UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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With my first day at the academy over, all the tiny supports that have been keeping my stress at bay crack and give, and the weight of the day crashes in. I let Mandy and the others surge ahead as we enter the stream of students flooding the hall. It’s like pushing my way down a river, current dragging at my knees, feet slipping on algae and silt.
A tug on the strap of my backpack nearly sinks me. It’s Peter, and my heart beats at my ribs.
“Why so sad, clown?” he says.
“What?”
“You look so sad. Look up. You’re missing out. There’s nothing on the floor.”
“Dust,” I say as I back away, pulling my hair forward to cover the skin near the strap, skin that he almost touched.
He smiles. “Dust’s okay, but people are much more interesting.”
He’s trying to be friendly, but it makes me feel lame, like he’s making a thing of my weirdness.
Peter stands between me and the after-school rush and holds out a hand like he means to pull me back into the stream. Even with gloves, that hand is a dare I can’t take.
Don’t touch, don’t touch.
All my muscles are tight, and I feel a headache threatening.
Tension is self-protection, Nadia said. Necessary.
And it hurts.
“I hope you didn’t let Oscar get to you,” he says.
I feel too aware of the hole in my glove, like if I can’t stop thinking about it he’ll be able to read my mind.
“No, I was just thinking.” My hands clench the straps of my backpack.
When don’t touch first came back, I thought about the possibility of meeting a guy at my new school and what that would mean. I thought, This is from stress. It won’t last. When weeks passed and the game kept mattering, I thought, I’ll be busy with school. Chances are I won’t meet anyone I like anyway.
“Well, far be it from me to disturb anybody who’s thinking,” Peter says, “but you’d better be thinking about something good.”
His hand drops, and he jogs to catch up with the others. Please don’t let Peter be able to read my mind, pluck this something-good-something-bad thought from my brain. . . . Sharp and guilty, it sears at my fingertips and my heart, burns my cheeks red and easy to read.
I’m thinking about Peter’s hand, Peter taking my hand in his, touching me.
In the car, I try to judge whether the breach in my armor has done any damage.
Mom seems stressed but that might be because Jordan keeps kicking the back of her seat.
“If you let me play football, I wouldn’t have so much extra energy,” he says.
“It’s a distraction, Jordan. Your grades weren’t so hot last year.”
“That’s what Dad says.” He’s kicking her seat again. “I thought Dad wasn’t in charge anymore since you’re getting divorced.”
I wait for Mom to correct him: it isn’t a divorce; it’s a separation. But the correction doesn’t come. Maybe something happened between Mom and Dad because Oscar touched my skin. Or maybe my stupid game is just that—a game. If that’s true, how will I know when to stop playing?
“I can sew that up for you,” Mom says, and I realize I’m picking at the hole in my glove, making it bigger.
“I know how to sew.”
That night, I make the stitches as close together as I can get them. I reinforce the thumb on the other hand too, for good measure. Once I’m done, I can tug at the seams and barely see space between stitches. It was a bad idea to rely on a cheap costume seam to keep myself safe. But I can’t show up to school in chain mail and gauntlets.
I’ll have to be more careful.