Rush The Game

the baseball diamond is, and climb to the top row of the bleachers. If I turn my head to the right, I can see our tree and the break in the fence that leads to the path and the street beyond. The street I ran to the day I first got pulled. The street where I’ll die if the game kills me.
    I turn away and stare at the empty baseball diamond instead. I’m all alone way out here, which is fine because I want to finish the last of Lord of the Flies . Then I remember that I told Carly I’d see her at lunch. I don’t want her to think I ditched her, so I type a quick text to let her know where I am, just in case.
    Closing my eyes, I lean back and tilt my face to the sun, trying to clear my mind and think only about how good the warmth feels.
    “Not hungry?”
    I gasp and my eyes fly open to find Jackson sitting next to me.
    “What are you doing here?”
    “You stopped at the gym door but didn’t say anything.”
    “I didn’t think you noticed. And I didn’t want to disturb your game.”
    He’s quiet for a long minute, and then he says, “I always notice you.”
    I look away, flustered, and make a show of putting my phone away, then rummaging through my bag for the sandwich I packed this morning. I set the plastic tub on my lap and stare down at it.
    “Where’s your entourage?” he asks.
    “My what?”
    “Your friends. The ones you’re always with. Deepti, right?”
    “She prefers Dee.”
    He nods. “And Kelley and . . . the blond one. She’s in English with us and my Spanish class, but I keep forgetting her name. I want to say Carrie, but that’s not right.”
    “Carly.” I shake my head. “Don’t tell her you didn’t remember her name. She’d freak.”
    “Why?”
    Because she called dibs on you. Because she’s a little boy crazy. Because she thinks you’re hot . My cheeks flush just thinking about it, because Carly isn’t the only one who thinks that. And how can I think it when I know what’s behind his glasses? When I know what he is, what he does? And most important, how can I still yearn for his company when he’s been blowing hot and cold all week, playing some stupid little game only he knows the rules to? I continue staring at the sandwich container in my lap. I don’t want to think about him this way.
    After what seems like forever, Jackson says, “She’s not for me, Miki.”
    The way he says that, the intonation he puts on my name, makes my heart speed up. I can’t pretend I don’t know what he means.
    “I, um, haven’t seen you much this week.”
    “I’ve been in English class every day.” That’s not what I mean, and he has to know it. He sighs, which tells me he does know. “I’m trying to stay away from you. I’m not a good guy, Miki.”
    There he goes again with the mysterious warnings. “Are you saying that to convince me, or yourself?”
    “I don’t need convincing. I live in my skin. I know my motivations, and trust me, they aren’t pure.”
    I cut him a glance through my lashes. “So you’re warning me away, for my own good, of course. And yet you follow me out here to be alone with me. You don’t think that’s kind of a mixed message?”
    He smiles a little. “I know I shouldn’t be here alone with you, yet here I am. Because I want what I want, not what’s best for you. That proves my point. Not a good guy. No mixed message there.”
    “You don’t get to decide what’s best for me,” I say softly. “And why do you say you’re not a good guy? You’ve saved my life, more than once.”
    He sighs again. “I have my reasons, and they’re selfish ones. Don’t imagine I’m good.” He shakes his head. “Just don’t.”
    I don’t know how to answer that.
    He shifts a little closer on the bench, until our shoulders touch. I could explain that away as him wanting to be close so there’s no chance of anyone—or anything—overhearing. I’d rather explain it away as him just wanting to be close to me. It feels right sitting here like this with him, which makes no sense because all my danger alarms are clanging full blast.
    “I need you to answer some questions for me,” I say softly, still looking at the plastic tub in my lap. “Before we—” Before we what? Date? Hold hands? Kiss? What am I thinking? What is he thinking? We might not even be on the same page. I shouldn’t be on that page. Jackson Tate is moody and bossy, cocky and a little scary, and not the sort of boy I would ever in my life think about that way.
    Except here I