Rush The Game

frowns. “It’s Sunday,” he says. He thinks I run too much and eat too little, which is actually funny because I’m not the one who skips lunch half the time.
    “Yup.” I offer no explanation. What am I supposed to say? That I changed my ironclad schedule because of aliens and a girl who died seven months before I met her? “Hey, it’s pretty hot out,” I say. “I’d better get the groceries in before the ice cream melts.” I unbuckle the belt that holds my now-empty water bottle and hand it to Dad. “Take this in for me?”
    Dad heads inside, and Luka follows me to the car.
    “I tried to talk to you,” he says. “Before my dad got transferred. After you lost your mom.”
    Lost my mom. Stupidest euphemism ever. I didn’t misplace her; she died. I swallow a quick retort that I know I’ll regret. “I know. I remember. I wasn’t up for advice.”
    “I get that.”
    He does. Luka’s mom died when we were still at Oakview. Grade four. He got really quiet and withdrawn for a couple of years after that, and I’m not proud of the fact that I was just like most of the other kids and went on and lived my life and didn’t really make a huge effort to stay friends with him. By the time he wasn’t quiet anymore, we were at an age where, for the most part, the boys hung with the boys and the girls hung with the girls, and when the two mixed, there was a lot of giggling and punching in the shoulder. If I’d known then what I know now about the grinding pain of losing someone you love, I would have tried harder.
    My expression must give away my thoughts because Luka says, “Hey, we were kids. What do kids know about dealing with death?” He juts his chin toward the Explorer. “Ice cream’s melting.”
    We reach for the groceries at the same time. My hand’s already on the bag’s handle, and his hand closes on mine. I pull back. He leans forward. We end up with arms tangled, his chest against my back. He bends. I straighten. His chin bumps my cheek. We both laugh. An easy laugh. One I don’t have to force.
    “Cozy.” I turn my head at the sound of Carly’s voice. She’s in the passenger seat of Sarah’s mom’s silver van, which is currently stopped at the end of my driveway with Sarah behind the wheel. Carly’s eyes skate over me to Luka and back.
    “Wanna help?” I heft the bag at her as Luka straightens and steps away. I expect Carly and Sarah to hop out and grab a bag each.
    Instead, Carly turns her head and says something to Sarah, then turns back to the open window. “Not today,” she says. “Have fun.” But she doesn’t sound like she means it. There’s an odd tightness to her voice that I recognize.
    Carly’s pissed.
    Sarah waves. Carly doesn’t. The van pulls away, and I watch it move down the street.
    “You’re the one who said the ice cream’s gonna melt,” Dad calls through the open front door. He’s right. Whatever’s up with Carly, I’ll have to text her once the groceries are put away.
    I can’t help feeling angry with her. There’s a lot more at stake here, a lot more going on, than whatever wasp stung her on the ass. A girl’s dead. My world’s upside down. Maybe everybody’s world is upside down if Jackson’s right and we’re really fighting to save mankind. But Carly doesn’t know any of that, and I can’t tell her. So do I have a right to be angry when she’s completely in the dark?
    With a frustrated hiss, I grab a bag and hand it off to Luka, then grab another as he heads for the door.
    “Just put the bags inside the door,” I say, following at his heels. “Once we’ve got them all out of the car, we can get them to the kitchen.” Mom had this thing about shoes. We always take them off at the door and switch to slippers; we never tramp through the house in shoes. It was important to her, so it’s important to me. One small way I can keep her here with me rather than letting her go completely.
    Luka sets down his bag and I’m just behind him when he freezes, then spins, his eyes wide and . . . blue.
    That’s all the warning I get.
    Color and sound explode, too bright, too loud. Even the air on my skin feels like it’s too much. My fingers go lax. The bag’s handle slides down my palm, then along my fingers to the tips, impossibly slow. The world tips and tilts and I flail for balance.
    Luka grabs my hand and holds tight.
    I blink. My house, my open front door, my dad, they’re all gone. My breath comes in short gasps and every muscle