Almost had to give you my copy. Sold out in two stores, but finally found this in the third. So it’s yours.
No signature. None needed. I know who it’s from, and my heart does a crazy little dance. I give up on trying not to smile and let my grin stretch.
With a laugh, I put the book on my bedside table, grab my copy of The Last Wish, tuck it in the bag, and tape it down. No note. None needed. I put the package on the roof, in a different spot than where he left the one for me, hoping that will be enough to tell him it isn’t his package just sitting there unnoticed.
Then I close the window, sit down on the floor, and settle in to wait. At some point, I nod off, and when I wake up, my hip sore from lying on the floor, my neck cricked at an odd angle, the book’s gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
IT’S FRIDAY. AGAIN. I SURVIVED ANOTHER WEEK, AND I DIDN’T get pulled. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t spend the week worrying about getting pulled even though I remember what Luka said about usually having some time in between missions. I’m glad he turned out to be right.
wht is green & leafy?
I roll my eyes as I read his text, careful not to let Ms. Devon see my phone. She’ll freak if she catches me using it in class.
We’ve started doing this a couple of times a day, sending each other the most ridiculous jokes. I text back:
Salad?
a green leaf
It takes a lot of self-control not to groan out loud and give myself away. Ms. Devon scans the room. I scribble numbers on the page, and once her eyes slide past me, I text:
What is sticky & brown?
gross. u wnt me 2 answr that?
I smile.
A brown stick.
I imagine I hear Luka groaning at the other end. Ms. Devon stands up and starts down the aisle. I shove my phone in my pocket and scribble yet more numbers on the page. She moves past me and I stare at my textbook, not really seeing it.
The week—which has actually been closer to two weeks if I count all the time I spent in the game last time—has been strange in a lot of ways. Carly and I are still awkward around each other. It feels sort of like that weird, post-breakup phase where you’re trying to be friends. Except, I didn’t break up with her and I don’t understand why she’s breaking up with me.
She came to my house yesterday for breakfast, just like she used to. Today she didn’t show. I feel like whenever I’m with her now, I’m walking on cracked ice, and one misstep will dunk me.
As if he’s tuned to the direction of my thoughts, Luka sends another text.
stay happy. sometimes ppl just need some space
Ms. Devon looks around the room again. I duck my head, pretending I’m working on my math questions. Instead, I reread Luka’s text. I understand the needing-space thing, but I still feel deserted. Dee’s still talking to me same as usual, and Kelley’s sort of okay. Emily and Sarah smile at me but don’t say much.
Jackson’s avoiding me altogether. Well, not exactly avoiding, just not going out of his way to hang with me. Of course, if I’m completely honest, I’m not going out of my way to hang with him, either. Too complicated. There are always so many people around him, and I already feel like everyone’s staring at me all the time because of my awkwardness with Carly. We’ve been joined at the hip pretty much forever, and now we’re not.
I’ve seen Jackson in English every morning, and sometimes I catch him with his face turned my way, like he’s watching me. But it’s impossible to know for sure with his eyes always hidden.
I know I’ve been watching him. We spent so many hours together in the game—literally days, side by side—that I feel like I’ve known him a lot longer than I have. Funny, but I’ve spent more significant time with him than some people I’ve gone to school with for years.
But not once all week did we end up alone together, not even for a second. People gravitate to him, so he’s always surrounded by a crowd. He spends a ton of time with Luka, but no one else in particular. In the caf every day, he stops at different tables and talks with different groups. He’s everyone’s—and no one’s—friend. He’s a novelty and he’s gorgeous and he’s the same in school as he is in the game: competent, confident, arrogant, cocky. That’s pretty much a magnet for a lot of people, guys and girls alike. Charisma. Yeah, he has that in spades, but I guess anyone who moves around as much as he does—being the new guy again and again—would have to develop some special skills. Kind of like being a chameleon.
I wonder who he really is under all that camouflage.
I want him to be the boy who held me in the park, the one who cradled me while I slept in the caves.
Every night this week, I checked the porch roof outside my window, but he didn’t come to my house again. I want to talk to him. I want to ask him so many things. He doesn’t give me the chance, and while part of me is glad that he’s staying away, part of me is hurt in a way I didn’t expect.
I keep thinking of the way he kissed my palm, my wrist, and I wonder if he regrets it. If that’s why he’s staying away.
If we cross paths in the halls, he’s perfectly polite, and perfectly distant. He treats me the way he treats everyone else—like an acquaintance. As if he never held me while I freaked out, or watched my back against an alien threat, or bought me a copy of my favorite manga. I feel like he’s purposely building a wall between us, brick by brick.
Then I force myself to be honest and admit that I’m doing the same. I don’t seek him out. I don’t give him an opening. It’s safer that way.
