“What?” I gasp. “Yurtle? You tricked me? What kind of thing is that to do to a six-year-old?”
“Better than having you freak out over the dead turtle. You never knew a thing. Yurtle one, two, and three kicked off within a couple of months of one another. Four stuck around for a while.”
I stare at his back as he wanders to the kitchen.
I remember my parents telling me Yurtle got out of his tank, that we might not find him. And I remember freaking out. Next morning, there was Yurtle, back in the tank. Was that version two, three, or four?
Was it better to let me blithely believe it was the same turtle all along? Or should my parents have told me the truth?
I agonize over the fish thing for hours. Actually, Luka and I rent a movie and I agonize intermittently during the slow parts.
As the final credits roll, I shift on the couch so I’m facing Luka with my legs crossed. A quick check reveals Dad to be nowhere in the near vicinity; he wandered upstairs about an hour ago and hasn’t come back down yet. Still, I lower my voice to a whisper. “Can I ask you some stuff?”
Luka narrows his eyes at me. “Depends on what sort of stuff.”
“Have you ever had nightmares about the game?”
“Not lately, but in the beginning, yeah. I was pretty freaked when I first got pulled.” He’s told me that before, when we finally talked after Richelle got killed. He studies my face for a few seconds, then asks, “Are you having nightmares?”
I nod. “Some. Not a lot. One that was different, though. It was weird. I know you said you didn’t see the girl who helped me when I got hurt last time”—and the Committee had claimed the same: that they hadn’t sent any other teams on that mission, that I was alone—“but I dreamed about her. She looked like Lizzie.”
Luka just stares at me blankly.
“Lizzie,” I repeat. “Jackson’s sister.”
“Jackson doesn’t—whoa,” Luka says after a pause. “You’re seeing the ghost of your boyfriend’s dead sister. That’s—” His brows shoot up and he shakes his head.
“She’s trying to tell me something, Luka. Something about the game. I saw Marcy and Kathy, and Marcy was laughing and Kathy was really small, like, smaller than my baby finger and—” I break off and stare at Luka as he starts laughing. “What?”
“You sure the nightmare was about the game? I mean, Marcy’s obviously . . . her and Jackson . . .” He holds up his hands as he realizes what he’s saying. “I don’t mean that the way it sounds. I know there is no her and Jackson. It’s just, she watches him all the time. She’s not exactly subtle. Actually, she watches both of you.”
“I know. I feel like every time I turn around she’s there with her posse, and it’s creepy.”
Luka stares at me, the laughter fading from his expression. “You don’t mean stalker creepy, do you?”
I shake my head and whisper, “Drau creepy.”
“You think Marcy Kern’s a shell?”
“No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” I exhale in a rush.
“Her eyes are blue,” Luka says. “Light blue. Kind of icy. Not Drau gray.”
“Do shells have Drau eyes?” I ask.
Luka holds my gaze. I could ask him if he knows about Jackson’s eyes, if he’s seen them. We’ve never actually talked about that. It’s something Jackson and I keep between ourselves. At least, I think it is.
“Drau eyes?” He frowns, shrugs. “I have no clue. But I still think that if you’re having nightmares about Marcy it’s because she’s trying to get into Jackson’s pants—” At my chilly look, he finishes, “Just saying.”
I uncross my legs and cross them in the opposite direction, so my right foot’s now on top of my left. “Let’s forget about Marcy for a second. There’s something else. Near the end of the nightmare, I got pulled, and it felt real. Not like the rest of the dream. Real and . . . important.” I try to line up the details in my thoughts. “Have you ever been pulled somewhere other than the lobby?”
“All the time. So have you.”
“No, I’m not asking this right. I don’t mean pulled on missions. I mean pulled somewhere like the lobby but totally different. White and cold and . . . cold,” I finish lamely.
He shakes his head.
“Have you ever . . . brought your injuries back with you?”
“What? No. If we come back, we come back healed. What’s going on with you, Miki? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing. Seriously, nothing.” I rub my left shoulder even though it doesn’t hurt, even though the marks that were there are gone. “Nothing,” I say again and cover my unease by stacking our empty glasses and offering Luka the last piece of sliced apple on the plate.
A little while later, Carly calls from the airport to tell me they’ve landed.
The pet store will be open for another half hour. I could make it. I could buy Daimon 2.0.
In the end, I decide the hard truth’s better than the easy lie.
I get in the Explorer and drive Daimon’s corpse—which is no longer floating and has sunk to the gravel at the bottom and started to turn white at the edges—over to Carly’s.
“I’m sorry,” I say, holding the bowl out toward her, barely able to get the words out because I’m crying so hard. Over a fish.
Or maybe it isn’t over the fish at all.
And maybe she’s just so grateful that Grammy B’s going to be okay or maybe she’s the greatest friend ever, or maybe it’s a combination of the two. Whatever the reason, Carly wraps her arms around me and we cry together.
And then she forgives me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE NIGHT OF THE HALLOWEEN DANCE I PULL ON A PAIR OF black jeans and a black turtleneck. I add a black military-looking vest that I found online, and finish running a brush through my hair just as the doorbell rings.
Dad’s out again. He called a few minutes ago to check on me.
“Yes, my phone’s charged, Dad. Yes, I’ll be in by midnight.” I find it odd that he didn’t ask who I’m going to the dance with or how I’m getting there. It’s like he’s going through the motions of being the concerned parent without actually participating on anything but the most superficial level.
The hope that surged inside me the day I told him about the AA meetings has faded to a dull shade of pale. Last week, when I was vacuuming his office, I found an empty clear glass bottle with blue block letters on the floor under his desk. I picked it up and stood it beside the wastepaper bin. He never said a word about it. Neither did I.
But that night, when I tried to open a conversation with an oblique reference to AA, Dad shut me down like a steel trap. He’s graduated from beer to something stronger. Or maybe he’s been drinking both all along.
The doorbell chimes a second time.
I push aside the negative thoughts.
I choose to focus on the moment, this moment, the first time a boy’s taking me to a dance. And not just any boy. Jackson.
I tear down the stairs to pull open the door. He’s leaning against the porch rail, arms crossed over his chest. He’s dressed all in black, like me, but he’s wearing a V-neck, long-sleeved pullover, and his vest’s bigger and bulkier with these round things on it. Very Gears of War.
Two black paintball masks dangle from his fingers. We were going to wear paintball guns as accessories, but that didn’t quite pan out as hoped. Ms. Smith made an endless announcement that made it clear there were to be no weapons of any kind at the dance, not even cardboard cutouts. Definitely not unloaded paintball guns.
So we’re going as weaponless warriors. Which is fine with me. I have my fill of weapons in the game.
Jackson pushes off the rail and walks past me into the house, snagging my belt loop as he passes and dragging me inside. He drops the paintball masks, pushes the door shut, and backs me against it, his arms caging me, his thighs against mine.