“I need to hang on. Just till I get pulled,” she says. “I’ll make them pull you. Everything will be okay.”
I swallow, my terror oddly numb, like this is all happening to someone else. I want to tell her she’s right. They’ll pull us out. But my mouth is filled with the taste of metal and rust and salt, and when I open my lips, something warm trickles out.
Blood?
My eyes close. Tired. So tired.
I hear Lizzie’s voice, frantic and afraid, calling my name over and over. But she doesn’t sound like herself. She sounds so weak. And the name she’s calling . . . it isn’t mine. . . . She’s not calling Miki. She’s calling Jackson. But that’s not right, is it? I can’t remember.
I try to force my eyes open.
“Look at me,” she says, and I can tell she’s in agony. “Open your eyes; look at me.”
A command. So bossy. Always so bossy.
I open my eyes.
“Listen to me,” she says. I can hear the strain in every word. “Listen to me. I need you to take something from me. They do it. I think I know how. I can show you how. You need to survive. Look at me. Look at me.”
I blink, trying to focus. Her hand is on my wrist, her fingers at the base of my thumb.
“I can barely feel your pulse,” she whispers. It sounds like she’s crying. “You have to do it now. Look in my eyes. Think how badly you want to live. Then open yourself to instinct. It’ll tell you what to do.”
I stare at her, focusing hard on what she’s saying, trying to understand. And something inside me does understand. I stare at her. My eyes feel strange—burning and aching. There’s terrible pressure, like someone’s pressing their thumbs into my eyeballs. My vision closes in until all I see is Lizzie’s eyes, swirling gray, fading to grayish green, then just green. Lizzie green, like they’ve always been.
With a cry, I struggle to get free. Something has me. Something’s holding me down. Something—
“Shh, Miki, everything’s okay. It was a nightmare. Just a nightmare.”
Dad. It’s Dad who’s holding me, dragging me to a sitting position so he can better get his arms around me, stroking his palm along the back of my head. I’m panting, drenched in sweat, my heart still racing. I had nightmares every night right after Mom died. I dreamed I was in the cold ground, and I could hear the dirt falling on me as each shovelful was tossed in the grave. But those nightmares stopped coming a while ago. Months and months. This is the first one I’ve had in a long time.
“Same dream?” Dad asks.
I shake my head. “No. It was different. It was . . . I think it was a car accident.”
Dad reaches over and clicks on my bedside lamp. I blink against the comparatively bright light. His hair is standing up at odd angles, his jaw shadowed by overnight stubble.
“Who’s Lizzie?” Dad asks. “You were screaming her name.”
“Lizzie. That was her name. In the dream. I think she was my sister. She had green eyes. And I had different parents, not you and Mom. And there was a truck. And—”
She died.
The weight comes down on me like a concrete block. That wasn’t part of the nightmare. When I woke up, Lizzie was still alive.
But I know for certain that Lizzie died. And I know for certain that I killed her.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE BUZZ OF MY ALARM IS ABOUT AS WELCOME AS THE SOUND of a dentist’s drill. I want to roll over, snuggle under the covers, and go back to sleep. Instead, I go for my run. The nightmare’s pretty much faded from my thoughts, but I can’t stop thinking about Jackson. I don’t know what to make of the fact that he came here last night to see me, to give me answers when he’s not an answer kind of guy.
I remember the feel of his lips on my wrist.
I think about him all during my run, but when I get back to find that there are a ton of texts waiting for me, my focus shifts. I guess everyone’s tired of waiting for me to offer info about my fight with Carly, so now they’re digging for it. There are texts from Dee and Kelley and Sarah. There’s even one from this girl we sometimes hang with, Emily. All of them want to know about Luka. Sarah wants to know about Jackson; I guess Carly was at her house when they both saw me with him in the park on Sunday. Dee wants to know why Carly’s mad at me. Every text is about Carly or Luka or Jackson, but none are actually from Carly or Luka or Jackson.
My, but Carly’s been a chatty girl—chatty with everyone but me.
She’s so angry with me. Part of me wants to say, Who cares? But this is Carly. I need to make things right. Besides, I didn’t do any of the things she accused me of, and I have no intention of letting her punish me for stuff she just thinks I did. The taste of her temper I had for the past two days was quite enough. She should win the award for passive-aggressive.
So once I’m dressed and my hair is dry, I call her. When she doesn’t pick up, I leave a message in between mouthfuls of yogurt and granola.
“Hey, Car. It’s me. I’m mad at you, too. Hanging up on me was a shitty thing to do. Ever heard of talking? You want info? Here it is. His name’s Jackson Tate. I did not have plans with him on Sunday. I was upset because I found out this girl I met through . . . kendo”—I planned that explanation in the shower. It’s a lie, but a small one—“died, so I went running and he was running, so we ran together and he happened to be there when I had a mini meltdown. For about thirty seconds, he stopped being an asshole and gave me a hug till I got my shit together.” But that’s just it. Jackson isn’t an asshole. Well, not all the time. He’s different than I thought he was at first.