No signature. None needed. I know who it’s from, and my heart does a crazy little dance. I give up on trying not to smile and let my grin stretch.
With a laugh, I put the book on my bedside table, grab my copy of The Last Wish, tuck it in the bag, and tape it down. No note. None needed. I put the package on the roof, in a different spot than where he left the one for me, hoping that will be enough to tell him it isn’t his package just sitting there unnoticed.
Then I close the window, sit down on the floor, and settle in to wait. At some point, I nod off, and when I wake up, my hip sore from lying on the floor, my neck cricked at an odd angle, the book’s gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
IT’S FRIDAY. AGAIN. I SURVIVED ANOTHER WEEK, AND I DIDN’T get pulled. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t spend the week worrying about getting pulled even though I remember what Luka said about usually having some time in between missions. I’m glad he turned out to be right.
wht is green & leafy?
I roll my eyes as I read his text, careful not to let Ms. Devon see my phone. She’ll freak if she catches me using it in class.
We’ve started doing this a couple of times a day, sending each other the most ridiculous jokes. I text back:
Salad?
a green leaf
It takes a lot of self-control not to groan out loud and give myself away. Ms. Devon scans the room. I scribble numbers on the page, and once her eyes slide past me, I text:
What is sticky & brown?
gross. u wnt me 2 answr that?
I smile.
A brown stick.
I imagine I hear Luka groaning at the other end. Ms. Devon stands up and starts down the aisle. I shove my phone in my pocket and scribble yet more numbers on the page. She moves past me and I stare at my textbook, not really seeing it.
The week—which has actually been closer to two weeks if I count all the time I spent in the game last time—has been strange in a lot of ways. Carly and I are still awkward around each other. It feels sort of like that weird, post-breakup phase where you’re trying to be friends. Except, I didn’t break up with her and I don’t understand why she’s breaking up with me.
She came to my house yesterday for breakfast, just like she used to. Today she didn’t show. I feel like whenever I’m with her now, I’m walking on cracked ice, and one misstep will dunk me.
As if he’s tuned to the direction of my thoughts, Luka sends another text.
stay happy. sometimes ppl just need some space
Ms. Devon looks around the room again. I duck my head, pretending I’m working on my math questions. Instead, I reread Luka’s text. I understand the needing-space thing, but I still feel deserted. Dee’s still talking to me same as usual, and Kelley’s sort of okay. Emily and Sarah smile at me but don’t say much.
Jackson’s avoiding me altogether. Well, not exactly avoiding, just not going out of his way to hang with me. Of course, if I’m completely honest, I’m not going out of my way to hang with him, either. Too complicated. There are always so many people around him, and I already feel like everyone’s staring at me all the time because of my awkwardness with Carly. We’ve been joined at the hip pretty much forever, and now we’re not.
I’ve seen Jackson in English every morning, and sometimes I catch him with his face turned my way, like he’s watching me. But it’s impossible to know for sure with his eyes always hidden.
I know I’ve been watching him. We spent so many hours together in the game—literally days, side by side—that I feel like I’ve known him a lot longer than I have. Funny, but I’ve spent more significant time with him than some people I’ve gone to school with for years.
But not once all week did we end up alone together, not even for a second. People gravitate to him, so he’s always surrounded by a crowd. He spends a ton of time with Luka, but no one else in particular. In the caf every day, he stops at different tables and talks with different groups. He’s everyone’s—and no one’s—friend. He’s a novelty and he’s gorgeous and he’s the same in school as he is in the game: competent, confident, arrogant, cocky. That’s pretty much a magnet for a lot of people, guys and girls alike. Charisma. Yeah, he has that in spades, but I guess anyone who moves around as much as he does—being the new guy again and again—would have to develop some special skills. Kind of like being a chameleon.
I wonder who he really is under all that camouflage.
I want him to be the boy who held me in the park, the one who cradled me while I slept in the caves.
Every night this week, I checked the porch roof outside my window, but he didn’t come to my house again. I want to talk to him. I want to ask him so many things. He doesn’t give me the chance, and while part of me is glad that he’s staying away, part of me is hurt in a way I didn’t expect.
I keep thinking of the way he kissed my palm, my wrist, and I wonder if he regrets it. If that’s why he’s staying away.
If we cross paths in the halls, he’s perfectly polite, and perfectly distant. He treats me the way he treats everyone else—like an acquaintance. As if he never held me while I freaked out, or watched my back against an alien threat, or bought me a copy of my favorite manga. I feel like he’s purposely building a wall between us, brick by brick.
Then I force myself to be honest and admit that I’m doing the same. I don’t seek him out. I don’t give him an opening. It’s safer that way.
