf is right beside him, and he runs the tips of his fingers along the spines of the books on my keeper shelf. They’re eclectic, I admit it. Alcott’s Little Women, Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card, Frankenstein, The Giver, The Catcher in the Rye, everything ever written by Christopher Moore, the complete works of Jane Austen, a scarred and well-loved set of Harry Potter, my mom’s old dog-eared Stephen King titles, The Last Wish and Blood of Elves by Andrzej Sapkowski.
He stops when he gets to those and murmurs, “I haven’t read these. But the game rocks.”
“The graphics kick ass,” I agree, then ask, “But you’ve read the others?”
“Some of them.”
I try to picture him engrossed in Little Women.
His fingers dip to the next shelf, where I keep my manga. “You read Bleach.”
I nod. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“You don’t have the latest issue.”
“They were sold out.”
He turns away from the books, back toward me, but he doesn’t say anything. I can’t figure out how I feel at the moment. Thrilled that he’s here. Afraid that Dad will find him. Stunned that he came. And a little weirded out that our conversation so far has been too normal. But the thing I notice most is how bright and true those emotions are. It’s like he’s a fresh breeze that blew in and chased the fog away.
Our conversation started out in whispers, but it’s increased in volume until we’re speaking in a normal tone, and that’s dangerous. I drop back to a whisper. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ll answer five questions, then I need to go,” he says, equally low.
“You came just to answer my questions?”
“Yes. And to see you.”
Wow. Okay. I have no idea what to say to that. So I say the wrong thing. “Why didn’t you come last night? Or this morning to run with me? I spent the whole day freaking about stuff.”
“Couldn’t last night. Or this morning. I was out of town until about twenty minutes ago.” He smiles a little. “And that counts as the first question.”
I roll my eyes. “No, it most certainly does not.” I take a breath and just lay it out there. “What are you? Are you Drau? Are you a shell?” My heart’s pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest.
I laugh out loud. Of course he’s doing it on purpose. He knows where I live. He knows when I run. All he’d have had to do was show up and run with me this morning. We could have talked. He could have explained. The fact that he hasn’t done that tells me all I need to know.
Turning my attention to my math homework, I try to get it done. It takes forever because my concentration isn’t the best. I’m tired. No surprise there. I didn’t sleep well last night. I dreamed of Jackson’s eyes and the shells and the dead girl that Jackson killed, even though she was already dead. Just trying to get my head around that makes me dizzy. I’m exhausted, and by ten o’clock, I’m fighting to keep my eyes open. I’m in the place between awake and asleep when I hear a weird tapping. A couple of minutes later, there it is again, a light tapping from . . . there. The window.
A shiver chases up my spine.
And the sound comes again.
Wary, I cross to the window and peer out. My heart slams hard against my ribs.
Dark clothes, dark shades, pale hair gleaming in the moonlight, Jackson Tate’s outside my window, sitting cross-legged on the porch roof.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I SHOVE THE WINDOW OPEN. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I WHISPER the words too fast, stunned and alarmed and secretly thrilled that he’s here.
“Visiting.”
“Now?” I shake my head. “How did you get up here?”
“Climbed.”
I stare at him, at a loss. Should I go out to him? Ask him to come in to me? I look frantically up and down the street to make certain no neighbors are out there watching. I don’t see anyone, not right now, but that doesn’t mean someone won’t come out any second.
“Get in here,” I order in a whisper as I step back from the window. “Take off your shoes. And be quiet.”
The next thing I know, Jackson’s inside my bedroom, less than a foot away from me. I leave the window open just in case he needs to make a quick exit, but pull the curtain halfway to shield him from street view.
“My shoes?” He looks baffled.
“No shoes in the house. My mom had this thing about that.”
“How about we pretend this is the front hall and I just stay in this spot and not move? Okay if I keep my shoes on then? I don’t love the idea of having to dive out your window barefoot if your dad comes in.”
The image of that makes me feel ill. I can just picture Jackson diving out the window, his shoes staying behind like beacons of my transgression. “Fine. Keep them on. But don’t move.”
“You sure? I’ll take them off if it’s a big deal.” He sounds both amused and sincere.
I strain my ears, trying to hear if the TV’s still on downstairs. If not, it means Dad’s already gone to bed. I can’t hear anything, but what if he’s up here and not yet asleep?
“Keep them on,” I whisper. “I’m sure.”
True to his word, Jackson stays rooted to the spot as he looks around, taking his time. My bookshelf is right beside him, and he runs the tips of his fingers along the spines of the books on my keeper shelf. They’re eclectic, I admit it. Alcott’s Little Women, Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card, Frankenstein, The Giver, The Catcher in the Rye, everything ever written by Christopher Moore, the complete works of Jane Austen, a scarred and well-loved set of Harry Potter, my mom’s old dog-eared Stephen King titles, The Last Wish and Blood of Elves by Andrzej Sapkowski.
He stops when he gets to those and murmurs, “I haven’t read these. But the game rocks.”
“The graphics kick ass,” I agree, then ask, “But you’ve read the others?”
“Some of them.”
I try to picture him engrossed in Little Women.
His fingers dip to the next shelf, where I keep my manga. “You read Bleach.”
I nod. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“You don’t have the latest issue.”
“They were sold out.”
He turns away from the books, back toward me, but he doesn’t say anything. I can’t figure out how I feel at the moment. Thrilled that he’s here. Afraid that Dad will find him. Stunned that he came. And a little weirded out that our conversation so far has been too normal. But the thing I notice most is how bright and true those emotions are. It’s like he’s a fresh breeze that blew in and chased the fog away.
Our conversation started out in whispers, but it’s increased in volume until we’re speaking in a normal tone, and that’s dangerous. I drop back to a whisper. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ll answer five questions, then I need to go,” he says, equally low.
“You came just to answer my questions?”
“Yes. And to see you.”
Wow. Okay. I have no idea what to say to that. So I say the wrong thing. “Why didn’t you come last night? Or this morning to run with me? I spent the whole day freaking about stuff.”
“Couldn’t last night. Or this morning. I was out of town until about twenty minutes ago.” He smiles a little. “And that counts as the first question.”
I roll my eyes. “No, it most certainly does not.” I take a breath and just lay it out there. “What are you? Are you Drau? Are you a shell?” My heart’s pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest.