I swallow, my terror oddly numb, like this is all happening to someone else. I want to tell her she’s right. They’ll pull us out. But my mouth is filled with the taste of metal and rust and salt, and when I open my lips, something warm trickles out.
Blood?
My eyes close. Tired. So tired.
I hear Lizzie’s voice, frantic and afraid, calling my name over and over. But she doesn’t sound like herself. She sounds so weak. And the name she’s calling . . . it isn’t mine. . . . She’s not calling Miki. She’s calling Jackson. But that’s not right, is it? I can’t remember.
I try to force my eyes open.
“Look at me,” she says, and I can tell she’s in agony. “Open your eyes; look at me.”
A command. So bossy. Always so bossy.
I open my eyes.
“Listen to me,” she says. I can hear the strain in every word. “Listen to me. I need you to take something from me. They do it. I think I know how. I can show you how. You need to survive. Look at me. Look at me.”
I blink, trying to focus. Her hand is on my wrist, her fingers at the base of my thumb.
“I can barely feel your pulse,” she whispers. It sounds like she’s crying. “You have to do it now. Look in my eyes. Think how badly you want to live. Then open yourself to instinct. It’ll tell you what to do.”
I stare at her, focusing hard on what she’s saying, trying to understand. And something inside me does understand. I stare at her. My eyes feel strange—burning and aching. There’s terrible pressure, like someone’s pressing their thumbs into my eyeballs. My vision closes in until all I see is Lizzie’s eyes, swirling gray, fading to grayish green, then just green. Lizzie green, like they’ve always been.
With a cry, I struggle to get free. Something has me. Something’s holding me down. Something—
“Shh, Miki, everything’s okay. It was a nightmare. Just a nightmare.”
Dad. It’s Dad who’s holding me, dragging me to a sitting position so he can better get his arms around me, stroking his palm along the back of my head. I’m panting, drenched in sweat, my heart still racing. I had nightmares every night right after Mom died. I dreamed I was in the cold ground, and I could hear the dirt falling on me as each shovelful was tossed in the grave. But those nightmares stopped coming a while ago. Months and months. This is the first one I’ve had in a long time.
“Same dream?” Dad asks.
I shake my head. “No. It was different. It was . . . I think it was a car accident.”
Dad reaches over and clicks on my bedside lamp. I blink against the comparatively bright light. His hair is standing up at odd angles, his jaw shadowed by overnight stubble.
“Who’s Lizzie?” Dad asks. “You were screaming her name.”
“Lizzie. That was her name. In the dream. I think she was my sister. She had green eyes. And I had different parents, not you and Mom. And there was a truck. And—”
She died.
The weight comes down on me like a concrete block. That wasn’t part of the nightmare. When I woke up, Lizzie was still alive.
But I know for certain that Lizzie died. And I know for certain that I killed her.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE BUZZ OF MY ALARM IS ABOUT AS WELCOME AS THE SOUND of a dentist’s drill. I want to roll over, snuggle under the covers, and go back to sleep. Instead, I go for my run. The nightmare’s pretty much faded from my thoughts, but I can’t stop thinking about Jackson. I don’t know what to make of the fact that he came here last night to see me, to give me answers when he’s not an answer kind of guy.
I remember the feel of his lips on my wrist.
I think about him all during my run, but when I get back to find that there are a ton of texts waiting for me, my focus shifts. I guess everyone’s tired of waiting for me to offer info about my fight with Carly, so now they’re digging for it. There are texts from Dee and Kelley and Sarah. There’s even one from this girl we sometimes hang with, Emily. All of them want to know about Luka. Sarah wants to know about Jackson; I guess Carly was at her house when they both saw me with him in the park on Sunday. Dee wants to know why Carly’s mad at me. Every text is about Carly or Luka or Jackson, but none are actually from Carly or Luka or Jackson.
My, but Carly’s been a chatty girl—chatty with everyone but me.
She’s so angry with me. Part of me wants to say, Who cares? But this is Carly. I need to make things right. Besides, I didn’t do any of the things she accused me of, and I have no intention of letting her punish me for stuff she just thinks I did. The taste of her temper I had for the past two days was quite enough. She should win the award for passive-aggressive.
So once I’m dressed and my hair is dry, I call her. When she doesn’t pick up, I leave a message in between mouthfuls of yogurt and granola.
“Hey, Car. It’s me. I’m mad at you, too. Hanging up on me was a shitty thing to do. Ever heard of talking? You want info? Here it is. His name’s Jackson Tate. I did not have plans with him on Sunday. I was upset because I found out this girl I met through . . . kendo”—I planned that explanation in the shower. It’s a lie, but a small one—“died, so I went running and he was running, so we ran together and he happened to be there when I had a mini meltdown. For about thirty seconds, he stopped being an asshole and gave me a hug till I got my shit together.” But that’s just it. Jackson isn’t an asshole. Well, not all the time. He’s different than I thought he was at first.
