Rush The Game

that they all think I’m talking about her and the fact that we had a fight. Which is true, to an extent. But as I lay in the dark last night listening to the house shift and settle before I fell asleep, I wasn’t just thinking about how much I hate fighting with Carly. I was thinking about Luka and Tyrone. About Richelle. I was thinking about the aliens, the shells we shut down, the girl in the cold room.
    But mostly, I was thinking about—
    The door to the classroom opens. I look up and my chest locks down. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
    Jackson Tate just walked into my English class.
    He’s wearing jeans that have faded to the palest blue, holes at the knees, hems ragged. His dark gray T-shirt hugs his shoulders and chest and hangs loose at the waist, and the canvas backpack he has slung over one shoulder looks as well-worn as his jeans. His honey-blond hair is tousled and wild. And his eyes are hidden by a pair of bronze wraparound shades. On anyone else, sunglasses inside school would look ridiculous. On Jackson Tate they look . . . amazing.
    His style is his own, and it works. And I’m not the only one who thinks so, because pretty much every girl in the room stares.
    I’m not surprised to see him. Not exactly. There were enough warnings that on some level I knew he’d show up at Glenbrook eventually. My friends were talking about the hot new guy with the aviator shades right before I got pulled for the first time. Then Carly was all pissed at me because she saw me with the guy she’d called dibs on—with Jackson—when I was at the park. So it isn’t as though I didn’t know he was the new guy. But knowing it and actually seeing him standing here in my classroom, on my turf, are two totally different things.
    I wonder why he wasn’t in class yesterday, then I remember what he said last night about being away.
    Dee gasps, then whirls and starts whispering to Carly. Kelley has her palms pressed together, her fingertips against her lips, her eyes wide. I can hear the murmurs from some of the other girls in the class. I don’t turn my head. I don’t look at anyone, don’t talk to anyone. I just watch Jackson as he hands Mr. Shomper a couple of sheets of paper, then turns to survey the room.
    Mr. Shomper says something to him. I don’t hear it over the thudding of my pulse, but as he heads down the center aisle, I figure Mr. Shomper told him to find a desk.
    My heart’s pounding so hard, it’s a wonder it doesn’t jump right out of my chest. There’s an empty desk beside me, and another on Carly’s far side. I don’t know if I want Jackson here, or there. Doesn’t matter; I don’t get a say. He cuts between desks and takes the one on Carly’s far side, and as her smile widens into an all-out grin, I find myself glad he did. Carly’s just started talking to me again. If he’d chosen to sit next to me, that wouldn’t have been healthy for our reunion.
    As Jackson drops into the seat, Mr. Shomper looks at the paper in his hand, looks at Jackson, looks back down, and says, “Mr. Tate, I don’t know about the rules in your previous school, but at Glenbrook High there are no hats or sunglasses permitted in the classroom.”
    “Understood, sir. I’m not wearing a hat.”
    The room’s dead silent, everyone waiting for the explosion.
    Mr. Shomper blinks. “The sunglasses, Mr. Tate.”
    “Medical necessity, sir. It’s there in the papers I brought you. There’s a doctor’s note and a memo from Guidance.” Jackson’s tone is calm and even, completely respectful, and completely inflexible.
    “I’m not familiar with any medical condition that requires sunglasses, Mr. Tate. Please remove them. Immediately.”
    I shoot a glance at Jackson. What happens if he takes off those glasses? What happens if people look in his eyes? The same thing that happened to me when I looked in the Drau’s eyes? I shiver. Then I tell myself that Jackson won’t let it come to that. He’ll just leave. He’ll find another option. He won’t risk exposure.
    Jackson rubs his palm against his jaw, then says, “Are you familiar with scotoma, sir? Macular degeneration? Congenital amaurosis? Glaucoma? Any and all of the above require sunglasses.”
    The whole class gasps. No one challenges Mr. Shomper. But did Jackson really challenge him? There was nothing inflammatory in his tone. He sounded completely respectful.
    Mr. Shomper stares at him, then does something I’ve never seen him do, not once, and