Rush The Game

have to restrain the urge to punch him in the shoulder. He had more than I did, of my lunch. “And Luka and I”—I can see his head turn a little to the left, looking toward Luka for confirmation—“we were thinking of ditching the assembly and heading out for pizza. Come along.” An invitation that sounds more like an order. Typical Jackson.
    Something twinges inside me at his words. Jealousy? I tamp it down. I’m not sure what Jackson’s game is, but I know he’s playing one. My guess is that he wants to avoid having either of us embroiled in a public meltdown. Fine with me. I’m not exactly into having an audience.
    It’s just like him to take over and run the show, and it’s actually darkly amusing when I think of how he’s the one telling me I can’t always control everything.
    Looks like Jackson’s plan is a success, because from the corner of my eye, I see the track guys wander off. No fight means there’s nothing here to see.
    I step back and catch a glimpse of Carly’s face. She’s trying to act cool about this invitation, one eyebrow raised as she looks back and forth between Jackson and Luka.
    “Ditch the assembly? What if we get caught?” She doesn’t actually sound too worried about that, and I know she isn’t. Getting caught ditching assembly isn’t anywhere near as bad as getting caught drunk on school property and puking practically in the principal’s lap.
    Hating the idea of being a public spectacle, and glad that Carly’s no longer bent on having a knock-down-drag-out right here in front of everyone, I edge to the side, my eye on my backpack that’s still slung over Jackson’s shoulder. Grab my bag. Make my escape. Call Carly later and work things out with a little privacy. Sounds like a plan to me. From this angle, I watch as Jackson turns the full wattage of his smile on Carly. Her eyes widen.
    “We better leave before the bell goes,” Luka says, and steps forward to throw a casual arm across Carly’s shoulders. She tips her head and looks up at him. Their eyes meet and hold and for a second I see a flash of . . . something . . . Interest? In Luka, not Jackson? In both of them? Yet more proof of how painfully far apart Carly and I have drifted. I don’t even know which guy she wants.
    As I watch the two of them, something tugs at my thoughts, a memory of Carly in my kitchen the day she brought coffees, the day after I first got pulled. We were talking about Luka and she had this expression that was sort of sad. Then she told me to go for it.
    When we were little, long before my mom died, Carly gave me her dolls, her cookies, her favorite shirt. It’s just her way. And I’ve done the same for her. Looking at her now, I wonder if she’s putting what she thinks I want ahead of what she wants. That would be just like Carly, to hand the boy she likes to me on a platter just because she thinks it’ll fix what’s broken inside me. But a boy is different from a doll. For one thing, there’s his opinion on the matter to take into consideration.
    If Carly likes Luka but she’s willing to walk away from him for me, it makes me feel even worse about how much we’ve been fighting lately.
    “Pizza it is,” Carly says as she shoots me a curious look, like she’s trying to figure out what went on between me and Jackson on the bleachers and why he’s asking her to ditch school with him. At least she doesn’t look furious anymore.
    With the expected blowup circumvented, the rest of the audience loses interest and wanders off. Kelley and Dee wave at Carly, then at me, looking back and forth between the two of us. That’s another thing I hate about fighting with Carly—the fact that our other friends are invariably trapped in the middle. I’d like to head off with them, but yet another tug at the strap of my bag fails to dislodge it from Jackson’s shoulder.
    “You driving?” Luka asks Jackson.
    “You have a car?”
    “No.”
    “Then I’m driving.” Jackson leans over and says something else to Luka, so low I can’t hear.
    Luka cuts a glance at Carly and says, “Shotgun.”
    She sends him a sour look and rolls her eyes.
    “What?” he asks, all innocent grin and dark, flashing eyes. “My legs are too long to comfortably fit in the back.”
    Carly’s lips twitch, like she can’t resist Luka’s smile. “Fine,” she huffs, but there’s no heat in it.
    I’m standing there at a loss. Jackson still has my backpack slung over his shoulder, anchored in