Rush The Game

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.
    But sometimes, when I turn and think he’s looking my way, I see that small, wistful, sort of sad smile and I can’t help but think that smile is for me.
    When the bell goes, I take my time gathering my stuff, avoiding the mad rush for the door. It rained on Wednesday and Thursday, but today it’s sunny and warm, so I decide against going to the caf for lunch. Instead, I head past the gym to the rear doors of the school. There are the sounds of voices and a ball bouncing off the backboard coming from the gym. I pause and glance inside just in time to see Jackson sink a basket. He’s going one-on-one with Luka, and they’re tossing sarcastic comments back and forth as they play.
    They seem to know each other’s moves, like they’ve played before. Often. I watch them for a minute, and then it hits me. That day that Jackson ran with me, I wondered why Luka had his number. Now I think I know. It isn’t because of the game. And Jackson isn’t hanging with Luka so much just because they have aliens in common. They’re friends . In typical guy fashion, they probably don’t even talk about the game when they’re together outside of it.
    Eighteen schools. And in his free time Jackson kills aliens. I have a feeling that real friendships are few and far between for him.
    Luka sees me, raises a hand in greeting, and grins.
    I wave back and then turn away, not sure I want Jackson to notice me.
    Though the weather has lured a ton of people outside, they’re mostly congregated at the three picnic tables by the side doors of the school or on the grassy hill that slopes down toward the road. I head out past the track to the far end, where